"Some men are born to rule.
But once in an age… a man is born to free."
The wind screamed through the Sahyadris, dragging sheets of rain across the valley.
The thunder didn't fall from the sky tonight — it climbed from the earth.
Hooves. Drums. The sound of something waking.
A torch guttered at the mouth of Torna Fort.
Below it stood a boy no older than sixteen, barefoot in the mud, staring up at stone walls that looked as if they had grown from the mountain itself.
His hair clung to his forehead; his eyes were fire.
The soldiers behind him waited, shivering.
They whispered his name with more hope than certainty.
Shivaji.
"They called him a child.
They said kings are born in palaces.
But destiny… she has her own birthplace."
Inside the small temple of Bhavani Mata, the flame on the brass diya wavered under the storm's breath.
The boy stepped inside, water dripping from his armor onto the stone floor.
His mother, Jijabai, stood before the goddess.
Her sari was soaked, but her back was straight.
She had prayed here every night since the day her husband, Shahaji Raje, had ridden away to serve the Sultanate.
When she turned, her eyes met her son's — and for a moment, the storm outside vanished.
"Aai," Shivaji said softly, "they say this fort cannot be taken."
Jijabai smiled. "Then take it, and prove that a Maratha's courage cannot be measured by walls."
He bowed, touching her feet.
When he rose, the flame between them steadied — burning higher.
"History says kingdoms fall by the sword.
But this one began with a mother's prayer."
Shivaji walked to the altar.
The statue of Bhavani Mata gleamed gold in the candlelight — her eyes fierce, her hand raised in blessing.
He placed his sword on the floor before her.
"Mata," he whispered, "give me the strength to lift this blade for my people.
Not for conquest… but for Swarajya."
The wind outside howled as if the mountain itself had heard him.
The old retainer Dadoji Konddeo entered quietly.
He had trained Shivaji since the boy could hold a wooden sword.
"Raje," Dadoji said, voice rough from years of shouting orders, "fifty men stand ready.
Fifty against the Sultan's hundred inside the fort.
You still wish to attack before dawn?"
Shivaji looked back once more at the idol.
"The longer we wait, the heavier the chains grow."
Dadoji studied him for a moment, then laughed softly.
"You have your father's fire… and your mother's will.
Very well. I'll light the signal."
The temple bells began to ring.
Somewhere across the valley, another bell answered.
Fifty shadows moved through the rain — Maratha soldiers, barefoot to silence their steps, their swords wrapped in cloth.
Lightning carved the mountain into silver for a heartbeat —
and then the storm swallowed them whole.
"They say gods choose their warriors.
That night, a boy chose himself."
But before the lion roared, he was just a child in a world ruled by fear.
To understand the fire that burned in Shivaji's eyes that night… we must return to where it all began.
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