Thunder rolled across the skies of Indhravam like the warning growl of a lion in chains. The palace lights flickered. Monsoon winds whipped through the stone corridors, hissing through carved arches as if the very gods sought to curse the house of Barath.
Inside the inner sanctum of the palace, Maharaja Dharmadeva stood over a cradle. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone and sorrow. In the cradle lay a child—his second son. The prince had been born under the eclipse of Shani, the god of judgment and suffering.
The midwives had whispered. The priests had crossed themselves. Even the queen had wept when the stars were read. But Dharmadeva did not flinch.
He had seen the omens. He had heard the warnings.
And yet, as he looked upon the child's face—silent, wide-eyed, watching the world as if he already knew it—he felt no fear.
He felt only resolve.
"Your name will not be known," the king whispered. "Not until the world is ready."
The chamber door opened without sound, and a figure stepped in, soaked in rain, wrapped in a dark cloak.
"Senapati Varundhara," the king said, not turning. "Come forward."
Varundhara, grizzled and scarred, bowed low. "I have made the preparations. The path north is clear. No one knows."
The king gently picked up the child. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from finality.
"He must go tonight," Dharmadeva said. "Before the ministers learn."
Varundhara glanced at the queen, still sleeping from the herbs given by the vaidya. She would awaken to an empty cradle and a lie crafted for her pain.
"She will hate me," the king murmured.
"She will forgive you," Varundhara replied, "if the boy survives."
Dharmadeva looked into the child's dark eyes. "He is more than just a son. I feel it. The crown will need him one day. Barath will need him."
"And until then?" Varundhara asked.
The king turned. "He must be forged. Not in luxury. Not in politics. In fire. In silence. In truth."
Varundhara took the child, wrapped him in linen and thick wool. The copper amulet was placed around the baby's neck, engraved with only one word: Veerbhadra.
Dharmadeva bent and kissed the child's forehead.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
Outside the palace, the rain had turned to knives.
Varundhara rode alone through the back gate, his steed black and fast. No guards accompanied him—only the storm. He kept the child pressed against his chest, his sword strapped to his side.
But danger already stirred in the shadows.
The court had long been poisoned with spies—Minister Karkoti, in particular, had grown suspicious after the queen's sudden silence and the king's midnight consultations with the Rajguru. He had sent a tail. And that tail had seen the Senapati ride out with something hidden in cloth.
By the time Varundhara reached the edge of Mahavan Forest, the first arrow flew.
It missed.
The second one didn't.
Varundhara growled, not from pain, but fury. He kicked his horse harder, weaving through the dense woods. Behind him, six riders gave chase, dressed in black, masked, blades drawn. Assassins.
The baby cried for the first time, a sharp wail cutting through wind and thunder.
"Quiet now," Varundhara whispered, blood running down his side. "You will live. I swear it."
He dismounted near a stream, heart pounding, vision blurred.
There was no way forward. They were too close.
He looked to the east, to the rising peaks of the northern range. Acharya Rudranath was still two days' ride away. He would not make it.
Unless…
Varundhara found a hollow beneath an ancient neem tree. He unwrapped the boy, whispered a chant over him, and placed him inside, shielded by branches and leaves.
He kissed the child's forehead.
"Live," he said. "Grow strong. Return."
And then he turned, sword drawn, and faced the coming death.
The fight did not last long. But it was enough.
The rain buried his blood. The trees remembered his name.
When dawn came, a man in saffron robes arrived—tall, lean, with eyes that saw beyond flesh and bone. He knelt at the neem tree and uncovered the boy.
He did not speak.
He simply took the child into his arms, turned, and disappeared into the mountains.
Back in Indhravam, Dharmadeva stood in his private temple, lighting a single diya.
A messenger entered—shaking, soaked.
"Senapati Varundhara…" he choked, "...is dead."
The king did not flinch. He only stared at the flame.
"Then he has kept his promise."
Outside the palace, the ministers celebrated a quiet morning. They did not know that the heir to their undoing now lived beyond their reach.
Barath slept on, unaware that its reckoning had already begun to grow.
In the cradle of mountains and silence, the storm began its training.