The cottage lay silent under a sky that glowed with embers. Eklavya sat alone, carving a small wooden idol of a king, his eyes distant with dreams of crowns and conquests. In the hush, a soft breeze stirred the lantern flame at the doorway, though no door had opened. Across the room, a figure stood: tall, still, and ancient. Twilight draped the stranger in robes like woven dusk, and raven-black eyes glimmered with time's weight.
Eklavya looked up, startled but unafraid. "Who stands in my hut at this hour?" he spoke, voice steady though curiosity lit it. "You are not my brother, not my master. Who are you that enters without sound or greeting?"
The stranger smiled—no chord of welcome, but a quiet acknowledgment of presence. "I am one who walks between yugas. My name is old as memory." His voice was soft, yet carried the authority of distant storms.
Eklavya slid the wooden idol aside and rose, alert. "I have heard of wanderers who appear at dawn, carrying omens. What do you bring me?"
"Not an omen," said the stranger, his gaze fixed on the spear-tipped bow perched against the wall, "but a story you must hear." He walked closer, footsteps hushed on the packed earth floor. "You aspire to kingship, to lead your people beyond borders. That is a noble dream."
A flicker of pride lit Eklavya's face. "Yes. My tribe will know our strength through me."
The stranger nodded. "Then hear this: once there was a prince of a forest-born tribe, skilled in bow and heart, whose aim could fell both deer and destiny. He challenged princes born of palaces and gods, but victory came only to his skill—not to his birth. When asked for his loyalty, he gave more than needed. He offered what he was made from."
Eklavya's heart quickened. "And what did he lose in that giving?"
The stranger's gaze deepened. "Everything. His tribe, his name, his claim to pride. His gift of thumb paid a vow he neither sought nor made knowingly. His arrow died with his sacrifice, and the world forgot the hand that released it."
A hollow grip formed around Eklavya's carving knife. "Why tell me this?"
To that, the stranger crossed to the well at the cottage's edge. "Fetch water," he said quietly. "The land remembers those who listen. Bring the world's reflection here."
Eklavya did not hesitate. He stepped outside with clay pot in hand. The night air was cool, the stream near the grove shimmered under starlight. He bent to draw water—drink-clean, wisdom-cold—and then he froze.
In the distance came a cry, and then another—sharp, human. Fear carried in voices rising from the grove, voices of children and hunters. He dropped the pot, breath caught in anger and dread, and ran.
He burst into the clearing where the camp had stood. Now it lay in ruin: burned thatch, toppled spears, bodies fallen where they fought only a moment before. Brothers, fathers, young hunters—silenced in a massacre. Eklavya fell to his knees amidst the ruin, heartbeat roaring.
The stranger stepped into the carnage, calm amid the storm of grief. Eklavya looked up, tears blurring his vision.
"This," said the stranger, voice low as earth, "is the cost of unchallenged ambition. The price of a throne taken before its soil was truly tended."
"How could this happen?" gasped Eklavya, voice shaking. "They were my people…"
The stranger leaned close. "Your power alone did not call their deaths—it was your claim to greatness before acceptance. Promises made in haste break tribes, not swords. A bow unlit by respect can wound home."
Eklavya bowed his forehead to the ground. "Then what path remains?"
The stranger pressed an arrow into Eklavya's hand—tempered, sharp, unspent. "Rise as a protector first. Earn not just their faith, but the world's. Let integrity be your crown; humility, your kingdom. Then, and only then, will your arrows carve stories worth telling."
Eklavya closed his fingers around the shaft, tears soaking the wood yet firm honor in his grip. "I will walk that path."
The stranger, quiet as dawn, stepped back. A final glance, a slow nod, then he vanished into the forest's edge, leaving only a single crow's call echoing through the night.
Alone again, Eklavya knelt by the fallen, silent tears falling into dust. His broken dream had turned into a different vow—one held not by ambition, but by awakening.