Dhanudanda and Arya fought fiercely, blades singing with every swing, pushing hard against Sharvas' men. Each strike, each parry, was driven by grit and fury. The soldiers around them rallied, inspired by the storm of steel and discipline they unleashed.
Then the wind changed.
Ashvapati's triumph over four kshoniraajas had torn a hole through the heart of the enemy's morale. Even Dhanudanda, hardened by decades of war, felt something shift. If giants like the kshoniraajas could fall, what hope did lesser beings have?
Sharvas felt it too. He stood surrounded by his commanders, lips pressed in a thin line. Half the kshoniraajas lay broken in the mud—bloodied, still. Ashvapati, though limping, was still advancing. Each step was slow, but heavy with finality, like a death bell sounding across the field.
The sun hovered low over the horizon, shadows lengthening. If Sharvas wanted to preserve what remained of his force, this was the moment.
He gave the signal.
A soldier raised a shankh to his lips and blew.
The warhorn's deep, solemn note rang across the battlefield.
Everything stopped. Spears froze mid-thrust. Arrows held in tension. Boots halted.
For a moment, time itself seemed to pause.
Parashar's camp, cautious but respectful of the code, responded. Another shankh call rose into the air. Two warhorns now echoed one another—a sacred agreement of ceasefire.
But not all ears obeyed.
The kshoniraajas, rage-drunk and blinded by the loss of their kin, did not heed the horn. They pushed forward, trampling corpses beneath their feet.
Ashvapati limped toward them.
Sharvas saw the danger. His ceasefire had failed. Ashvapati would soon reach the remaining giants—and unleash hell.
In a sudden, desperate move, Sharvas turned to his archers.
"Loose the arrows. Now!"
The silence shattered.
Dark feathers streaked the twilight. A sudden hiss filled the air. Arrows rained from the sky, falling on soldiers who had lowered their weapons, trusting the sacred horn.
Cries of pain erupted across the field. Men collapsed. Some shouted in disbelief, others didn't even get to scream.
Parashar roared, "Take cover! Shields!"
His soldiers scrambled to defend themselves, raising shields and scattering, but the harm was done. The rules of the war had been broken.
Among those running for cover, Arya and Dhanudanda dove behind the ranks. A few arrows struck close, clattering against armor and stone. One narrowly missed Arya's shoulder.
Arya stood, heart pounding, scanning the field.
The war was supposed to stop after the shankh.
Then he saw it.
A small group of soldiers hurried across the battlefield, clustered around a fallen figure. Blood streaked their armor. They lifted the man gently, voices urgent. One of them stumbled but didn't stop.
Arya's eyes widened. His breath caught.
It was Rudra.
An arrow jutted from his side. His hand clutched it weakly, fingers smeared with blood. He was conscious—barely—but fading. The soldiers tried to move quickly, carrying him toward the medical tents. Raghav was running behind, shouting his name, brushing aside anyone in his way.
Arya froze. His knees felt weak. The battlefield noise dulled.
He couldn't take cover in time.
He trusted the horn.
Dhanudanda grabbed Arya's arm. "Do not leave the battlefield! We need you here. They will take care of him."
Arya didn't move.
Raghav turned once, locking eyes with him.
Arya's heart twisted.
He turned from Dhanudanda and ran.
His armor clanged with every stride. Soldiers shouted after him, but Arya didn't stop. He pushed through the chaos, past the wounded, past the fallen, toward Rudra.
He had stayed behind once. And Raghav paid the price.
This time, Rudra had been hit. Because he couldn't reach cover in time.
Arya ran.
Sharvas saw it all from afar. A cruel satisfaction twisted in his gut.
At least he had forced them to lose focus.
He raised his hand.
"Attack again!"
The giants roared. The soldiers advanced. War resumed.
The sun had not yet set on the battlefield.