The forest was still.Too still.
Veer's boots pressed into the damp earth, each step muffled by layers of fallen leaves. The moonlight barely pierced the canopy above, spilling silver streaks across his path. Around him, his warriors moved in a disciplined formation—shadows within shadows—each armed, each alert, each breathing in unison.
They were deep inside enemy territory now, far beyond the borders of any friendly tribe. Every tree here could hide an assassin, every shadow could hold a waiting arrow.
Veer raised his fist, and instantly the group halted. His eyes scanned the darkness, his senses sharp as a drawn blade.
"Something's wrong," he whispered.
The air carried it—tension, like the pause before lightning splits the sky. Even the insects had gone silent.
Raghav, his second-in-command, stepped forward. "Scouts?"
Veer nodded, and three lightly armed warriors vanished into the forest without a sound. Moments later, one returned—pale, wide-eyed.
"They're here," the scout whispered. "And they're waiting for us."
Veer's jaw tightened. He had expected resistance, but not this. The Chalukya warlord, Madan Varma, was no fool. If the reports were true, this forest path was his hunting ground, and tonight, Veer had walked straight into the lion's den.
He turned to his men. "Form the crescent. Shields in front, archers behind. No one breaks rank unless I give the word."
Before anyone could answer, the first arrow came.
It hissed through the air, narrowly missing Veer's cheek before striking the bark of a tree behind him. Then another. And another.
Within seconds, the night erupted into chaos.
From the shadows, enemy warriors poured forth—faces painted black, eyes gleaming in the dark. They moved like phantoms, their blades catching the moonlight only in flashes.
"Hold the line!" Veer roared.
The enemy crashed into them, steel meeting steel, the clang of swords echoing through the forest. The air filled with grunts, shouts, and the smell of sweat and blood.
Veer moved like a storm, his spear spinning in deadly arcs. Every thrust found its mark—one in the throat, another in the gut, another smashing through a shield.
But this was no ordinary ambush. For every enemy he felled, two more appeared, darting from the darkness.
Then he saw him.
Madan Varma.
The warlord stood atop a fallen log, overseeing the chaos like a conductor directing an orchestra of death. His armor gleamed even in the dim light, his curved blade dripping red.
Their eyes met, and Veer felt a surge of heat in his chest. This was the man who had burned villages, slaughtered innocents, and sent Veer a challenge written in blood.
Veer's voice cut through the din. "Varma! Face me!"
The warlord's grin was a slash of white in the darkness. "You think you can take my head, boy? Come and try!"
Veer didn't wait. He broke through the press of bodies, each movement a blur of speed and power. His warriors saw him go and tightened the line behind him, holding back the tide.
Varma leaped down from the log, meeting Veer halfway. Their weapons clashed with a sound like breaking thunder.
For a moment, time slowed.
Every strike, every block, every sidestep was a test of skill. Veer's spear darted like a serpent, while Varma's curved blade slashed in wide, brutal arcs. Sparks flew when steel met steel.
"You fight well," Varma growled, pressing forward. "But you're still a child."
Veer bared his teeth. "Then this child will send you to the gods."
He feinted left, then drove the spear's butt into Varma's ribs. The warlord grunted, but instead of retreating, he twisted, bringing his blade up in a savage slash. Veer barely managed to duck, feeling the wind of the strike graze his hair.
They circled, boots crunching on broken branches, breath steaming in the cold air. Around them, the battle raged on, warriors screaming and dying in the dark.
Then Varma lunged.
Veer met the strike, but the force sent him stumbling back. Varma was strong—too strong to overpower in a direct contest. Veer knew he had to be faster, smarter.
He shifted his grip, spinning the spear into a low sweep. Varma jumped over it—but that was exactly what Veer wanted. In midair, Varma was exposed.
Veer drove the spear upward, the tip slamming into the warlord's shoulder.
Varma roared in pain, dropping to one knee. Veer stepped forward for the killing blow—
—but an arrow whistled past his face, forcing him to turn.
A dozen enemy archers had taken position on a nearby ridge, aiming directly at him.
Raghav shouted from the melee, "Veer! Fall back!"
For a heartbeat, Veer hesitated. He could finish Varma here and now… or he could save his warriors from being slaughtered in the next volley.
The choice burned, but he made it.
"Retreat!" Veer roared.
He grabbed Raghav's arm, dragging him toward the rear lines. The warriors moved as one, shields raised, covering their withdrawal. Arrows rained down, clattering against wood and steel, but they held formation, disappearing into the deeper forest.
When they finally stopped, the sounds of pursuit faded into the night.
Veer stood still, chest heaving, the taste of iron on his tongue. His men looked at him—not with disappointment, but with trust.
Raghav broke the silence. "You could have killed him."
"Yes," Veer said quietly. "And lost half of you in the process."
The forest around them whispered again, the danger fading but not gone. Veer knew this fight wasn't over. Varma was wounded now, but still breathing. The next time they met, there would be no retreat.
The moon broke through the clouds then, bathing them all in silver light.
And in Veer's eyes, the fire burned brighter than ever.