The fire of Vishragarh had not yet dimmed when the tremors of Shaurya's alliance began rippling through the kingdom.
Within days, messengers on flame-chariots were dispatched to border outposts. Warriors trained in the Ashval style of Agni-Dhanurvidya began drills under the open sky. And amid the mountain halls, whispers stirred: a new alliance was born—not by bloodline or war, but by truth and fire.
But every alliance comes with a price. And this one, steepest of all, was about to be paid in blood.
In the Chamber of Strategy
A long stone table stood at the center of the Vishragarh war chamber, laden with maps, tokens, scrolls, and magical relics.
Seated around it:
King Rudrapratap Ashval, presiding like a lion over his court.
Shaurya, guest and equal.
General Bhaskar Singh, representing the Forest Kingdom's growing might.
Princess Arundhati, her fingers tapping a dagger's hilt in thought.
And the Ashval Ministers of War, Finance, and Foreign Affairs, watching every move with guarded curiosity.
"Our scouts confirm that the villages of Rannajh, Ksharapur, and Velvan are gone," Bhaskar reported grimly. "No signs of resistance. Only silence and scorched bones."
"They are not invading," Shaurya added, "they are... harvesting."
The word chilled the room.
"Harvesting?" asked Arundhati.
"Yes," Shaurya said. "The Mirror Cult of Varkasena does not conquer lands. They absorb lives. Each ritual they perform strengthens them—and if allowed to spread, they will awaken powers older than kingdoms."
Rudrapratap leaned back, his eyes dark.
"Then we must strike before they do."
The Proposed March
The Ashval army would mobilize. Shaurya's elite guards would join them. The plan was to reclaim the Temple-Fort of Marukanda, a long-abandoned border fortress said to have once been the burial place of a Rishi King, and now under cult control.
But as the strategy was laid bare, tensions rose.
One of the older generals, Rajsenapati Trivikrama, objected.
"With respect, this young king does not know these lands! Let Ashval fight its own battles!"
"And lose more villages while you argue?" Arundhati snapped.
"Enough," Rudrapratap said. "Shaurya has brought knowledge and sacrifice. His warriors are welcome. But I will not order my men to follow a boy without proving his strength."
His eyes bore into Shaurya's.
"You will lead the first strike into Marukanda, with a joint force. You will face whatever darkness waits there. Only then will my full army follow."
Shaurya did not flinch.
"Done."
Preparing for Marukanda
That evening, within the military sanctum, Shaurya gathered his squad:
Bhaskar Singh, ready with a battalion of two hundred.
Lavanya, now doubling as both diplomat and healer.
Ten Ashval soldiers, handpicked by Arundhati herself—skeptical but skilled.
And Rakta, the silent warrior from Shaurya's kingdom who wielded twin axes blessed by Narayan.
As they donned their armor, Shaurya took a moment alone with the Trishul-Vard, his divine weapon sealed in a cloth of mantras.
"Not yet," he whispered to it. "Let them see my will first. Not my gift."
The Blood Price Revealed
The journey to Marukanda was brutal. Forests corrupted by cult magic resisted them—trees bled sap, wind howled in voices, and illusions danced at the edge of their vision.
Then, at twilight, they reached the fortress.
What stood before them was not a ruin—but a living shrine of death.
The walls bled. Statues of ancient saints had been defiled, their faces carved into grotesque grins. And in the center, floating above a bone-laced dais, was a Mirror Herald—a humanoid creature with half its body made of glass, the other of writhing black flesh.
It hissed.
"You bring fire to feed us. Good."
Then, with a snap of its glass fingers, the dead of the nearby villages rose—skeletal forms with glowing mirrors embedded in their skulls.
The Battle of Marukanda
Shaurya led the charge.
He didn't unleash the Trishul.
He fought with divine martial skill alone—his fists channeling kinetic force, his breath imbued with mantra-aura. His Ashval companions, inspired, fought beside him. Arrows burned in flight. Bhaskar roared like a lion. Lavanya healed with chants that turned wounds to steam.
But the Mirror Herald was no ordinary foe. It warped time. It split into reflections. And finally, when it impaled Rakta with a mirror spear, Shaurya's rage ignited.
The cloth flew from the Trishul-Vard.
With a cry to Shiv Narayan, Shaurya spun the weapon into the heavens. Lightning cracked, and the spear split into three flaming shards mid-air—each targeting the Herald's reflections.
The real one screamed as the divine fire consumed it.
Aftermath and Mourning
Victory came. But not without loss.
Rakta was dead.
Two Ashval soldiers perished. One went mad from looking too long into a cursed mirror.
They lit a pyre under the stars. Shaurya stood silent, hands folded in prayer.
When they returned to Vishragarh, King Rudrapratap did not speak. He only stood and placed his royal dagger at Shaurya's feet.
"You have paid the price," he said. "And earned our alliance."
To be continued....