ndraprastha always felt vast from the palace balconies, but walking through it—truly walking through it—was something else entirely.

  After a full day of rest, Surya found himself craving motion again, but not the rigid drills of training or the endless tension of battle formations. He wanted to move through life—the ordinary pulse of the kingdom he fought to protect.

  So when dawn painted the city in soft gold, Surya gathered his companions.

  A knock came early at his chamber door. Dharan’s familiar bass rumbled through the wood.

  “Yuvraj? We thought… maybe… today we explore?”

  Surya smiled. “I was thinking the same.”

  One by one they joined him in the palace courtyard—Dharan steady as ever, Varun subdued but observant, Pratap standing straight-backed, Meera stretching her arms like a tired lioness, and Virat already excited in a way he tried very hard to hide.

  Vashrya, leaning against a pillar, waved them off.

  “Children should wander. Go. I will stay here and meet with the Rajguru. Try not to burn or break anything.”

  Meera saluted dramatically. “No promises.”

  Leaving the palace always felt like stepping from a different world into another—one built on joy, noise, spice, dust, sunlight, and a rhythm that Governor’s courts could never produce.

  As the six walked through the massive gates—tall rose sandstone slabs carved with images of Garuda and shimmering with morning light—people noticed immediately.

  Whispers spread.

  “That’s them… the Dawn March warriors…”

  “The prince—look, look, that’s Yuvraj Surya!”

  “The girl with twin blades must be Meera—didn’t she cut down three berserkers?”

  “Which one is Virat? The son of the senapati?”

  “And that tall one—surely Dharan of Garudasthala…”

  None of them were in armor. They wore simple clothing, but fame tended to cling to those who survived storms.

  Surya kept his head low out of habit, but Meera slapped his shoulder.

  “Oi. If you shrink any harder, they’ll think you’re afraid of your own kingdom.”

  Virat added under his breath, “Which would be hilarious.”

  Surya gave him a side-eye. “I outrank you, you know.”

  “On the battlefield,” Virat replied smugly. “But in teasing? Never.”

  Dharan chuckled.

  Varun, meanwhile, had already stopped walking and was staring with fascination at the large mural painted across a building wall—depicting the ancient founding of the city.

  “Look,” he whispered, “the perspective on the temple towers… it’s from before the third expansion. This painting must be historic.”

  Meera groaned. “Varun, we’ve been outside for two minutes.”

  “And it’s already fascinating.”

  As they moved deeper into the main market square, Indraprastha unfolded around them in all her glory.

  Vendors shouted the morning’s prices.

  Children darted between stalls, laughing.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The air smelled of frying chickpea batter, fresh flowers, sandalwood incense, and mint tea.

  A potter rolled clay on his wheel, shaping a new set of lamp bowls.

  A dancer entertained a small crowd with bells tied around her ankles.

  Two scholars loudly argued over the correct interpretation of an ancient verse.

  A camel caravan entering from the east displayed foreign spices and colored glass beads.

  “Beautiful,” Pratap murmured, surprising Surya. “I never really… looked, before.”

  “Most warriors don’t,” Dharan replied. “We leave to fight but forget what we protect.”

  Surya felt that in his bones.

  He walked slower, letting the city imprint itself on him.

  A flower seller approached them timidly. “Yuvraj…? Would you accept a garland?”

  Before Surya could refuse politely, Meera pointed at Dharan.

  “Put it on him.”

  The woman giggled and indeed slipped the marigold garland over Dharan’s neck. The huge man looked mortified.

  Meera roared with laughter.

  Virat joined in. “He looks like a giant groom at his wedding.”

  Dharan cleared his throat. “I… will not respond to this.”

  But a tiny smile tugged at his mouth.

  A vendor shouted, “Fresh aloo rolls! Hot and spiced!”

  Meera immediately dragged Surya. “We’re eating.”

  Surya hesitated. “But—”

  “No ‘but.’ Eat.”

  She bought seven, one for each of them, two for herself, and Surya took a cautious bite.

  It was delicious. Hot, crisp, soft, savory.

  He almost groaned in relief. “Why did I ever eat military rations?”

  “Because you were trying to die, probably,” Meera said cheerfully.

  Virat bought sweet rice cakes next. “Try this too.”

  By the time they finished sampling everything the vendors thrust at them—crispy flatbreads, roasted nuts, sugar-coated fruits—Surya was half-convinced he wouldn’t need dinner.

  Dharan carried most of the extra food “to not waste it,” though it was clear he simply liked eating.

  As they crossed a wide avenue leading toward the artisan district, a small crowd formed on both sides of the street.

  At first Surya worried—an emergency? A sudden event?

  But no—people simply wanted to greet them.

  Someone started clapping.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Soon the street echoed with applause—not wild cheering like their return to the city, but something warmer. Gratitude. Respect. People pressed forward with small offerings:

  A baker handing Pratap a warm sweet bun.

  A carpenter offering Dharan a carved wooden pendant.

  Two little girls shyly running up to Meera to give her a ring of woven grass.

  And one older man—eyes deep with years—bowed to Surya and placed a single lotus petal in his palm.

  “For the one who guards the dawn,” the man whispered.

  Surya didn’t know how to respond. He bowed back.

  “Thank you.”

  Varun leaned close. “This… is why I follow you,” he murmured.

  Surya blinked. “What?”

  “You remember every face,” Varun said simply. “A king who remembers his people is the kind worth walking behind.”

  Surya said nothing, but the words settled inside him.

  After hours of wandering, snacking, talking, and occasionally escaping enthusiastic admirers, the group found themselves atop the city’s western walls.

  The view took their breath.

  Fields spread out like a green-brown tapestry.

  Caravans became tiny dots in the distance.

  The sky burned with shades of orange, ruby, and pale lavender.

  Birds wheeled overhead, black silhouettes against the dying light.

  Dharan sat cross-legged, quiet as a boulder.

  Pratap leaned his spear against the parapet, contemplative.

  Varun scribbled some notes about cloud patterns.

  Meera perched on the ledge like a hawk ready to leap.

  Virat flopped onto the stone floor, exhausted.

  Surya stood with his hands resting against the warm rock.

  For the first time since returning, he truly felt the peace.

  Meera broke the silence first. “I could live here,” she said lightly.

  “You’d get bored in a week,” Virat muttered.

  “Two weeks,” she corrected.

  Dharan rumbled, “I give her three days.”

  She threw a pebble at him.

  Surya smiled.

  This—this nonsense, this camaraderie, this human warmth—felt more healing than any length of sleep.

  Virat sat up suddenly. “Surya.”

  “Hm?”

  “You think…” Virat hesitated. “You think we’ll get days like this even after the war ends? Even after the Rakshasa—whatever it is—is defeated?”

  Surya looked out at the horizon.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But we’ll fight so that people can.”

  He turned to them, a rare softness in his eyes.

  “And so that we can.”

  The group fell quiet again, letting his words sink deep.

  The sun dipped below the horizon.

  Torches lit one by one across the walls, flickering gold against their faces.

  They stayed a while longer as the first stars shimmered into view—six young warriors, weary from battle, full of life, sitting above the world they were growing to protect.

  When they finally descended from the ramparts, night blanketed the city, but their hearts felt lighter—anchored by the simple, powerful truth:

  Not every chapter of a warrior’s life needed to be war.

  Some chapters were meant for remembering why they fought at all.