In Suryavarta, the stories were everywhere.

  They lived in lullabies sung to restless children, in carvings etched into temple pillars darkened by centuries of incense, in the low voices of soldiers sharing food at dusk when the day’s duties were done. The Garudas were not merely a battalion spoken of in records; they were a living idea—an embodiment of endurance.

  They were the shield that did not break.

  The spear that did not falter.

  The wings that rose when the kingdom needed them most.

  But the stories that stayed with Dharan were not the polished ones recited by bards in market squares. They were the quieter tales, spoken by tired men sitting on stone steps with their helmets resting beside them. Men whose armor bore scratches they never boasted about, whose hands were rough not from glory but from repetition.

  They spoke while remembering.

  Of the Garuda battalion holding a mountain pass for three days when retreat would have been easier.

  Of Ashvamedha riders who vanished into enemy lands and returned weeks later with wars already decided.

  Of nameless men who stood in the first line so cities like Indraprastha could sleep undisturbed.

  As a child, Dharan did not understand strategy or honor or duty.

  But he understood this:

  He wanted to stand like them.

  Dharan’s father was not a Garuda.

  He was not even a frontline soldier.

  Raghav was a man of the city watch—one among thousands who patrolled Indraprastha’s streets at night, kept order during festivals, broke up drunken brawls before they turned bloody, and escorted pilgrims safely through crowded gates.

  He wore the blue sash of the city watch and carried a spear older than Dharan himself, its shaft smoothed by years of use. His armor was old too—patched carefully at the joints, repaired so many times that its original craftsman would hardly recognize it.

  Dharan remembered how his father cleaned that armor every night.

  Even on days when it hadn’t been scratched.

  “Armor,” Raghav had once said, crouching beside his son, fastening a loose strap, “isn’t for showing strength. It’s for showing responsibility. When you wear it, you’re telling the world someone else’s safety matters more than your comfort.”

  Dharan had nodded then, not fully understanding.

  Understanding came later.

  His father died on a clear afternoon.

  There was no riot.

  No invasion.

  No alarm bells echoing through the city.

  A merchant cart had overturned near the western gate—an axle splitting without warning, wheels breaking loose. Horses panicked. People scattered. A child stumbled and fell.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Raghav ran.

  He shoved the child clear.

  The cart followed.

  The injury did not kill him instantly. That would have been easier. Instead, it was slow and quiet. He lived long enough to be carried home. Long enough to grip Dharan’s wrist with fading strength.

  “Stay… upright,” he had whispered. “Even when no one’s watching.”

  Those were his last words.

  People called it an accident.

  And it was.

  That somehow made it worse.

  There was no enemy to hate.

  No battle to avenge.

  No glory to soften the grief.

  Just an empty place at the dinner mat.

  A folded uniform.

  And a boy who learned, far too early, that even in peace, people could fall.

  After that, Dharan spent less time at home.

  Not because his mother pushed him away—she never did—but because the silence inside those walls felt unbearable. The house still smelled like his father’s oil and leather, and every corner carried echoes that refused to fade.

  So Dharan wandered.

  Indraprastha’s outer districts held many places children were not meant to linger, and among them were the soldier training grounds. These were not Garudasthala—just basic yards where recruits learned to stand straight, hold a spear without skewering their neighbors, and endure the sun without complaint.

  Dharan sat on the stone steps beyond the fence and watched.

  He watched men sweat under the sun.

  Watched them stumble.

  Watched them fail—and stand again.

  He memorized movements without knowing their names.

  Footwork.

  Grip.

  Balance.

  At night, behind his home, he practiced with a stick, copying what he had seen. His palms blistered. His shoulders burned. His arms trembled.

  He did not complain.

  Stone doesn’t complain, he thought—though he didn’t yet know why that thought felt right.

  When watch officers noticed him lingering, one tried to chase him off.

  Another stopped him.

  “Let him watch,” the older guard had said. “If he’s going to stare holes into us anyway, might as well give him something worth staring at.”

  Soon, they let him mimic drills at the edge.

  Then they corrected his stance.

  Then they let him join.

  Not officially.

  He wasn’t old enough.

  But quietly.

  Dharan was gifted.

  That much was obvious.

  He learned faster than others.

  Adjusted instinctively.

  Endured longer.

  But what set him apart wasn’t talent.

  It was effort.

  While other boys left when their arms burned, Dharan stayed.

  When told to stop, he practiced slower.

  When praised, he said nothing and trained again.

  He wasn’t trying to prove himself.

  He was trying to become reliable.

  When he was finally old enough to apply for formal soldier training, no one was surprised when he passed. When his endurance scores ranked high, instructors simply nodded. When his discipline evaluations returned flawless, no one questioned them.

  Then came the Trial of Kshatriyas.

  Ten runes in theory.

  Six in reality.

  Dharan cleared six—barely.

  Not spectacularly.

  Not impressively.

  But honestly.

  And that was enough.

  Because the Trial was not a promise of greatness—it was an estimation of potential.

  What came next would decide worth.

  Garudasthala was not for brilliance alone.

  It was for those who could bear pressure without cracking.

  The trial for Garudasthala did not begin with strength.

  It began with patience.

  Days of repetitive drills with no explanation.

  Weeks of correction without praise.

  Commands delivered flatly, sometimes unfairly, often without reason.

  Many talented warriors failed there—not because they were weak, but because they were loud in their frustration. They demanded to know why. They pushed for recognition. They bristled under silence.

  Dharan did not.

  He absorbed correction like stone absorbs rain.

  When others questioned orders, he followed.

  When others demanded acknowledgment, he waited.

  When exhaustion whispered excuses, he ignored it.

  He remembered his father cleaning armor that hadn’t been scratched.

  Responsibility before comfort.

  When his name was finally called—

  There was no celebration.

  No surge of triumph.

  Dharan stepped forward.

  And bowed.

  Once.

  Deeply.

  Because stone does not boast when it is chosen to stand.