The fires crackled. Smoke rose into the black sky, carrying with it the scent of roasted rice, ground spices, and the lingering sting of ash from a battlefield too fresh to forget.
But tonight, the village of Thenur was alive.
Children ran between the huts, giggling as they waved sticks like swords. The men had washed their wounds and wore garlands of neem and turmeric leaves, a healer's blessing. Women stirred pots, passed around coconut rice, and forced food into hands that were still shaking from the morning's war.
The villagers gathered in a ring, seated on coir mats, leaf plates in front of them. Torches burned in clay holders driven into the ground, lighting up tired but smiling faces.
Sinna Perumal, the retired guard, leaned on his cane with one hand and a banana leaf full of food in the other.
Sinna (grinning):
"Not bad for a bunch of rice farmers, eh? I haven't seen a formation hold like that since the siege at Marudhan Fort!"
Maari (snorting):
"Yeah, and back then, you were on lookout duty—passed out drunk on top of the watchtower!"
Laughter erupted.
Sinna (mock offended):
"That was one time! And I wasn't drunk—I was meditating. Horizontally."
A young boy:
"My Dad said Vaerin stabbed a man straight through the ribs without blinking!"
Another:
"My Sister said he stood there while arrows flew past like wind, just stared at them like they were flies!"
Vaerin, sitting off to the side, chewing slowly, looked up. He didn't say anything. Just gave the smallest shake of his head.
Vaerin (quietly):
"They're exaggerating. We were all afraid."
A warm hand touched his shoulder.
His mother, Thevani, crouched beside him, carrying a fresh cloth dipped in herbal water.
Thevani (softly):
"Show me your hands."
He hesitated but obeyed. They were scraped, raw, and still trembling slightly.
She dabbed them with care.
Thevani:
"You used to come to me with bruised knees. Said the banyan roots tripped you.
Now you're coming home with blood that's not yours."
Vaerin lowered his head.
Vaerin:
"I didn't want this."
Thevani (smiling, with sadness):
"No one who deserves it ever does."
She rinsed the cloth and wiped his face gently, brushing away the sweat and blood streaks.
Thevani:
"Did you know, when you were a boy, you'd sit by the fire and ask why the stars never fell?
Now here you are, holding up the sky for others."
Vaerin (quietly):
"I just didn't want to run."
She tilted his chin up, looking into his eyes.
Thevani:
"You didn't. And now they won't either.
But, Vaerin... don't forget to rest. Even fire needs to breathe."
He smiled faintly. Her presence made the weight on his shoulders just a little lighter.
Across the fire, Kali stood, arms folded, speaking to no one. His eyes locked on his son—but made no move to approach.
Vaerin saw him. Met his eyes.
But looked away.
Thevani (noticing):
"He wants to speak. He just doesn't know how to. "
Vaerin didn't reply.
The celebration had quieted. The fire in the square burned low, casting long shadows across the earth. Plates lay empty, laughter had faded into murmurs, and children dozed against their mothers' shoulders.
Inside the small house near the village edge, Vaerin lay on his woven cot, arms behind his head, staring at the wooden ceiling. The faint hum of cicadas filled the silence, and somewhere outside, a dog barked twice before going quiet.
He hadn't changed out of his battle-stained tunic. The scratches on his arms itched, but he didn't move. His mind raced—faces from the battlefield, the weight of the spear in his hands, the way Kaviyan and Kani had fallen.
He blinked once. His eyes burned.
The door creaked.
Heavy steps. Familiar.
Kali stood at the threshold, his silhouette framed by the amber light of a dying lantern outside. He didn't speak at first—just stood there, looking at his son.
Vaerin didn't turn.
Kali:
"Couldn't sleep either?"
Vaerin's voice came out hoarse.
Vaerin:
"Didn't try."
Kali walked in slowly, the wooden floor groaning under his weight. He sat down at the edge of the cot, his body stiff as if unsure how to sit in his own home.
There was a long pause.
Kali (quietly):
"I buried my father when I was eighteen.
He was strong. Angry. Thought fear was a weakness.
I remember standing over his pyre and thinking…
'Maybe now I can breathe.'"
Vaerin turned his head slightly.
Kali:
"I became him within a year."
Silence again. Only the sound of the wind brushing dry leaves outside.
Kali (softening):
"You remind me of him. Too much sometimes.
And today… I saw you standing there.
Commanding. Bleeding. Holding that damn village together by sheer will—"
His voice caught.
He looked away.
Kali:
"And I didn't know whether to feel proud... or ashamed.
Because I never taught you how to do that. And you still did."
Vaerin turned to face him fully now. His voice quiet.
Vaerin:
"You taught me how to stand."
Kali looked at him then. The lines in his face were deeper tonight—etched by regret, not time.
Kali (choked):
"I sent you to warn the captain. You came back leading an army.
I told them to run.
You stood.
And because you did… they lived."
He reached out, slowly, awkwardly—then placed his calloused hand on Vaerin's chest, right over his heart.
Kali:
"You've always had something in here, boy.
And now the whole damn land's going to see it."
Vaerin swallowed the lump in his throat.
Vaerin (soft):
"Did you really think I couldn't do it?"
Kali (after a beat):
"No. I was afraid you would.
And that one day, it'd cost you more than your blood."
He stood up, looking older than he had all day.
Kali (quietly):
"I'll never ask you to stop.
Just… don't forget who you are when they start calling you something else."
He walked toward the door. Then paused.
Kali (without turning):
"Good night… Leader…"
Then he was gone.
Vaerin lay back.
He didn't cry.
But his eyes stayed open till the sky began to bleed blue.
The morning air still carried the chill of night.
Mist curled between the huts of Thenur, brushing the rooftops like ghostly fingers. A rooster crowed once, lazily. Somewhere behind the hills, the sun was just beginning to rise, spreading light across the village that had seen fire only a day before.
At the old watchtower near the fort, a pigeon circled once, then dipped sharply, wings slicing the air. It landed with precision on the stone perch, talons clicking softly.
Captain Velan, already up and sharpening his blade, looked up at the sound. He stood slowly, wiped his hands, and walked over.
He untied the scroll bound to the bird's leg, broke the wax seal, and read silently.
His brow furrowed… then lifted.
A slow smile crept onto his face—half relief, half satisfaction.
By mid-morning, the village had gathered again. This time, not in fear or celebration, but in curiosity.
Vaerin stood among them, arms crossed, next to his mother. Kali was near the back, arms folded tight, unreadable.
Velan stood atop the steps near the fort gate, holding the letter high.
Velan:
"This… is from the Chola Strategic Command Office in Vaikraal."
He paused, then looked directly at Vaerin.
Velan (reading):
"To Captain Velan of the Southern Frontier.
We have received your report detailing the events at Thenur and the defensive tactics deployed under the direction of one Vaerin, son of Kali."
He looked back up, voice firm.
Velan:
"The council expresses its acknowledgment of this account.
They offer no parade. No medals.
But they've granted a position."
A ripple of gasps moved through the crowd.
Velan (to Vaerin, louder):
"They want you at the Academy of Strategic Warfare. Five-year term. Starting immediately."
Thevani's hand flew to her mouth. Kali's head slowly turned toward Velan.
Vaerin (quietly):
"They want me… to study strategy?"
Velan (with a grin):
"Something like that."
[Later – By the Fort, Alone]
Vaerin met Velan outside the fort walls, beneath the shade of a neem tree. No crowd now. Just truth.
Vaerin (flatly):
"They want a strategist?"
Velan (smirking):
"I might've… stretched the truth in that letter."
Vaerin:
"What did you ask for?"
Velan:
"Not a strategist.
A soldier.
One who learns fast, thinks faster, and doesn't break under pressure."
Vaerin:
"My father would never have allowed that."
Velan (lowering his voice):
"He doesn't know.
Neither does your mother.
And if you want this to work, they can't."
Vaerin stepped back, uncertain.
Velan (serious now):
"The Council doesn't train field commanders from villages.
They train sons of generals.
But I made a request.
One slot. Quiet. Unmarked.
I told them: if they want a real tactician, not some soft noble, give the seat to the boy who defended Thenur."
He handed Vaerin a folded scroll.
Velan:
"This gets you into the capital without questions.
No trumpets. No ceremony.
Just training. Brutal, endless training."
A beat.
Velan (grinning):
"Five years. You'll come back unrecognizable.
Stronger. Smarter. Dangerous."
Vaerin (quietly):
"And if I don't?"
Velan (with a wink):
"Then I never sent you."
That afternoon, Vaerin climbed onto a horse—a chestnut mare with leather saddlebags and a fresh coat. A farewell gift from Velan.
His mother wept quietly into her shawl. His father didn't speak.
But as Vaerin rode past, Kali placed a hand on the horse's flank and whispered something only the wind could hear.
Vaerin didn't look back.
Ahead was the road. The capital. The unknown.
And with every hoofbeat, the boy from Thenur left behind what was…
To become what must be.
The capital rose like a storm on the horizon.
Vaikraal—the heart of the Chola dynasty—was nothing like Thenur. The walls alone stretched higher than trees, built from black stone and gold-veined granite. Banners fluttered from high towers, stitched with the Chola lion and the symbols of war and wisdom: the spear and the scroll.
As Vaerin passed through the gate on horseback, he slowed.
There were no farmers here. No jackals, no muddy fields, no riverbanks where frogs sang. This was a city carved by command—a place of rules, order, and ambition.
He rode through Spice markets with hawkers shouting in three tongues, Scribes walking in rows, faces buried in parchment., Soldiers in crimson armor, moving like flowing iron And high on the eastern ridge stood the Academy of Strategic Warfare.
A fortress within a fortress.
Built from obsidian stone and brushed bronze, its towers cast long shadows over its perfectly square courtyard. Statues lined the perimeter—generals, tacticians, even one cloaked figure Vaerin didn't recognize. All had weapons in one hand, and scrolls in the other.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a red-and-black robe waited at the entrance. Bald, with ink stains on his fingers and a permanent scowl.
Coach Soman.
Soman (eyeing him up and down):
"You're Vaerin. Son of Kali. Boy general of Thenur."
Vaerin (tired):
"Just Vaerin is fine."
Soman (grunting):
"We'll see how fine you are in a week. Come."
He led Vaerin through the stone corridors, past training yards, barracks, sparring rings, and a tall bell tower carved with battle quotes from Chola history.
They stopped at a plain stone room. A cot, a wooden trunk, a wash basin. No luxury. No softness.
Soman:
"Wake up: four before sunrise. Training until the evening bell.
After that—your time is your own. Eat, read, bleed, sleep. Your choice."
He handed Vaerin a scroll.
Soman:
"Schedule. Map. Rules. And advice—don't make friends. You'll be competing against them for everything."
The hall was loud, filled with the clatter of metal plates and boots. Cadets sat in clusters, all in matching grey tunics with red armbands.
Vaerin found a corner seat, grabbing a plate of tamarind rice and curd. He had barely lifted his spoon when it began.
Three boys stepped forward, each older, heavier, with that smugness only academy veterans wore.
Cadet 1 (mocking):
"So this is the hero of Thenur.
Thought he'd be taller."
Cadet 2 (snorting):
"Must be light on his feet. Ran so fast, he outran his own army, eh?"
Vaerin (calm):
"I didn't run."
Cadet 3:
"Good. Then you won't mind a little... welcoming duel. Court's open."
A crowd gathered around the stone training ring. Chalk lines marked the circle. Rules were simple: yield or fall.
Vaerin took a wooden sparring sword. No shield. His hands were still raw from the journey.
Across from him stood Kaalan, the largest of the three challengers. Broad shoulders. Arrogant eyes.
The bell rang.
Kaalan charged.
Vaerin dodged the first swing, barely. Pivoted. Swung wide.
CLACK—wood hit wood. Kaalan laughed and slammed his shoulder into Vaerin's chest.
Vaerin stumbled.
Another strike. He blocked. Twisted. His knuckles cracked under the pressure.
He darted low, aiming for Kaalan's ribs—but the senior cadet stepped back, then kicked Vaerin square in the stomach.
He hit the ground hard.
Gasps echoed.
Vaerin rolled to his side, coughing, blood in his spit. His sword was feet away.
Kaalan (grinning):
"This the genius from Thenur? I've seen fish fight better."
The referee hesitated, waiting for Vaerin to yield.
He didn't.
He crawled to his knees.
A hand appeared in front of him.
A calm voice, deep and clear:
"Get up."
Vaerin looked up.
A tall, lean boy stood above him. Quiet eyes. Long hair tied back. He wore no armor—but carried weight like a king.
Vaanan.
The other cadets around him fell silent the moment he moved.
Fear. Respect. Both.
Vaerin (breathing hard):
"I wasn't done."
Vaanan (smiling faintly):
"Then stop wasting time on your knees."
He pulled Vaerin up and handed him his weapon.
Kaalan (to Vaanan, suddenly nervous):
"You taking his side now?"
Vaanan (flat):
"I'm taking the side that got back up."
Kaalan backed off.
Vaerin (still catching breath):
"Who are you?"
Another cadet whispered nearby:
"That's Vaanan... he's the one who beat three instructors in a mock war last year."
Another voice:
"Commander's nephew. Highest rank in the junior division."
That night, the training yard was near empty—just the soft rustle of wind and the faint clang of a distant bell tower signaling lights-out.
Vaerin found Vaanan alone again.
The boy moved with silent precision, striking at a wooden post with clean, sharp motions. His breathing was steady. Each strike looked effortless—but carried weight. Like the sword was just a tool, and he was the weapon.
Vaerin (softly):
"You make it look easy."
Vaanan (without turning):
"It's not."
Vaerin stepped into the ring, rubbing his wrist where it was still bruised from the duel.
Vaerin:
"Why did you help me earlier?"
Vaanan paused. Turned.
Vaanan:
"Because you didn't stay down. And because Kaalan needed to be reminded that fear isn't the same as strength."
Vaerin (after a beat):
"I need to get stronger."
Vaanan raised an eyebrow.
Vaerin:
"I'm not here because of my name or blood. I fought a battle—once.
But one battle doesn't make a soldier.
I want to be ready. For the next fight.
And the one after that."
Vaerin (looking him in the eye):
"I need help. Train me."
Vaanan looked at him for a long moment. He set his practice blade down.
Vaanan (flat):
"You're stubborn."
Vaerin (smirking):
"You have no idea."
Vaanan (after a beat):
"Training starts at dusk. Not after your day ends—before it begins.
If you're late, I don't wait.
If you complain, I stop.
If you quit, we don't speak again."
Vaerin (smiling):
"Understood."
Vaanan (finally):
"Then be here. Tomorrow. Before the sun even thinks of waking."
He picked up his sword again, and turned away.
Vaerin didn't smile as he walked back to his room.
He just whispered:
Vaerin (to himself):
"One day… I'll stand beside him, not behind."
The bell tower rang at 4:00 AM each day.
But Vaerin never heard it.
Because he was already awake—by 2:00 AM, every morning.
The world outside the Academy was still sleeping. Even the wind moved slower. But deep in the southern training ring, under the watch of the silent statues, Vaerin and Vaanan trained in darkness lit only by torchlight.
There were no spectators. No applause. Just the clash of practice blades, the slap of sandals on stone, and the rhythm of breath.
Vaanan (during a spar):
"Your wrist is too stiff. Loosen your elbow. Let the force travel—not block it."
Vaerin (gritting his teeth):
"Easier said."
Vaanan:
"You didn't ask me to make it easy. You asked me to make you strong."
By dawn, their tunics were soaked through with sweat.
And the real training hadn't even started yet.
Academy Hours – 4:00 AM to 5:00 PM
The rest of the day was relentless.
Formation drills in the courtyard: Vaerin learned to move in sync, to march blindfolded by instinct, to feel the space around him like a second skin.Obstacle courses that tore at his muscles and lungs.Discipline lectures from Soman that felt more like war crimes in disguise.
One day, Vaerin slipped on the rope wall and landed hard.
Soman (without missing a beat):
"The first time you fall is pain.
The second is memory.
The third time is shame.
Don't reach the third."
Vaerin never slipped again.
in the Mess Hall
By the time the evening bell rang, his bones screamed.
He would drag himself to the mess hall—where everyone ate the same, regardless of status or score.
Steamed millet. Spiced lentils. Roasted tubers. No meat, except on festival days. Always hot. Always silent.
Cadets talked, but rarely too loud. Everyone was watching someone else.
Vaerin and Vaanan usually sat in the back, facing the window.
Vaerin (with a mouthful):
"I can't tell if this tastes like home... or like punishment."
Vaanan (drinking water):
"It's both. That's why they serve it every day."
One evening, a plate was missing from the serving stack.
Vaerin (offering his):
"Take mine."
Vaanan (blunt):
"If you ever do that again, I'll make you run laps until your legs fall off."
Vaerin blinked. Then smirked.
After 5:00 PM – Study Hours
When others rested or gambled or collapsed, Vaerin studied.
Scrolls. Maps. Ancient doctrines. War memoirs written in dusty old dialects. Kingdom tax records. Naval formation charts from the Chera coast.
And Vaanan often joined him—standing, arms crossed, offering commentary like a ghost behind his shoulder.
Vaanan:
"That maneuver looks clever. But it collapses if your enemy has cavalry."
Vaerin:
"Then what would you do?"
Vaanan (without hesitation):
"Lure the cavalry into a false opening, then cut their retreat line. Kill their speed. Then kill them."
Vaerin (grinning):
"I like the way your brain's wired."
Vaanan (deadpan):
"Good. One day it might save yours."
Sometimes they'd argue over tactics for hours.
One night, Vaerin tried applying a counter-formation from a Pandya-era journal.
Vaanan:
"That would only work if the terrain was flat."
Vaerin:
"I know. That's why we bait them onto the road. Then—"
Vaanan (finally cracking a grin):
"Okay. You're getting better."
Mornings began with blood and sweat.
Days filled with drills, bruises, and second winds.
Evenings brought starch, scrolls, and survival.
Vaerin changed. Not all at once. Not with fireworks.
But with every swing, every line he read, every bruise that turned yellow then disappeared—
He became less of a boy who survived a battle…
And more of a warrior preparing for a war that hadn't come yet.