"Every child is born crying.
But some — make the world listen."
Three years had passed since that stormy night at Shivneri.
The thunder had long gone silent, but the fort still seemed to hum with the memory of that night.
Every gust of wind across its walls carried the whisper of a promise — that something great had been born here.
The valley below was green again. Farmers had returned, the temple bells rang at dawn, and for a time, peace lingered.
But within the stone heart of Shivneri, a different kind of storm was growing — one held in the small hands of a boy who carried fire in his eyes.
Morning at Shivneri
The courtyard echoed with the soft thud-thud of wooden swords.
Dadoji Konddeo, stern and steady as the fort itself, stood with arms crossed. His hair was streaked with silver, his face carved by years of service and loyalty.
Before him, young Shivaji swung a wooden sword, breath sharp, movements clumsy but determined.
"Too wide," Dadoji said, voice crisp but calm. "Your sword must follow your mind, not your anger."
Shivaji bit his lip and tried again — slower this time.
The strike landed clean against the straw dummy's chest.
"Better," Dadoji nodded. "A sword doesn't make a warrior. Discipline does."
The boy frowned, his eyes full of thought.
"Then why do men fight, Dadoji?"
The old commander's expression softened.
"Because they fear losing what they cannot protect," he said.
"But remember, Raje — fear is a chain. Courage… is the key that breaks it."
"He was only a child, yet he asked questions older than empires.
Dadoji answered every one — not as a teacher, but as a man preparing the world for its next ruler."
Evening Shadows
At dusk, Shivneri glowed gold in the fading light.
From the ramparts, the world looked endless — forests stretching beyond sight, the air cool and heavy with rain.
In the courtyard temple, Jijabai sat before the idol of Bhavani Mata, her hands weaving marigolds with quiet focus.
Her son approached, dusty from practice, the wooden sword still clutched tight.
He hesitated before speaking.
"Aai… why did Baba go so far away? Doesn't he want to protect our land too?"
Jijabai paused. For a moment, the only sound was the steady crackle of the diya.
"Your father serves the Sultan," she said softly. "He does what he must — to keep our people alive."
She cupped her son's face in her hands. "But you, my Shivba… you will do what you were born to do."
She took the sword gently from him and laid it at the feet of Bhavani Mata.
The lamplight danced across the blade, glowing like a promise.
"One day," she whispered, "this sword will answer your call. But not for pride, not for conquest… only for Swarajya. For freedom."
Shivaji stared at the blade, then at his mother's calm face.
Something unspoken passed between them — a vow neither fully understood yet.
"Prophecies are not written in stone.
They are whispered — in prayers, in lessons, in the hush of a temple night.
And that night, a mother's words became the first spark of a fire that would never die."
The Silent Fort
Night fell. The torches along Shivneri's walls burned steady.
Dadoji walked the courtyard, his steps slow, his eyes scanning the horizon like a guardian spirit.
He found Shivaji asleep near the temple steps — his wooden sword still in hand, head resting against the stone.
The flame beside him flickered but did not fade.
Dadoji smiled faintly, pulling his shawl tighter.
"Let the gods rest," he murmured.
"This one will fight for men."
As he turned away, he looked once more at the boy.
The flame's light cast a long shadow — the shape of a warrior who had not yet awakened.
"They called him a child.
But destiny had already begun to whisper his name —
Shivaji."
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