"Sire, it is time," Rudhira said with a bow.
We stepped into the courtyard, where the morning sun spilled across stone and banners stirred faintly in the breeze. I was about to board the carriage when Rudhira's voice interrupted.
"Forgive me, sire, but the former Samanti Yamvitha, instructed me to escort you in the royal gondola."
The word tugged at my memory. I recalled riding in it with Father, all six of us together. Mother's hands had always been clasped in prayer, her whispers fluttering like moths in the air. Father's laughter brushed her worries aside, as if the gods themselves yielded to his valor.
Once, Varanth had scoffed, "Mother frets for no reason. Her prayers won't change the will of the gods."
Father silenced him gently, "Your mother is right to worry, boy. For I have no doubt in my mind that it is her prayers and the gentleness of her touch that bring me back each time."
The gondola awaited beside the carriage — a box of dark teakwood, plain and unadorned, but tethered to four mighty sarabhas. Their wings folded close, yet their muscles quivered with restrained strength. The air around them felt taut, alive, as though the ground itself feared the flaps of their wings.
It was my first time facing them up close. My chest tightened, but I let no sign escape me.
Pranvi, Rudhira, and I climbed inside. Mother had asked her to accompany me. Apparently, her sword was a better safeguard than prayers.
The gondola lurched, then rose, lifted by the thunder of wings. The courtyard fell away. The manor shrank, fields became quilted patches of green and gold. Soon the clouds gathered around us, muffling sound and sight, until the world below was gone.
The steady beat of wings thrummed through the wood. I let it lull me, and for a moment, the weight of crown and duty slipped. My eyes closed.
****
"Brother," Pranvi's whisper brushed my ear. "We've arrived."
I splashed water over my face and stepped out into the light.
The meadow stretched as far as the eyes could see. Covered in the yellow of the sun, wildflowers of assorted hues adorned the landscape, swaying gently in the cool breeze. Tall grasses were going through endless ripples like waves, with their feathery tops catching the sunlight. The songs of the birds from the nearby trees added to the peaceful hush that blanketed the land. The fresh air had a tinge of the earthly perfume of damp soil.
"Pardon my interruption, Samanta."
I turned. A man knelt before me, fist to chest.
"I am Vishvak Dharuna, dandanayaka of the air force. It is an honor to welcome the Samanta of Aranyavarta."
"Rise, Vishvak. I only wish to assess the status of the air force."
He stood—a man near forty, hair gone white from wind and sun, his features keen as a hawk's. His sky-blue robe blurred with the clouds above, while light plates of armor hugged his frame. He looked every inch a man of the skies.
"It will be my pleasure to guide you, sire." His gaze flicked to Pranvi.
"And this must be Madam Pranvi Ashanra." He bowed lower. "Forgive my boldness, but your name is sung across the janapada. They say that you are the first woman in Aranyavarta whom the gods deemed worthy to bless with a sword instead of utensils. My daughter speaks of you often, my lady. She wishes to follow your path, sword in hand."
Graceful like Mother, Pranvi gave him a small smile. "You honor me with praise I have yet to earn, Dandanayaka Vishvak."
"Your father disagreed," Vishvak said softly. "Samanta Prathiraj once told me his daughter's sword outshone his own. That was a proud man's truth, not flattery."
Pranvi's eyes shimmered.
For her, Father's voice returned in that moment. She bowed her head to hide the tears. "You have given me a gift beyond measure, Dandanayaka Vishvak."
Vishvak's answering smile was the kind Father used to wear.
His eyes shifted next to Rudhira.
"You, sir, must be the young Amatya who conversed with Samanti Yamvitha herself."
Rudhira bowed slightly and answered, "That is right, my lord. It is my honor to share the same air as the Dandanayaka of the air force of Aranyavarta."
Vishvak chuckled.
"I see now why a woman like Samanti Yamvitha entrusted you with her ear. Give your father my regards."
"I am but a blade of grass in this vast meadow, while former Samanti Yamvitha is the refreshing breeze that nourishes it. I don't hold a candle to her, my lord, but I am grateful for the generous compliment," said Rudhira as he bowed deeply.
'He has a way with words,' I thought.
"Shall we proceed, sire?" Vishvak asked.
We followed him through the meadow. Then the sight stopped us all.
A sight of flying serpents and sarabhas existing in the same space as us.
The serpents—vast and sinewy, their scaled bodies glimmering like storm-forged bronze, lay coiled among the tall grasses. Leathery wings stretched wide beneath the sun, the thin membranes trembling as though stirred by unseen winds. Some hissed softly, their forked tongues tasting the air, while the older ones raised horned heads from their coils, eyes black as river-stone, unreadable and ancient. Their tails flicked lazily, yet even in rest there was a latent menace in their form, as if each coil could crush a chariot.
To the left lay a group of sarabhas, some asleep while others basked under the heat of the sun. They were regal; lion-bodied, their manes flowing like storm-clouds, and their vast feathered wings shimmered in the daylight. Their talons gripped the earth with the power of an elephant's tread, while their piercing eyes scanned the meadow ceaselessly. Some were grooming their wings with deliberate care, as though polishing weapons before battle.
No clash. No hiss. No roar. It seemed as if there was an unspoken agreement between the two species. Neither dared to disturb the other in those sacred glades.
Vishvak spoke in a reverent whisper. "The old priests say these meadows are consecrated. The beasts themselves guard the pact. They will not war here unless one dares break the silence of the gods."
My breath caught. They were not myths inked in temple scrolls. They were alive; mine to protect, mine to command.
For the first time, I could truly feel the burden of a ruler. A ruler who had these creatures as guardians of his lands.
And yet, the very next instant, it felt as if they were also the key to prosperity, the key to unlock the true strength of Aranyavarta.
Vishvak's voice cut through my awe. "Sire?"
I blinked. "They are… magnificent."
"That they are," he agreed, bowing his head slightly as though the words themselves were a prayer.
"How fare they? Are they fed, maintained?"
"All under strict care," Vishvak replied. "Our stable masters keep to schedule. They are fed from sacred herds, watered at consecrated pools. We do not treat them as beasts of war, sire, but as kin born of the gods' breath."
"Remarkable. To sustain so many without royal aid—my father and your men must have labored endlessly."
"Samanta Prathiraj taught us to treat them as kin, not beasts. They have ever been treasured."
"What of their number as of this noon?"
"One hundred twenty-five serpents, fifteen grounded due to injury and scale rot. Seventy-five sarabhas. Ten pairs… isolated." His voice lowered.
I cocked my head to the side and asked, "Why?"
He cleared his throat. "Breeding tendencies, sire. The gods' fire burns strong in them. When they mate, meadows themselves are torn apart."
Pranvi's face flushed scarlet. Rudhira started studying the empty sky. My own cheeks burned.
'You did not have to say that out loud!' I barked, only in thought.
I coughed. "Urgent decisions, then. Made without treasury aid?"
Vishvak bowed apologetically. "Yes, sire."
"Enough men to tend them?"
His jaw tightened. "Bonding takes patience. Taming costs lives. We lost six skilled handlers only last week."
"Dire indeed."
Vishvak squared his shoulders. "I cannot promise victory against all foes, but every man here, and every winged beast, will bleed for Aranyavarta. Our hearts won't falter in the face of adversity."
His salute rang with steel but I craved something more.
I let my voice carry. "From this day, the treasury will support you. Let the creatures breed freely. Tend wounds and feed them as kin. That is my command."
Pranvi stiffened. "Brother, half the treasury already bleeds into Project Prathiraj. Must we strain it further?"
I met her gaze. "These beasts demand time and patience. We have not the luxury of either, dear sister."
She faltered, lips pressed tight.
Rudhira murmured, "Sire, I could revise the accounts—"
"No. Project Prathiraj will not starve. If it needs more, it shall have more. But it will not fail. If you so aspire to aid me, ascertain the project proceeds flawlessly." My tone startled even Pranvi.
She wasn't used to her little brother's authoritative tone. I wished she would adapt soon.
Vishvak dropped to one knee. "Sire… never did I dream of a ruler who would love these mute creatures as Samanta Prathiraj did. Perhaps more."
I was so engrossed in our conversation that I failed to notice the air force soldiers and their mounts encircling us.
When I glanced at Pranvi, her hand was by her hilt, her eyes devoid of mortal fear, as if daring the creatures to step closer. My pulse stuttered.
Then in unison they pledged— "We, sons of Aranyavarta, pledge our lives to Samanta Amogh Ashanra!"
The words thundered through the meadow. I was left bewildered by the sudden acknowledgement.
Vishvak rose, eyes shining. "Samanta, allow me to offer you something."
"What is it, Sir Vishvak?"
"Two newborn serpents, three sarabhas. If the Samanta and Madam Pranvi ride on one of our own, our pride will know no bounds."
"Please, sire! Grant us this honor." the soldiers echoed.
I hesitated.
'To refuse would wound their morale. Yet, these creatures are precious. Their training though, strenuous.' I pondered, looking at their faces.
'Maybe I should consult Pranvi on the matter.'
I turned to Pranvi. Only to find her halfway to the stables, soldiers at her side.
'But I am the duke!' I was befuddled.
Rudhira gave me a helpless shrug. "Forgive me, sire. She would not be stopped."
I sighed. Like mother, like daughter.
Vishvak gestured us forward. "Approach them. If they accept your touch, the bond is sealed for life."
Pranvi's eyes shone like the day Father first placed a sword in her hands. "Come, brother!"
I smiled wryly and followed.
"This one doesn't flinch. Look at him nibbling at my braid," said Pranvi while crouching next to a tiny sarabha who clearly adored her. Its feathered wings twitched as it nestled against her, a cub-lion in body but eagle in gaze.
"This one here. Although he watches me intently, he remains still."
The tiny serpent looked at me with an adorable tilt of his head, emerald eyes blinking.
When I gently reached out for him, he hissed, sharp and sudden, fangs bared as sparks flickered in his throat.
"He's clearly uninterested in me," I said with a sigh.
"Maybe he dislikes your crown," Pranvi teased, stroking her sarabha.
"Or maybe he smells the weight of it." I retorted.
By the time I looked back, the sarabha was curled in her lap, clinging as though she were his mother.
"He has chosen," the stable master declared. Cheers erupted.
I tried again, with sarabhas this time. None stirred.
"Forgive us, sire. The next batch will surely yield one worthy of you." Vishvak said, panic written all over his face.
We left soon after. My shoulders slumped. Not one. Not a single bond.
'Did they deem me unworthy?' The more I pondered, the more it depressed me.
Pranvi stroked her sarabha's feathers. "Don't sulk, little brother. You will find a better mount than these."
"You only say that because yours clings like a babe to his mother."
She laughed. "I'm far too young for that. But perhaps… for him, I don't mind."
Her eyes lingered on the creature with quiet wonder, a bond sealed by fate itself.
And I, hidden behind a smile, burned with envy.
****
The cub had not left my side. Even now, as the campfires guttered low and the meadow drowsed beneath the moon, the little sarabha pressed against me, his feathered mane rising and falling with each steady breath. I had set him down once, only to feel his talons catch at my robe, his golden eyes searching until I gathered him back into my arms.
I stroked the softness of his wings, wondering at it. Why me?
The men had cheered. The stable master had declared it fate. Yet I could not help but wonder if it was not a mistake of the gods. A child of the sky choosing me — I, who was no Samanta, no ruler, only a sister with a sword and a stubborn tongue.
Father's voice echoed in memory: "My daughter's sword outshines my own."
Had he seen this before I could? That I was meant to walk a path apart from the quiet halls where women are caged with thread and spoon? That my hands would be blessed not with weaving, but with the grip of a sword; and now, the reins of a sky-lion?
The sarabha stirred, its eyes half-closed, and with a faint rumble it pressed its brow against my chest. I felt its warmth, and in that moment, a strange certainty kindled in me: this bond was no accident.
Perhaps my brother would command storms. Perhaps the crown would bend the world to his will. But the sky — the wild, terrible, boundless sky, had chosen me.
I held the cub closer, and for the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe that I was not merely Father's daughter, or Mother's ward, or even Amogh's shadow.
I was my own.
And this creature — fierce as the heavens, was proof.
****
I kept my face steady, but my mind churned as the meadow quieted after the cheers.
Sire's shoulders slumped, heavy with doubt, while Madam Pranvi cradled the cub sarabha like a gift sent straight from the heavens.
The soldiers saw only omen and destiny. They would whisper that the Samanta's sister had been chosen by the sky itself, while their ruler had not. Such whispers are born easily, and once loose, they are near impossible to silence.
I studied sire carefully. He had spoken with authority, commanding treasury, men, and beasts alike; yet beasts had denied him. Did that lessen him in their eyes? Or did it make him something more?
The common man hungers for signs. A Samanta astride a winged lion or serpent is a tale sung by bards. But a Samanta denied...
Madam Pranvi stroked her mount, laughter in her eyes, and I felt no jealousy for her. Only concern. Already the people sang of her as the daughter of Prathiraj, warrior-maiden of Aranyavarta. Now, with a sky-lion at her side, her legend would outpace her brother's unless he found his own myth to walk with him.