Wind hissed across the empty drill‑field, kicking dust into our eyes. No tents, no cooking pits—only a ring of unlit torches and two dozen confused first‑years clutching bundles of bedding.
Guru Kratu‑Dhvaja paced before us, her midnight robe snapping like a banner. A single iron staff rested across her shoulders.
"Lesson one," she said, voice carrying to the farthest torch. "A warrior who waits to be fed, clothed, or sheltered is already defeated. Tonight Vyomāśrama offers nothing but ground and sky. Build your own camp, fetch your own food, and defend it until sunrise."
She rapped her staff against the packed earth. Sparks skittered away—no flames, just light‑less motes that vanished in the gloom.
"Teams of three," she continued. "Those without allies may fend for themselves." Her gaze caught mine for a heartbeat longer than chance. "Remember, boy with the storm‑kissed sword: wood and stone test the body; darkness tests the heart."
Then she simply… walked away, vanishing between the banyan's roots like smoke in wind.
Forming a Fire
Varun clapped me on the shoulder. "Team of three—easy. Lakshmika, you, and me."
Lakshmika arched an eyebrow. "We still need wood, flint, and rations. Talk later, move now." She pointed toward the treeline flanking the east wall. "Dry branches there. Arya, come with me. Varun, dig a pit."
He groaned but obeyed. Moments later he was on hands and knees, carving a shallow bowl in the dirt with a flat stone.
Lakshmika and I slipped beneath torch‑shadow toward the forest fringe. Stars hid behind monsoon clouds; only the pale glow of fungus on old stumps lit our way. Each branch I snapped sent a jolt through my wounded side, but I clenched my teeth and kept pace.
"Shouldn't push yourself yet," she said quietly.
"Can't afford weakness. Not tonight."
A soft hum. "Strength is knowing when to lean on allies, too."
I opened my mouth to argue—then shut it. She was right, and pride would only slow us down.
By the time we returned, Varun had ringed his pit with loose stones. A thin pile of kindling sat in the center—dry bark, leaves, and shavings.
"No spark," he muttered. "Flint's damp, and my hands are blistered."
Lakshmika knelt and unwrapped a pouch of forest tools. "Let me try."
She took two flat stones, one of quartz and another of pyrite—shimmering gold—set the edge of a dried stem into the kindling pile, and struck. Sparks flew, scattered, then caught on the bark. We all leaned in, coaxing the ember with breath and patience.
After long minutes, smoke curled upward, followed by a thin lick of flame. We fed it gently, and the fire grew—a flickering promise of warmth and safety.
My shoulders sagged with relief. I hadn't lit it, but I'd helped. No lightning. No blessings. Just grit.
Lines in the Dust
Across the field, other fires guttered to life—some bright, some feeble. Near the west torches, Surya and his silk‑sash entourage lounged around a bonfire twice the size of the rest. First‑years in plain cotton chopped wood for him under threat of a cane.
"Of course he's commandeered resources," Lakshmika said, lips thin.
Varun glanced up. "Let him flaunt his crest. The bigger the fire, the more creatures it attracts."
As if the night heard him, a howl echoed from the woods—long, throaty, too deep for a jackal. Fires faltered; students huddled closer.
Kratu‑Dhvaja's voice drifted from the banyan canopy, though I couldn't see her. "Lesson two: every light draws shadow. Guard what you build."
First Watch
We set a rotation—Varun first, Lakshmika second, me last. I tried to sleep, but wind‑sighs became claws in leaves. My wound throbbed. The spear I'd carved felt too light in my hand, Vajra too heavy in my mind.
Halfway through Lakshmika's watch, a muffled shout jerked me upright. Surya's bonfire flared, then sputtered. Shadows leapt and barked. Hounds—lean, black, eyes silver—circled the fire.
Lakshmika's bowstring twanged; Varun hefted his spear. Three beasts peeled away, sprinting toward our smaller flame.
Lightning memory flickered inside me again, but I forced it down. I couldn't rely on a blessing I didn't control.
Varun met the first hound, slamming his spear‑butt into its ribs. It yelped and veered. Lakshmika loosed two arrows—one grazed, the second buried in a flank.
The third lunged at me. I braced, thrusting the wooden spear. Wood bit flesh; the beast's jaws snapped at my forearm. Pain seared, blood welled.
I gritted my teeth and twisted the shaft, driving the point deeper. The hound yelped, lost strength, and slumped. My pulse thundered in my ears.
No divine spark. No lightning. Only reflex, and luck.
Lakshmika yelled, "Arya, you okay?"
"Arm's bleeding, not broken," I called back, binding the bite with cloth. Inside, shame warred with resolve. I had survived on my own strength this time. Just barely.
Aftermath
Kratu‑Dhvaja arrived by sunrise. Surya's bonfire was embers; his silk sash, torn. Yet he stood tall, glaring at me as if the night were my fault.
The guru's eyes swept the field. "Many of you learned fire attracts shadow. Some learned shadows fear unity." Her gaze lingered on our trio. "Remember: tools reveal character. Mastery is not in the weapon, but in the wielder's worth."
Surya looked away, cheeks hot. Varun nudged me. "See? Even she knows luck saved us."
Luck, or fate. Either way, it wasn't strength I could claim. Not yet. But I would.
Dawn's Promise
We rebuilt our fire smaller, steadier. Varun tightened my bandage; Lakshmika fed the flames. Stars faded into a blush of pink at the horizon.
Exhaustion tugged my limbs, but inside, resolve burned brighter than any torch. I couldn't let Vajra fight my battles. I had to become worthy of the thunder sleeping in its steel—and the storm coiled somewhere in my own unopened chakras.
As conch horns signaled the end of the trial, dawn painted the banyan leaves gold. We had survived. Tomorrow, the true lessons would begin.
This is only the beginning.