The moon hovered high above, casting pale light on the army camp that stretched across the plains. Tents flapped in the breeze, fires crackled, and the scent of roasted grain mixed with the iron tang of blood and sweat. Soldiers rested in patches of silence between their duties, their minds burdened with the weight of the coming war.
Ashvath sat sharpening his sword, his movements rhythmic, almost meditative. Beside him, his loyal companion—an enormous black steed he had named Shadow—snorted softly, resting beside the tent like a silent sentinel.
"You treat that sword better than yourself," came a familiar voice.
Ashvath glanced up to see Sita walking toward him, holding a small clay bowl of lentils and herbs. Her long hair was braided tight behind her head, and her eyes shimmered in the firelight.
"I trust the sword more than I trust myself," Ashvath replied dryly.
Sita handed him the bowl and sat down beside him on a flat stone. "You speak like a man who's already lived a thousand lives."
"Feels like I have," he said quietly. "Every swing of this blade takes something from me. And gives something else in return."
There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the crackle of fire and the distant clinking of armor.
"Does that... something ever include hope?" she asked.
Ashvath turned to her, the edges of his lips curving just slightly. "When you're around, maybe."
Sita looked away quickly, trying to hide the smile creeping onto her face. "Careful, soldier. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."
Ashvath chuckled, the rare sound of his laughter catching even him off guard.
---
Enter the Prince
Later that night, a summons arrived. Ashvath was called to the war tent. Inside, Prince Ashoka stood beside a war map, his brows furrowed. Generals surrounded him, murmuring strategies, their fingers pointing to mountain passes and enemy routes.
Ashoka raised his head as Ashvath entered.
"You walk like a man who doesn't fear anything," Ashoka said with a smirk.
"Fear keeps the hand steady. But I prefer clarity," Ashvath replied, stepping closer.
The prince motioned to the map. "The Kalinga front is growing stronger. They've begun raiding our supply lines near the northern ridge. I want you to take a small unit and investigate. Move in the shadows. Strike only if necessary."
"You want silence," Ashvath said.
"I want a shadow," Ashoka replied, locking eyes with him. "And that's what you are."
Ashvath bowed his head slightly. "Then I will be the silence before the storm."
---
The Ambush
Two nights later, Ashvath and a handpicked team of five elite soldiers rode through a forest pass cloaked in mist. The trees whispered old secrets, and the moon struggled to break through the thick canopy. Shadow led the way, his steps silent as death.
As they reached a clearing, Ashvath raised a hand.
"Stop," he whispered. "The air's too quiet."
Just then—a flash of movement.
Arrows flew from the darkness.
"Ambush!" one of the men yelled.
Ashvath rolled from his horse and unsheathed his blade. With fluid precision, he moved like a dancer in the dark, striking down two masked warriors with clean sweeps. His eyes burned with focus.
One of his men fell. Another was wounded.
But Ashvath? He stood firm. A storm in human form.
The last enemy came at him with twin blades, shouting in a language unknown. Ashvath parried, sidestepped, and in a single spin, plunged his sword through the man's heart.
Silence fell again.
Only four of them remained.
He pulled his blade free and looked up to the trees.
"Tell Ashoka," he muttered, "Kalinga is ready."
---
Wounds and Whispers
When they returned, the camp was quieter. The weight of war was beginning to settle across every face. Soldiers trained harder. Supplies were being rationed. And Ashvath—he had changed. His silence was deeper now. Sharper.
Sita saw the blood on his armor and rushed to him.
"You're hurt," she said.
"I've been hurt for years," Ashvath murmured.
"I'm not talking about the skin."
She touched his shoulder gently, and he allowed it. Her presence softened the shadows around him. For a moment, he didn't feel like a weapon.
"I stitched three men together today," she said. "One of them cried for his mother. The other begged for the war to end. The third... he said nothing, just stared at me until he died."
Ashvath stared into her eyes. "The silence means he made peace. Maybe he saw something beyond this."
"Or maybe he saw nothing. And that terrified him."
They sat in silence. The fire between them crackled as the stars above watched without judgment.
---
End of Chapter 2