…Agni's Return
The return of Prince Agniveer to Tejgarh was not an arrival; it was an event. The capital didn't just welcome him; it ignited. Every gate, every archway, was a tapestry of marigolds and ashoka blossoms. Torches, even in the daylight, burned with a fierce, proud flame, their smoke carrying the scent of sandalwood into a sky already ringing with the deep, throaty beat of war drums and the joyous frenzy of shehnais. The air itself shimmered with heat and celebration.
At the head of the flower-strewn path, King Tejendra and Queen Aarunya stood, their regal composure melting into the raw, vulnerable joy of parents. Agni approached, the cheers of the throng a wall of sound behind him. He did not wave. He walked with the disciplined grace of the Gurukul, stopping precisely three paces before them. Then, he went to his knees, not in submission, but in profound reverence, pressing his forehead to the sun-warmed stone at their feet.
The Queen's composure broke first. A soft sob escaped her as petals, tossed from the high balconies, caught in Agni's dark hair like a living crown. The King's hand, when it came to rest on his son's bowed head, trembled slightly. The streets erupted in a renewed frenzy—coins of copper and silver rained down, sweetmeats were distributed from royal carts, and in every home, a portion of the evening meal was set aside as an offering for the prince's safe return.
Yet, behind the polite, practiced smile Agni wore for his people, his eyes—those molten amber depths—held a quietness that the revelry could not touch. A distance. The stillness of a forest pool after a storm has passed.
That evening, in the quiet sanctum of his chambers still smelling of new plaster and the faint, foreign scent of Gurukul herbs on his clothes, his mother entered without ceremony. No queen now, just a woman. She didn't speak. She crossed the room and wrapped him in an embrace that spoke of a decade of missed ones. Her kiss on his forehead was cool, lingering.
"Agni, my heart," she murmured, pulling back to cup his face, her eyes searching every plane and angle. "Look at you. A man shaped by discipline. But see how the edges are too sharp! You've been nourished by knowledge but not by a mother's hand. Now that you are home, I will see you filled out properly. Tell me," her voice dropped, laced with a fear she'd carried for ten years, "was it… was it bearable? The training? The loneliness?"
Agni's smile was gentle, a conscious softening of his features. "I am perfectly well, Mother. The Gurukul provided everything. Please, set your heart at ease."
"Good," she breathed, the word a release of tension. "Then rest. In my excitement, I forgot the weight of the journey you've carried." She fussed with his sleeve for a moment before leaving, the ghost of her worry lingering in the scent of jasmine that trailed behind her.
After the ritual bath and change into clean, finely-woven cotton, he joined his parents in their private dining chamber. The food was served not on gold, but on broad, fresh banana leaves—a practice of humility before the divine. Before any hand moved, the three joined their palms. The room fell into a deep, focused silence, broken only by the crackle of the central hearth-fire.
"O Agni Dev, Pavak of the world, accept this offering of our gratitude and our need."
Only after the prayer whispered into the flames did they eat, the meal itself a silent communion. When it was done, hands joined again, a silent thanks to Annapurna, the goddess of nourishment.
The next dawn found him in the ancient, underground temple of Agni Dev, the family's kul-devta. The air was hot and close, thick with the smell of centuries of burnt ghee and devotion. He offered no grand words, only a deep, silent gratitude for the fire within him, now honed from a wild spark to a focused blade. He prayed not for power, but for the strength to carry its weight.
The days settled into a new rhythm. He walked the kingdom, not as a spectacle, but as a listener. He stood in sun-baked squares and under the shade of village banyans, his calm, attentive presence inviting confidences about blighted crops, disputed wells, and petty injustices. He solved problems with a quiet authority that surprised even his father's seasoned ministers.
But every evening, when the palace grew quiet and the last petitioner had left, solitude would wrap around him like a familiar cloak. In that silence, the Gurukul rushed back in. Not the lessons or the lore, but the presence—the sound of a specific, irrepressible laugh echoing off stone walls, the heat of a competitive glare across a sparring circle, the shared, wordless understanding in the face of a nightmare made real. A faint, unconscious smile would always touch his lips, there and gone before it could be named.
It was during one such quiet meal with his parents that the spell was shattered. A captain of the guard entered, armor clinking, and knelt.
"Jai Tejgarh! Intelligence from the northern pass. Prince Neervrah of Neelgarh has returned to his kingdom following the completion of his Gurukul studies."
The King gave a curt nod. "Acknowledged." The soldier departed.
Agni looked up from his plate, his brow furrowed. "Father… why do we have spies watching Neelgarh's princes?"
King Tejendra's face, moments before relaxed, hardened into the old, familiar granite. "Because Neelgarh is not a neighbor, Agni. It is an adversary. Its movements must be monitored."
The words landed like stones in the quiet room. "Adversary?" Agni's voice was low, confusion warring with a dawning chill. "Why? What history makes them so?"
"That," the King said, his voice heavy with a finality that brooked no argument, "is a tale for another time. The council awaits me." He rose, his chair scraping sharply against the stone, and left without a backward glance.
Agni sat stunned. The Queen reached over, her hand a gentle weight on his arm. "Let it lie for now, beta. There will be time."
"No, Mother," Agni said, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. "I wish to know. Today."
Queen Aarunya studied her son's face—the man's resolve in it, yet still the boy's need for truth. She sighed, a sound of old sorrow dislodged. She sat back, her eyes losing focus, seeing a different time.
"Your father and King Vyomesh… they were not just allies. They were brothers. Forged in the same Gurukul, their bond was stronger than blood." Her voice grew thin, careful. "Your aunt… my dearest sister-in-law, Aparna… was betrothed to Vyomesh. The wedding day was the brightest Tejgarh had ever seen."
She paused, gathering strength. "The groom's procession was due at sundown. We waited. The sacred fire was lit. The mantras were recited. But the road from Neelgarh remained empty. Hours stretched. The smiles of the guests grew strained, then pitying. The whispers began… 'Rejected.' 'Disgrace.' In the terror of that mounting shame… before anyone could stop her… Aparna took her own life."
Agni's blood turned to ice in his veins. He stopped breathing.
"When Vyomesh's procession finally arrived, just after midnight, delayed by a fabricated landslide… it was to a palace of mourning, not music. Your father did not just lose a sister that day. He lost the other half of his soul. The betrayal… it was a poison that seeped into the very soil between our kingdoms. Since that day, Neelgarh's name in this house is spoken only with ash in the mouth."
A single, hot tear traced a path down Agni's cheek, followed by another. They fell onto the back of his own hand, which had clenched into a fist on the table.
"So that," he whispered, the words raw, "is the root of it."
He stood, the movement stiff. He bowed to his mother, a gesture devoid of its usual grace, and walked back to his chamber. The joyous sounds from the city below felt like a mockery.
Inside, the silence was absolute. He walked to the stand where his Gurukul sword rested. He drew it, the metal singing softly. The familiar weight, the balance he knew better than his own heartbeat, felt alien now. He stared at his reflection in the polished blade—the face of a prince, the eyes of a boy who had just lost his best friend without a single blow being struck.
His grip tightened until his knuckles shone white. Slowly, with a control that cost him everything, he slid the blade back into its scabbard.
The words, when they finally came, were not a shout. They were a vow, spoken to the empty room, to the ghost of a friendship now shadowed by a legacy of grief.
"Neer… I will never forgive you. Or the blood that runs in your veins."
---
…Neer's Return
Neelgarh's welcome was a different kind of symphony. It was the crash of waves against the ceremonial pier, the joyful clang of harbor bells, and the riotous, colorful chaos of a sea-faring people's celebration. Garlands of seashells and salty kelp were thrown, and the air smelled of ozone, frying fish, and excitement.
Neer all but leapt from the chariot before it fully stopped, his energy instantly infecting the crowd. His bow to his parents was deep but swift, and then he was engulfed. Queen Vaibhavi's embrace was tight, her tears mixing with the sea spray on his cheeks.
"Mother! Ten years is too long! The Gurukul had everything—except you."
King Vyomesh chuckled, a rich, rolling sound. "And what am I? Sea-foam?"
Neer spun and threw his arms around his father, the hug fierce and un-princely. "You I missed most of all, you old tidal wave!"
The welcome was a whirlwind of laughter, playful shoves from old friends, and the ceremonial tilak applied with a generous, messy hand. His bath afterwards was in sun-warmed seawater scented with lime, a blissful shedding of the forest's dust.
Later, before a meal of steaming rice and spiced coastal curries, he stood with his parents on their private balcony facing the endless sea. Together, they poured a libation of fresh water and milk into the crashing waves below, a silent offering to Jal Dev, thanking him for Neer's safe return. The meal was loud, filled with his animated stories of Gurukul antics, his parents listening with fond, weary smiles.
At dawn, he led a procession to the great seaside temple of Jal Dev, its spire piercing the morning mist. The blessings of the priests were a cool sprinkle of sacred water, a feeling of homecoming that sank into his bones.
Then, he was unleashed upon his kingdom. He moved through the bustling port markets and winding upland villages with the same infectious ease. He settled a fishmonger's dispute with a joke and a compromise, helped haul a net with laughing fishermen, and distributed sweets from his own pocket to clusters of wide-eyed children. His people didn't just love their prince; they claimed him as their own spirited, mischievous kin.
Yet, in the lulls—watching two boys play-fight with sticks on the beach, or overhearing friends bicker over the price of a boat—his mind would stutter. A familiar, serious face would flash before him: dark eyes, a slight frown, a nod of understanding. A hollow space, shaped exactly like Agni's silent presence, would open up in the midst of the laughter.
I wonder what the stone-statue is doing right now, he'd think, the familiar tease a silent ache in his throat.
The following afternoon brought a familiar, welcome sight: Merchant Brajesh, his father's oldest friend, his face like a sun-creased map of the ocean routes. And beside him…
"Akash!" Neer's grin was instantaneous, genuine. "By the tides, what are you doing here?"
Brajesh explained, his arm around the young man's shoulders. Akash was his adopted son, found under circumstances Brajesh glossed over with a merchant's vagueness. Akash bowed, his voice thick. "You are my only father."
After the formalities, the King waved a hand. "Neer, show your friend the palace. Let him see the home you've missed."
Neer needed no urging. He swept Akash through cool, pearl-inlaid corridors, showed him the map room with charts of every known current, and finally up to the high wind-whipped terrace that overlooked the dazzling expanse of Neelgarh—the sapphire bay, the white city, the green hills beyond.
"Well? What do you think of our nest, friend?"
Akash gazed out, his pale eyes reflecting the vast sky. "It is… even more beautiful than Vijrathgarh," he murmured, almost to himself.
Neer blinked. "Vijra-what?"
Akash snapped back to the present, a faint, practiced smile replacing his momentary lapse. "I only meant… it is breathtaking."
As they descended, walking through a courtyard where fountains mimicked the rise and fall of the tide, Akash asked, his tone casually light, "And… did you see Agni? Before leaving?"
Neer barked a laugh, too loud, too sharp. "Why would I seek him out? If the great Prince of Tejgarh wishes for my company, he knows where the sea is."
The conversation moved on, but the question lingered like a change in barometric pressure.
Much later, after a final meal where Brajesh told tales of the eastern trade winds, the visitors prepared to depart. At the main gate, Neer clapped Akash on the shoulder. "Take care of him, Uncle. And Akash—come back soon. The sea air is good for the soul."
Akash's smile was a quiet, sad thing. "I will, friend."
---
…Bhoomipur
In the earth-scented quiet of her sunlit chambers in Bhoomipur, Princess Dharaaya sat by her window, her gaze on the distant, stable hills but her mind leagues away. The familiar, comforting weight of home felt different now; it was a space waiting to be filled with echoes.
Her younger sister, Pratha, burst into the room like a sunbeam given form, her grin wicked. "Aha! The great earth-princess is adrift in her own thoughts! The soil beneath her feet must be jealous."
Dharaaya started, a blush already warming her cheeks. "No one, Pratha. I was just… remembering."
"Remembering who?" Pratha singsonged, plopping down beside her. "It's written all over your face, di! Tell me, tell me! Who has managed to crack the bedrock?"
"I was remembering the Gurukul," Dharaaya said, her voice softer, drifting. "The morning drills. The scent of wet soil after meditation. The feeling of the earth's energy… and… meeting someone. Spending days where a simple conversation felt like a secret shared with the wind. Worrying for him when he was hurt…" Her voice trailed off, the memories a vivid current pulling her under.
Pratha's eyes widened with delight. "So it's true! My sister's heart has been claimed! I knew it!"
Dharaaya reached out and pinched her sister's ear, not hard, but with enough sisterly authority. "Quiet, you little sprout! Don't you dare start."
Pratha yelped, giggling. "Let go! You're blushing!"
"Go away now," Dharaaya said, releasing her, a smile tugging at her own lips despite herself. "I need to rest."
"Rest?" Pratha danced toward the door, throwing the word over her shoulder like a challenge. "Or dream of him again?"
Dharaaya picked up a cushion and made a playful throwing motion. "Go!"
With a final, echoing laugh, Pratha vanished.
Alone again, Dharaaya lay back on her divan, closing her eyes. The moment the light vanished behind her lids, his face was there, waiting. Not as a memory, but as a presence—the steady grey of his eyes, the way his hair lifted in a non-existent breeze, the quiet, solid safety of him standing between her and danger. A deep, quiet longing, as patient and inevitable as roots seeking water, settled in the center of her chest. She wasn't just remembering the Gurukul.
She was missing its air.
Night spread across the three kingdoms like ink poured over a map.
Tejgarh burned with firelight.
Neelgarh shimmered with restless tides.
Bhoomipur breathed with the quiet heartbeat of earth.
Three princes.
One princess.
Three homes now filled with the echoes of what used to be the "us" of the Gurukul.
But somewhere in the space between these kingdoms—
in a place no map had ever acknowledged,
where neither fire nor water nor earth held dominion—
something stirred.
A windless tremor shivered across the barrier between worlds.
In the dead of night, when even the gods blinked, a figure materialized atop the very hill where the five once stood together under moonlight.
The same figure that had appeared after their departure.
The same eyes—silver, ancient, knowing.
It raised a hand.
Between its fingers, a thin crack appeared in the sky.
Not lightning.
Not magic.
A fracture—as if fate itself were brittle.
Through it, the figure whispered into the void:
> "He has returned with hate in his heart.
The other has returned with love in his.
And the girl walks toward a dream she does not yet understand.
The wheel begins to turn."
The crack pulsed.
A second fracture split beside it—jagged, dangerous.
The figure stepped back, watching the sky split open, and murmured:
> "When these cracks meet…
one kingdom will fall.
And one love will break before it blooms."
The fractures glowed—fire-red, sea-blue, and earth-brown all at once.
Then—
Silence.
Total, devouring silence.
The fractures vanished.
But the warning remained, echoing across all three realms:
"Choose your loyalties, young princes.
Your hearts will not survive what is coming."