The air in the camp was thick with the scent of smoke and anticipation. Veer stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking the valley below, the wind tugging at his robes, carrying with it the distant sound of drums from the enemy's encampment. The night sky was restless — clouds churning like a cauldron, illuminated by flickers of lightning. It was as if the heavens themselves knew that blood would be spilled before dawn.
The Nine-Tribe Alliance had been forged with sweat, iron, and trust, but this was its first true test against an enemy that didn't simply want land… they wanted to crush the spirit of the people, erase their way of life, and burn every banner that bore the alliance's mark.
Behind Veer, the war council waited silently. Some stood firm, their expressions carved from stone, while others glanced nervously at the horizon. Old Bhairav, the war veteran who had trained Veer's cavalry, spat on the ground and muttered, "They've chosen a bad night to fight us… the storm will favor the fearless."
Veer turned to them, his eyes catching the torchlight. "Fearless or not, we do not wait for storms to decide our fate. We are the storm."
There was no grand speech tonight, no drawn-out words. His warriors didn't need convincing — they had marched with him, bled for him, and seen him take down foes twice his size without flinching. All they needed now was his presence, and it was enough.
As the storm clouds thickened, Veer walked among the soldiers, touching their shoulders, locking eyes with them. A boy barely eighteen gripped his spear so hard his knuckles turned white. Veer stopped before him, placing a hand on the young warrior's shoulder.
"What is your name?" Veer asked.
"Ratan, my lord."
"Do you fear death, Ratan?"
The boy swallowed. "Only if it comes before I prove myself worthy."
Veer's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Then tonight, fight not for worth, but for life — yours and your brothers'. That is the greatest proof of all."
Ratan's grip loosened, and he nodded with a new steadiness. Veer moved on, the sound of rain beginning to patter against the shields.
By midnight, the storm had fully descended. Rain poured like a river from the sky, drumming against metal and leather, making every torch hiss and flicker. The enemy, camped in the valley, seemed almost oblivious to the fury above. Their watchfires still burned, and their banners, marked with the serpent crest, flapped wetly in the wind.
Veer stood at the head of his army, his armor glistening with rain, his sword — the blade gifted to him by the high priest of the Shiva temple — resting against his shoulder.
"Archers!" Veer's voice cut through the roar of the storm. "Light arrows!"
Despite the rain, the soldiers moved with precision. Oil-soaked cloths were wrapped around arrowheads and sparked to life under the cover of shields. In seconds, the night was streaked with lines of fire as hundreds of arrows arched downward into the enemy camp.
Chaos erupted below. Tents caught fire despite the rain, the sudden blaze casting wild shadows that danced across the valley floor. Enemy soldiers scrambled awake, tripping over ropes, shouting commands that were lost in the thunder.
"Now!" Veer roared, and the war horns bellowed.
The alliance forces surged forward, thundering down the hillside like an unstoppable flood. The ground shook under the weight of charging hooves and boots. Veer rode at the front, his warhorse snorting steam, its hooves sending up sprays of mud and water.
The first clash was brutal. Spears splintered against shields, blades rang out in the dark, and the rain turned the battlefield into a river of mud and blood. Veer's sword moved like lightning, striking with precision, cutting down any enemy foolish enough to face him head-on.
He fought not as a distant commander, but as one of them — a warrior shoulder to shoulder with his men. Every strike of his blade was met with the roar of his soldiers, who drew strength from the sight of their leader fighting in the thickest part of the storm.
But the enemy was not without cunning. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his jaw to his temple, appeared from the chaos, cutting a path toward Veer. His weapon — a double-bladed axe — glinted even in the darkness.
"I have heard of you, boy-king!" the man bellowed over the storm. "They say you fight like a god. Tonight, I will see if gods bleed!"
Veer didn't waste words. Their blades met with a crash that rang above the thunder, sparks flying as steel bit steel. The enemy commander's strength was immense, each swing of the axe powerful enough to split a man in two. But Veer was faster, moving with the precision of a dancer, parrying and sidestepping each deadly strike.
The fight was savage, the mud sucking at their boots, rain blinding their eyes, but Veer's focus never wavered. The moment the commander overextended, swinging wide, Veer stepped in, driving his sword into the gap between armor plates.
The man gasped, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing to his knees. Veer wrenched the blade free, the rain instantly washing it clean.
The sight of their leader falling sent a ripple of fear through the enemy ranks. The alliance warriors seized the moment, pressing forward with renewed fury. Soon, the serpent banners were trampled into the mud, and the enemy's resistance crumbled entirely.
By dawn, the battlefield was silent except for the hiss of the dying rain. Smoke curled upward from the remains of the enemy camp, mingling with the mist that rolled through the valley.
Veer stood among his warriors, blood streaked across his armor, his breath visible in the chill morning air. The storm had passed, but in its place was a deeper, heavier silence — the silence of victory bought at a great cost.
He looked around at his men, some injured, some kneeling beside fallen brothers. His heart tightened, but he raised his voice so all could hear:
"Remember them," Veer said. "Every name, every face. We carry their courage forward, so their sacrifice was not in vain."
The army bowed their heads, the rain finally easing into a soft drizzle.
That night, as the fires of the victory feast burned, Veer sat apart for a moment, gazing into the distance. The storm had been fierce, but it was only the first of many to come. For in the far hills, scouts reported, another army was gathering — larger, better armed, and far more dangerous.
The call of the storm had been answered once. Soon, it would call again.
And Veer would be ready.