Ashvik, her father—once a commander of armies, now a man weighed by loss—found himself smiling again. Not the cold, distant smirk of duty, but a soft, quiet smile that reached his tired eyes. He would often be seen near the cradle, his hands surprisingly tender as he rocked her to sleep.
Though his body still bore the scars of battle—both seen and buried—his spirit had begun to rise again, like embers reigniting after a storm. Each dawn, he could be found beneath the banyan tree outside their home, moving through magical drills. Gone were the days of long, elaborate spells meant for the battlefield. His body could no longer endure the strain of grandeur. Instead, he practiced short-cast spells—focused, rapid incantations that demanded perfect control.
And in that silence, he found power again.
Shaurya watched every move.
He absorbed each lesson—not with questions, but with eyes wide and silent.
But it wasn't just his father shaping him.
It was Bhairava Nanda—the village head, and the one Devkahar whispered of with reverence.
Bhairava was a man carved from stone. His gaze was quiet, unreadable, and his movements—when he did move—were like the final note of a war drum. No one knew his past, though rumors whispered that he had once been a royal guard, a shadow that protected kings. His sword, which rarely left its sheath, sang when it did—sharp, swift, and unerring. He is known for his swordsmanship skills. And noone dares to him in sword fight in whole village.
One morning, without fanfare or permission, Bhairava handed Shaurya a wooden sword.
"Strength doesn't come from rage," he said simply. "It comes from knowing when not to swing."
And with that, Shaurya's real training began.
Each morning, long before the sun touched the fields, Shaurya stood at the training ground. Bhairava made no room for laziness. There were no praises, no coddling. Every stance had to be perfect. Every strike carried intention. If he failed, he repeated it. Again. And again.
His palms blistered. His feet ached. His body, once soft from play, hardened with time. And with every correction, every disciplined movement, something within him sharpened.
But while Bhairava shaped his body like a blade, someone else taught him to wield magic like a poem.
Naren.
Unlike Bhairava's precision and Ashvik's power, Naren was all flow. His magic moved like wind over water—graceful, unpredictable, and impossible to trap. Each evening, they met near the riverbank. There, under the shade of trees, Naren showed him the art of casting: not just how to chant a spell, but how to feel it, shape it, bend it to one's rhythm. He taught him to move while casting, to keep mana flowing even in motion. To blend spells like strokes in a painting.
Under moonlight, their magic danced.
And Shaurya, though often bruised and bone-tired, never stopped returning.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into seasons. A full year passed.
And by then, Devkahar began to notice.
The children who once tugged him into games now watched him from the sidelines. He no longer struggled to keep up with Naren—he kept pace. His sword strikes, once sloppy and slow, now mirrored Bhairava's in precision. Ashvik, too, began to pause longer during their sparring sessions—his eyes narrowing in surprise.
Shaurya had grown.
Not just in strength or skill, but in silence. In stillness. In knowing when to act—and when to hold.
And though the sky remained calm above the village, the air had shifted.
A storm loomed on the horizon.
It would come—sooner than anyone knew.
But when it did, Shaurya Malhan would not be the same boy. He was being shaped slowly....