Morning in Indraprastha came gently.

  For the first time in months, Surya woke not to orders, marching drums, or the crackle of campfire ash against cold wind, but to the soft rustle of silk curtains swaying in a breeze scented faintly of jasmine from the palace gardens.

  He lay still for a moment.

  It felt wrong—almost unnerving—that the world was quiet.

  No tribesmen screaming, no chaos in the fog, no sharp commands from Bhargava, no distant rumble of thunder that might have been Rakshasa corruption gnawing at the forest’s edge.

  Just… morning.

  A thin light crept across the room, gilding the stone floor in a warm gold. Birds trilled somewhere beyond the balcony. And in that stillness Surya realized just how long his body had forgotten the sensation of waking in safety.

  He inhaled.

  Exhaled.

  And let his mind drift to the last year:

  Kashi’s sacred halls.

  Fire burning his hands.

  Water drowning his breath.

  Wind carving at his bones.

  Earth grounding him until he could no longer rise.

  A year of becoming something new.

  A year of breaking, then reforging.

  He pushed himself upright and padded to the balcony. Below, the palace gardens looked exactly as he remembered: neat pathways, lotus ponds, flowering shrubs, the gentle symmetry only the queen’s gardeners could maintain.

  It felt unreal that the world could be this peaceful—when so many places he’d walked in recent months had been ravaged by fear.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter,” Surya called.

  A palace servant stepped in—an older man with a familiar face. His name was Kirit, one of the senior attendants who’d helped raise Surya from childhood.

  “You are awake early, Yuvraj,” Kirit said warmly. “The Maharani bade me bring your breakfast. She feared you might forget to eat in this familiar room.”

  Surya smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”

  Kirit set the tray—flatbread, spiced vegetables, yogurt, and a small bowl of jaggery—on the low table. He hesitated, then spoke with the gentle boldness only someone who’d watched the prince grow up would dare.

  “You have returned taller, I think… not in height, but in bearing.”

  Surya blinked. “Bearing?”

  Kirit nodded. “When you first trained in the palace grounds, you held your shoulders as if still unsure of the weight they might carry. Now you stand as if you know exactly where the weight must fall.”

  Surya didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said softly, “War teaches things training can’t.”

  “And peace,” Kirit replied, “reminds you why the war must be fought.”

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  He bowed and left.

  Surya ate slowly, quietly. Food tasted richer than he remembered—each bite a reminder of home, of stability, of what he had risked his life to protect.

  After breakfast, he decided to walk the palace.

  When he stepped into the garden paths, the sunlight had fully broken over the rooftops. Dew glistened on lotus leaves. Small white flowers, newly in bloom, lined the walk. The gardeners bowed deeply as he passed.

  He gazed at the trails, feeling Surya’s childhood warmth become his own as he remembered running through these paths, hide-and-seek with Virat, and climbing trees he hadn’t been supposed to climb.

  And now?

  He felt older than the stones beneath his feet.

  At a bend in the path, he found the Maharani seated on a carved stone bench, a scroll in her lap. She smiled when she saw him and patted the space beside her.

  “You slept long,” she said gently.

  “For the first time in months,” Surya admitted.

  She examined his face the way only a mother could—every scar, every tired line, every new hardness that had settled into his gaze. She didn’t speak immediately.

  Then, “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Surya felt an unexpected knot tighten in his throat. “For a little while,” he said.

  “Yes.” Her voice softened with understanding. “Only for a little while.”

  They sat in silence, the breeze carrying the scent of wet soil.

  “You heard the city, didn’t you?” she asked eventually.

  “You mean… the cheering?”

  She nodded. “Indraprastha loves its prince. But love can become expectation.”

  Surya turned to her slowly. “I know.”

  “Your father expects much. The court expects even more. And your companions now look to you as their anchor. Be proud of what you’ve done, Surya. But do not forget—you must be strong enough not only for yourself, but for all who trust you.”

  Surya looked away toward the distant city walls. “I’m trying.”

  “And that,” she said, placing a hand on his, “is enough for today.”

  Surya wandered again, this time through the training grounds where he had spent most of his boyhood.

  The clang of metal rang sharply—the guards were already practicing.

  A young soldier spotted him and stiffened in awe. “Yuvraj! Should I fetch the senapati?”

  Surya shook his head. “No. Just continue.”

  The soldier resumed drills, but Surya watched closely.

  Their footwork was good. Their discipline sharp. The Garuda, the Durgapala, the Vanastha—all were tied to this place.

  Everything here existed to protect the land he had seen nearly torn apart.

  For a moment he felt a fierce surge of determination.

  If he must reach heights no prince had reached before,

  if he must reclaim the lost myth of Dronacharya,

  if he must stand against shadows older than kingdoms—

  then so be it.

  He would.

  But today was not for destiny.

  Today was for remembering who he was beneath it.

  He made his way to the rear wing of the palace, where kitchen staff bustled with midday preparations. When the cooks recognized him, they fussed, but he insisted on sitting among them at a long wooden table.

  “This is improper—” one protested.

  Surya waved him off. “Not today.”

  They served him simple lentil porridge and fried bread—meals he used to sneak as a boy when the head cook wasn’t watching.

  He listened to their chatter: complaints about the price of grain, rumors of the next festival, talk of the monsoon’s early arrival.

  Normal life.

  Precious life.

  He ate quietly and smiled often.

  By the time evening came, Surya found himself at one of the palace’s highest balconies, overlooking the entire spread of Indraprastha. The city glowed in the amber light, rooftops blazing gold, streets buzzing like the living veins of a great, ancient body.

  He leaned on the railing, allowing himself to breathe in the moment.

  For just today,

  no battles.

  No corrupted beasts.

  No tribes shrieking for blood.

  No Rakshasa whispering from beneath the earth.

  No mantras straining his mind.

  Just peace.

  He wondered if he would ever know a life that wasn’t meant to be lived on the edge of war.

  But then he remembered something Vashrya once told him:

  “Even if destiny pushes you, Surya… make sure you walk on your own feet.”

  A smile tugged at his mouth.

  Tomorrow, training would resume.

  Responsibilities would return.

  And soon—he would be called to the next storm.

  But tonight?

  Tonight he let himself be seventeen.

  He stayed on the balcony until the last of the sun dipped behind the far horizon, and the first lamps flickered across the city like scattered stars pulled down from the sky.

  A deep contentment settled into him, steady and warm.

  For one day—just one—he let himself rest.