Dawn came without mercy.
The bells rang before the sun cleared the horizon—three sharp peals that echoed through stone and bone alike. Nandivana woke to discipline, not comfort.
Arjun was already on his feet.
He stood in the inner training yard, bare-handed, barefoot on cold stone. The air tasted of iron and dew. His breath fogged as he steadied it—slow, even—like Vedanth had taught him.
Blade paced a tight circle nearby, tail stiff.
"No breakfast," Blade muttered.
"This is cruel."
Arjun huffed quietly. "Tell me about it."
Krish arrived without ceremony.
No greeting.
No warning.
A wooden staff whistled toward Arjun's ribs.
Arjun twisted, barely avoiding the strike. The staff slammed into stone with a crack that echoed through the yard.
"Late reaction," Krish said flatly. "Again."
They moved.
Strike.
Dodge.
Fall.
Rise.
Krish did not pull his blows. He didn't need to. Every miss, every hesitation, was punished by exhaustion.
Arjun's muscles screamed. His lungs burned. Sweat soaked his tunic.
Still—he didn't reach for power.
Not yet.
"Why?" Krish barked after another exchange, knocking Arjun flat on his back. "Why are you holding back?"
Arjun rolled to his knees, breath ragged. "Because… power is loud."
Krish paused.
"Explain."
Arjun wiped blood from his lip. "When I use it, everyone reacts. Enemies. Allies. The cult feels it. I don't want to be a beacon anymore."
Silence stretched.
Then Krish nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Then you'll learn to fight when stripped of it."
He gestured sharply.
Two warriors stepped forward—experienced, scarred, armed.
Arjun's heart stuttered.
"No power," Krish said. "No Blade. No help."
Blade bristled.
"Unacceptable," he growled.
Krish glanced at the wolf. "You intervene, he starts over."
Blade froze—offended, but obedient.
Arjun rose slowly, shoulders squaring.
"Ready?" one warrior asked.
Arjun didn't answer.
They attacked together.
He lost track of time.
Stone scraped skin.
Arms trembled.
Vision blurred.
Arjun learned quickly—how to fall without breaking, how to roll with impact, how to read intention in the shift of a shoulder, the tightening of a grip.
He took hits.
He gave fewer.
When he finally staggered back, breathing hard, both warriors stood still—watching him with new eyes.
Krish stepped in.
"That rule you made yesterday," Krish said quietly. "Say it again."
Arjun swallowed. "I don't move alone."
"Louder."
"I DON'T MOVE ALONE," Arjun repeated, voice hoarse. "No private summons. No secrecy. No exceptions."
Krish nodded. "Good."
From the edge of the yard, Tara watched.
Her hands were clenched at her sides—not fear, not doubt.
Pride… mixed with something heavier.
The rule spread quickly.
By midday, servants whispered it. Guards enforced it. Even councilors frowned when they realized the Ashkiran would no longer walk unseen.
Some called it arrogance.
Others called it survival.
Rudra cornered Arjun near the armory, arms folded.
"You're changing the palace rhythm," Rudra said. "That makes enemies."
Arjun met his gaze. "It also makes traps harder."
Rudra snorted. "You think they'll stop trying?"
"No," Arjun said. "I think they'll try worse."
Rudra studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Then I'll adjust."
It wasn't a promise.
But it was close.
By evening, exhaustion weighed on Arjun like wet armor.
He sat by the river terrace, feet dangling over the stone edge, watching lanterns flicker to life across the city.
Blade curled beside him, chewing thoughtfully on a strip of dried meat.
"You hurt," Blade observed.
"Insightful," Arjun replied.
Blade's golden eyes flicked to him.
"You hurt more inside."
Arjun didn't deny it.
"This rule," he said quietly. "It keeps people safe. But it also… pushes them away."
Blade considered this.
"Distance hurts," he agreed.
"But holes hurt worse."
Arjun smiled faintly.
Footsteps approached—measured, familiar.
Tara stopped beside him, gaze on the river.
"They're unhappy," she said. "The council. The servants. Some of the priests."
Arjun nodded. "I figured."
"They think you don't trust them."
"I don't," he said honestly. Then softer, "Not yet."
Tara was silent for a moment.
"Your rule protects you," she said. "But it also protects me."
He glanced at her. "Is that a problem?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. But it means something."
He waited.
"It means," she continued, "that every time you refuse to move alone… you're choosing to carry others with you. Their risk. Their fear."
Arjun looked back at the water. "I'd rather carry that than watch someone get used because of me."
Tara's expression softened.
"That's why they're afraid," she said quietly. "And why they'll follow you anyway."
The words settled deep.
He turned toward her. "I don't want followers."
She met his gaze. "Too late."
Their eyes held—steady, unflinching.
The city murmured below them.
For a heartbeat, the distance between them felt smaller than ever.
Then Tara looked away first.
"Tomorrow," she said, "Vedanth will begin teaching you the Ashkiran histories. The parts that were erased."
Arjun's stomach tightened. "The parts the cult knows."
"Yes."
He nodded. "Then I should be ready."
Tara hesitated, then placed her hand briefly over his.
A grounding touch.
A promise without words.
"I'm glad you're here," she said softly.
Before he could answer, she stepped back.
Blade watched her go.
"You almost said it," he observed.
Arjun groaned. "Don't start."
That night, far beyond Nandivana's walls, a hooded figure knelt before a map etched in blood and ash.
"The rule is in place," the figure said. "He no longer walks alone."
A voice answered from the darkness—calm, amused.
"Good. Then we will not take him alone."
The map shifted.
Lines converged—on the river, on the road, on the people closest to him.
"Break the circle," the voice whispered.
"And the center will follow."
Arjun slept lightly, the rule echoing in his mind like a vow carved in stone.
No more secrets.
No more isolation.
If the world wanted him—
It would have to face him with witnesses.