The soft hum of morning wind drifted through the tall forest trees, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wild jasmine. Shafts of sunlight slipped through the canopy, spilling golden light across the small stone courtyard where the four young princes had trained for the past year.
Their training was now complete — twelve months of discipline, hardship, and growth. They had learned the art of war, the weight of command, and the laws that shaped kingdoms. Today marked the end of that chapter.
Prince Vivaan, now eleven, stood tall and calm — his bearing already noble, his eyes filled with quiet purpose. His three younger brothers — Reyansh, Arish, and Vihaan, each ten years old — moved about the dormitory, their voices full of laughter and excitement as they packed their few belongings.
Trunks creaked, clothes rustled, and the sound of steel sliding into scabbards echoed like a farewell song to the year that had shaped them. The air buzzed with joy, but beneath it was the melancholy weight of departure — a forest that had watched them grow now preparing to let them go.
Arish and Reyansh laughed loudly near their cots, playfully teasing each other as they folded their tunics. But in the corner, Vihaan stood apart — small hands clutching a folded cloth, his wide, innocent eyes brimming with tears. The faint shimmer on his cheeks betrayed him. His silence said what his lips could not — his brothers' teasing had hurt him.
Just then, the door creaked open. Their teacher, a man of calm authority and deep wisdom, stepped inside. The laughter died instantly. The boys froze, eyes turning toward him. Arish and Reyansh straightened up, their playfulness vanishing into guilty stiffness.
The teacher's gaze swept the room and settled on Vihaan. "What happened here?" he asked quietly, his voice steady but carrying the sharp edge of command.
Vihaan said nothing. His lips trembled slightly, but no words came. He only lowered his eyes, the tears on his lashes glistening in the golden morning light. The teacher read the truth without a single word spoken.
He smiled faintly, that knowing smile only a teacher who has raised boys to men could wear. After a year of guiding them through pain and pride, he understood them deeply. He knew the bond between the brothers — especially how much the three younger ones adored Vivaan, their eldest.
With a soft breath, he said, "This is your last day in this forest. Tomorrow, you will return to your palace. But before you go, let me give you my final counsel."
"We are listening, Teacher," said the three younger princes together, their voices respectful and eager.
The teacher's smile deepened as he turned toward Arish first. "Arish," he said gently, "I know your heart. You are brave — fearless even. But bravery without balance can turn to recklessness. You act on emotion too quickly, and that is dangerous. In war, emotion is the enemy's easiest weapon. Remember — true strength is not in attacking, but in waiting for the right moment."
Arish immediately fell to one knee, his hand pressed over his heart. His voice was low but firm. "I accept your wisdom, Teacher."
Then the teacher turned toward Reyansh, whose stance was already straight as a warrior's. His eyes were sharp, fierce, and proud. The teacher's gaze softened with both pride and caution.
"Reyansh," he said, "you are a fighter born. Even at ten, you have strength that would humble grown men. But you must guard your temper. I have seen how quickly your fury rises when someone speaks ill of Vivaan. The enemy will see that too — and they will use it to make you strike blindly. Remember: a sword drawn in anger cuts deeper than intended. Control your fire, or it will consume what you love most."
Reyansh bowed low, his expression solemn. "Yes, Teacher," he said, voice steady. "I will remember. My sword shall only fight for what is right — and for my brother."
Finally, the teacher's eyes found Vihaan, who was still quiet but now lifted his gaze shyly to meet his master's.
"Vihaan," the teacher said, voice warm, "I can give you only one piece of advice. You are pure — too pure for the world of crowns and blades. Your heart is gentle, your soul untouched by cruelty. I have seen how Vivaan protects that innocence — he guards you as though you were a rare jewel. Keep that purity within you, no matter what the world demands. You are the reason your brother smiles the way he does — never lose that gift."
Vihaan nodded tearfully and knelt, placing his hand over his chest. "I will, Teacher."
The teacher's gaze wandered the room once more. "Where is your elder brother?" he asked.
Reyansh straightened. "Where else would he be?" he said with a small grin. "He's with Rupi."
The teacher nodded knowingly and turned to leave.
Outside, the forest was alive — sunlight filtering through green leaves, birds calling from the canopy, the scent of rain lingering in the air. The teacher followed the narrow path that led to the animal pen, where his old cow, Rupi, lived.
There, seated on a low wooden stool beside the pen, was Prince Vivaan. He wore his royal garments today — deep blue trimmed in silver, the mark of his lineage — but his focus was not on his appearance. He was gently holding out a handful of feed, trying to coax the brown cow to eat.
"Come now, Rupi," he said softly, smiling. "Eat. See? I'm feeding you one last time before I go. Tomorrow, someone else will take care of you. You must eat for them too."
The cow turned her large eyes toward him and let out a soft, low moo, as if refusing. Vivaan laughed lightly. "No, don't look at me like that. You must eat, Rupi. Look — if you don't, I'll leave."
When Rupi still refused, Vivaan sighed and gently rested his hand on her head, his young voice full of tenderness far beyond his years. "Rupi… everyone who comes into this world must one day leave. That is nature's rule. I have finished my duty here — my mission, my training. I must go now. So you must eat well and live happily, do you understand?"
He gave her a final affectionate pat and turned to leave. But just as he stepped away, a sudden roar thundered through the forest — deep, wild, and shattering. The birds scattered in fright.
Vivaan froze. His heart clenched. That was no ordinary sound — it was a tiger's roar, fierce and close.
Without a thought, he ran back toward the pen. But Rupi was gone.
Fear and resolve struck him at once. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. The forest floor was marked with heavy pawprints leading away from the pen — deep impressions in the wet soil. He followed them swiftly, every heartbeat loud in his chest.
The trail led to a cave. The air around it smelled of musk, blood, and damp stone. Vivaan stopped at the mouth, tightening his grip on his sword.
"Return Rupi!" he called out, his young voice echoing against the rock walls.
From the shadowed darkness, the tiger emerged — massive, golden, and terrible, eyes gleaming like molten amber. It roared again, the sound shaking leaves from nearby trees. Vivaan stood his ground, sword raised.
"Return Rupi," he said again, more firmly this time. "She is my responsibility. If you do not, I will have no choice but to fight you — though I do not wish to."
The tiger's gaze locked with his. Then, to Vivaan's astonishment, it spoke — its voice deep and resonant, like thunder rumbling in a mountain's heart.
"This cow is my food," the tiger growled. "I am starving. How is it right that you snatch my meal from me?"
Vivaan's grip loosened for a moment in shock, but then he straightened. "You are right," he said softly. "You are hungry, and she is your prey. But she is under my care — my responsibility. I cannot abandon her."
The tiger's voice trembled with hunger and anger. "But I will die if I do not eat."
Vivaan looked at him for a long moment, thinking deeply. Then he said, calm and certain, "Then take me instead. Release Rupi and eat me. You will live, and my duty will still be fulfilled."
The tiger stared at him in disbelief. "You are mad, little prince. No one would know. The world will only see that a tiger took a cow. You could walk away, and no one would blame you."
"Exactly," Vivaan said, his voice steady. "No one will know. But I will know. And I cannot abandon what I was meant to protect. Take me — it will be called an accident, and no one will blame you."
The tiger's golden eyes narrowed. Then it roared once more — a sound of respect, not anger. "As you wish, Prince."
Vivaan closed his eyes and laid his sword on the ground. He stood still, shoulders straight, accepting his fate with the calmness of a true warrior.
The tiger crouched, muscles rippling — then suddenly, it leapt forward.
Vivaan flinched, but the strike never came. When he opened his eyes, the tiger was gone.
Standing before him instead was his teacher, smiling proudly, eyes glistening with pride.
"This was my test, Vivaan," he said gently. "And you have passed it with excellence. You have not only made me proud — you have made me grateful to be your teacher. If you can give your life for a simple creature in your care, what would you do for your people when you become king?"
Vivaan smiled, heart still pounding but face serene. "It was my responsibility," he said quietly. "And to save my own life, I could never abandon my duty."
The teacher nodded, eyes soft with admiration. "Then you are ready, my prince."
The forest was silent again — peaceful, golden. Rupi emerged from behind the trees, unharmed, as sunlight broke through the clouds.
The teacher placed a hand on Vivaan's head in blessing. The air smelled of earth and rain, and somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of a tiger's roar faded into silence — a promise that the forest itself had recognized a boy who would one day become a king.