The day after the Rishi's departure did not begin with mourning.
Vyomtara Manor woke as it always had—quiet corridors, measured footsteps, servants moving with practiced ease. The house did not slow for grief. It did not rush either.
Routine held.
For the triplets, that was the hardest part.
They gathered in the eastern study just after sunrise, freshly bathed, dressed in simple noble attire rather than training clothes. The fabric felt strange against skin that had grown used to wind and stone.
Aditya tugged at his sleeve once, then stopped himself.
Sasi folded his hands neatly in his lap, posture straight but eyes distant.
Aryan sat still, too still, as though listening for footsteps that would never come down that corridor again.
Sarvani entered without sound.
Their grandmother did not announce herself. She never had.
She wore pale robes trimmed with silver thread, hair bound neatly at her back, eyes sharp and warm in equal measure. She carried no book, no staff—only presence.
She looked at them for a long moment.
Not unkindly.
Not gently either.
"You are home," she said at last. "And so, you will return to noble studies."
Aditya's shoulders stiffened.
Sasi inclined his head. "Yes, Grandmother."
Aryan nodded once.
Sarvani seated herself across from them, folding her hands on the polished table.
"Listen carefully," she said. "What you learned on the mountain was necessary. What you will learn now is unavoidable."
She let the words settle.
"You will return to noble studies," she repeated."Discipline. Observation."Her gaze sharpened."You will not train as you did on the mountain."
Aditya's mouth opened.
Closed.
He exhaled through his nose and nodded. "Understood."
Sarvani noticed the restraint—and approved.
"You are five years and nine months old," she continued. "That is too young to be warriors. Too young to be ascetics. But it is the correct age to become aware."
She rose and moved slowly around them.
"Noble children are watched long before they are judged," she said. "Every gesture speaks. Every silence is heard. You will learn how to exist without announcing yourselves."
She stopped behind Sasi.
"You will learn posture."
Behind Aditya.
"You will learn restraint."
Behind Aryan.
"You will learn when not to act."
She returned to her seat.
"Today," Sarvani said, "we begin with etiquette."
Aditya sighed before he could stop himself.
Sarvani looked at him.
He straightened instantly. "Apologies."
"Good," she said calmly. "That was lesson one."
The morning passed slowly.
Painfully.
They learned how to sit without fidgeting. How to rise without haste. How to bow—not deeply, not lazily, but correctly, adjusted by rank, age, and context.
Sarvani corrected without raising her voice.
"Again."
"No."
"Slower."
"Too much."
"That is confidence. Not arrogance. Learn the difference."
Aditya struggled the most.
Not because he didn't understand—but because his body wanted motion. Stillness felt heavier than stone had ever been.
Sasi adapted quickly, absorbing rules like structure, categorizing them instinctively.
Aryan surprised Sarvani.
He did not ask questions.
He watched.
When shown how to pour tea, he adjusted the angle without being told. When instructed how to walk beside elders, he matched pace precisely, half a step behind, eyes lowered—not submissive, simply correct.
Sarvani noticed.
She always did.
By midday, their legs ached—not from exertion, but from restraint.
Aditya shifted once.
Sarvani tapped the table lightly.
He froze.
"Your body remembers discipline," she said. "Now teach it patience."
Lunch was silent.
Not as punishment.
As practice.
They learned how to eat without rushing, how to pause between bites, how to acknowledge servants with a nod that carried respect rather than dismissal.
Afterward, Sarvani dismissed the servants and stood by the tall windows overlooking the inner courtyard.
"Observation," she said, without turning. "Tell me what you see."
Aditya frowned. "The fountain?"
"No."
Sasi tried. "The guards' positions?"
"Surface."
Aryan spoke softly. "The left guard shifts weight every seven breaths. The right one doesn't. One is tired. One is trained."
Sarvani smiled faintly.
"Good."
She turned. "Power announces itself. Nobility conceals."
She gestured toward the courtyard. "You will spend the afternoon watching. No speaking. No signaling. Simply… noticing."
They obeyed.
Hours passed.
Aditya learned how loud impatience could be. How it leaked into posture, breath, gaze.
Sasi learned how often people revealed intention before action.
Aryan learned something quieter—that the manor had a rhythm, and once you felt it, moving against it felt wrong.
As the sun lowered, Sarvani called them back.
"You did well," she said. "Not excellently. Well."
She placed a hand briefly on each of their shoulders.
"This is not lesser training," she said. "It is slower. And that is why it matters."
Aditya nodded, tired in a way the mountain had never caused.
Sasi felt something settle—structure, forming beneath instinct.
Aryan understood.
This was another foundation.
That night, as they prepared for sleep, Aditya whispered, "Do you think Guru would approve?"
Sasi answered quietly. "He would expect it."
Aryan stared at the ceiling. "He taught us how to stand. She's teaching us where."
Outside, Vyomtara Manor rested under the stars.
The mountain was far away.
But discipline remained.
And the next path—quiet, noble, unavoidable—had begun.