In the tents, Savignya and Rudra were being treated. Vaidyas rushed around, applying poultices, stitching wounds. Savignya had lost much blood. The slash on her side was deep, just below her ribs. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. Rudra, on the other hand, was clinging to life by a thread. The arrow had missed his heart, but barely. It had punctured his lung, and every breath now was a struggle. Raghav sat near him, fingers clenched together, lips muttering silent prayers. His face was pale, eyes constantly shifting between Rudra's face and the Vaidyas.
Outside, battle cries roared. Soldiers were fighting not just for victory—but for the wounded behind them, for their fallen brothers, for vengeance.
Ashvapati had seen everything—Savignya's duel, Rudra falling, Arya taking command, Parashar holding back. He had remained still through most of it, watching, absorbing. He was not a man of politics. He had never cared for the bickering of generals or the schemes of war councils. His hammer answered only to battle. But now, for the first time, he felt doubt. Not in himself, but in the direction of things.
Arya's commands had been precise, almost detached. He had moved troops, locked formations, sent volleys of stones to block Sharvas' retreat. It hadn't been anger; it had been something colder, sharper—conviction. And that disturbed Ashvapati more than fury ever could.
The war had cost them dearly already. Had they not retaliated, the Kshoniraajas would have torn through the army. The surprise attack would have left hundreds dead. But what if Parashar was right? What if Sharvas wanted them to chase him? What if the city was the trap?
Yet, even as Ashvapati stood rooted in thought, his feet began to move. He lifted his hammer without realizing it. Something inside him stirred. He had never taken orders from anyone. He did not serve leaders—he served the cause he believed in. But Arya's voice, calm and unyielding, echoed in his mind. It wasn't command that pulled him forward. It was purpose.
He strode towards the battlefield, armor clinking, hammer resting against his shoulder. There was no plan in his head. No politics. Just instinct.
Dhanudanda was already in the thick of the battle. He fought like a whirlwind—his blade carving arcs of red through the enemy lines. He had always fought on his own terms. Even under Parashar, he followed only what made sense to him. But now, like Ashvapati, he had followed Arya into this assault without hesitation.
He didn't understand it. He didn't like Arya—he had considered him soft once, too young to lead. But now he obeyed without thinking. Not because of loyalty. Because Arya's presence demanded it.
Every few moments, Dhanudanda glanced toward Arya, who stood near the central ridge, commanding the Vartul formation with clarity. Why does this boy have such command over us? he wondered.
Around them, the battlefield churned. Spears clashed against shields, swords rang out, arrows flew. The outer ring of the Vartul formation pushed in hard, led by Dhanudanda. The inner ring was dense, enclosing Sharvas and Kritipal. Despite the overwhelming odds, Sharvas did not falter.
He fought like a beast cornered. His eyes glinted with bloodlust, but his strikes were calculated. Kritipal remained close, guarding Sharvas' blind spots. Every step back they took was bought with the lives of their own men. Still, they refused to fall.
Bodies piled between the circles. The cavalry units clashed in the rear, near the city's blocked gates. Hooves thudded, swords flashed, and screams rang through the night.
Ashvapati finally reached the circle's edge. Without a word, he joined the frontline. His hammer swung wide—each strike sent men flying. He didn't wait for orders. He didn't need them. He had chosen his side.
Arya stood on a slight elevation behind the front, eyes scanning every movement. He saw Dhanudanda advancing through the enemy, tearing through soldiers. He saw Ashvapati enter the fray, and something inside him stirred—not pride, not joy. Just a cold, affirming sense that things were moving the way they had to.
Every command was followed instantly. No one questioned him. No one hesitated. His voice carried through the field, a signal of order in chaos.
Parashar, watching from afar, saw the same thing. He had left the frontline, returned to the tents. But his eyes were still on the battlefield. He couldn't understand it fully. Arya wasn't leading out of vengeance. He wasn't a warlord. And yet, somehow, he had turned the tide of battle with sheer clarity of purpose.
Inside the tent, Raghav held Rudra's hand tightly. The Vaidyas were still working, but Rudra's breathing was thin. Every exhale rattled.
Outside, Sharvas made a final push. He roared, swinging his blade, cutting through three men in one sweep. Kritipal shouted orders, trying to rally the remaining soldiers. But the circle was closing tighter. They had nowhere to run.
Then came the command: "Collapse the inner circle!" Arya's voice boomed.
Dhanudanda heard it and surged forward. The outer formation tightened, pressing the enemy inward. Ashvapati crushed through the left side. Sharvas' men fought like mad dogs, but they were trapped. The gates to the city were blocked. The rear was held by cavalry. The only way was through Arya's wall—and that wall held firm.
Amid the chaos, Arya looked down at the field. The bloodshed was immense. But there was no turning back now.
He turned once to look at the tents. Where Rudra lay. Where Savignya lay.
This was not revenge. This was necessity.