The palace of Indraprastha never truly slept. Even when the city quieted, torches lined the courtyards, and guards stood like stone against the night. Yet for Surya, the days seemed shorter than ever. News of his departure spread swiftly, and in those final days before the journey, he found himself face to face with those who had shaped his path so far.

  It was his mother who came to him first.

  Queen Maitreyi sat beside him in the inner gardens, where the night-blooming lotus floated upon clear water. Her hands were soft, but her gaze steady.

  “You are my son,” she said, brushing the edge of his shoulder silk. “But you are also the heir of Suryavarta. And sometimes, those roles will clash. When they do… I wish you to remember something.”

  Surya looked at her, waiting.

  “Your father may seem unyielding, but his silence is not coldness. He carries the burdens of thousands in his heart. Where he cannot speak, I will speak. And where you must walk ahead, he will watch your back from afar.”

  Her voice trembled only slightly. For all her warmth, she too was queen.

  Surya bowed his head. “I know, Mother. If not for you, I might mistake his silence for distance. But I understand now. He carries duty in place of words.”

  Maitreyi smiled faintly. “And you… you must learn to carry both. Duty and warmth. Sword and mantra. Perhaps that is why fate gave you the boon to walk both paths.”

  Surya reached for her hand. “I will return, Mother. Not as a boy, but as the man worthy of your teachings.”

  Her eyes softened, though a tear glistened in the moonlight.

  The next morning, he found Senapati Rudra in the training yards. The man was a wall of muscle, his scars visible even beneath his armor. Soldiers parted for him as water parts for stone.

  “Prince Surya,” Rudra called, voice like a war drum. “I hear you march to Kashi. But before you leave, I must see the measure of your resolve.”

  He drew his blade and planted it in the earth between them. “Not with sword or spear. With words. Tell me—why do you fight?”

  The yard fell silent. Even the sparring soldiers paused. Virat, standing nearby, looked nervous.

  Surya inhaled. His heart urged him to speak of glory, of proving himself. But no—that was not his truth.

  “I fight,” he said slowly, “because strength without purpose is emptiness. Because the people who laugh in the markets, who pray in the temples, who toil in the fields—they depend on us. If I cannot protect them, then the crown on my head means nothing.”

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  Rudra’s eyes narrowed, searching for weakness. Then, at last, he nodded.

  “Good. That is an answer worthy of a prince. Remember it. In battle, men forget themselves. But if you remember why you fight, then even when your sword shatters, your will shall remain unbroken.”

  He clasped Surya’s arm, warrior to warrior. It was the first time the senapati had touched him so, not as a prince, but as a comrade.

  That night, the elite warriors of Garudasthala invited him to their barracks. These were the men who had stood beside him against the awakened giant—towering warriors with eyes like hawks, bodies honed by endless battles.

  The barracks smelled of sweat and oil, yet the air was light with laughter. A clay jar of soma was passed around, and one by one, the warriors raised their cups to the prince.

  “To the boy who fights like ten men!” one roared.

  “To the prince who shamed us by slaying the giant first!” another laughed.

  Surya flushed, shaking his head. “I did not slay it alone. Without your spears and shields, its hide would not have been pierced.”

  The men bellowed in approval, slapping his back. One scarred veteran leaned closer. “Remember this, Highness. A king does not walk alone. When you return from Kashi, you’ll not just be our prince. You’ll be our commander. And when that day comes, we’ll be ready.”

  They clashed cups, and Surya felt a fire stir in his chest. These men were not mere soldiers. They were brothers-in-arms. And one day, he would lead them into war.

  At last came the moment he had avoided: standing before his father.

  Maharaja Veerajit sat in his private chamber, the glow of a single oil lamp casting shadows across his stern face. The lion throne was absent here; this was not the king, but the man.

  For a long time, neither spoke. The silence was heavy, but not empty. Finally, the king said:

  “You have grown swiftly, Surya. Too swiftly. A father’s heart should rejoice, yet mine is burdened. Do you know why?”

  Surya hesitated. “Because each step I take forward is one step closer to leaving childhood behind.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed, then softened. “You see clearly. That is both your gift and your curse.”

  He rose, placing a hand on Surya’s shoulder. It was heavy, not only with strength, but with the weight of rule.

  “When you face the Rakshasa, you will not just wield a sword. You will carry the hopes of this empire. That is heavier than any blade. But I will not ask you to carry it alone. Remember your mother’s kindness, Rudra’s discipline, Virat’s loyalty, and the trust of your warriors. A king is not the strongest man. He is the one who makes others strong.”

  For the first time, Surya saw not only the unyielding king but the father hidden beneath. He bowed deeply.

  “I will not fail you, Father.”

  The king’s hand lingered for a moment, then withdrew. “Then go. And return not just alive, but greater.”

  The dawn of departure came swiftly. In the courtyard, Virat stood ready with their packs, fidgeting with his sword belt. Sage Vashrya waited beside a chariot, his staff gleaming with mantra seals. Palace guards lined the steps, saluting in silence.

  Surya turned one last time. His mother stood upon the balcony, her hands clasped in prayer. His father stood behind her, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Rudra and the Garudasthala warriors stood to the side, their gazes sharp, their silent pride unspoken but felt.

  Surya breathed deeply, feeling the weight of all their hopes upon his shoulders.

  “Come, Prince,” Vashrya said. “The road to Kashi awaits.”

  The horses neighed, the wheels turned, and the city of Indraprastha began to fade behind them.

  The journey of the warrior prince had truly begun.