The first light of dawn broke through the mountain mist, casting long golden beams over the valley below. Ashvath stood atop a ridge, Shadow beside him, both quiet. The battlefield was not yet drawn, but the blood was already flowing—through whispers, through fear, through dreams.
Below, banners of Magadha's army waved lazily in the wind, while war drums throbbed in the distance, like the heartbeat of fate drawing nearer.
Ashoka had summoned him.
---
In the Royal Tent
Prince Ashoka's tent was not lavish. It was functional—maps, scrolls, armor neatly stacked on a side rack. He stood shirtless, scars on his back, markings of both royalty and battle. A servant finished fastening his belt as Ashvath entered.
"You came quicker than I expected," Ashoka said, not turning.
"I've always walked where the wind howls," Ashvath replied. "Even when there's no road."
Ashoka finally turned and smirked. "That's why I need you closer now, not just as a blade—but as a shadow that stands beside me."
Ashvath said nothing.
Ashoka poured two cups of spiced tea. "Kalinga is not just an enemy. It's a memory I'm trying to rewrite. Their rebellion is personal. Years ago, when I was still learning the taste of power, their king humiliated my father's army."
"I've heard the tales," Ashvath said, taking the tea.
"Tales?" Ashoka scoffed. "They killed our envoys. Beheaded our diplomats. And now they prepare again."
Ashoka stepped closer. "This war... it won't just shape the land. It will shape me. And I want you, Ashvath, at my side. Not as a weapon. As a brother."
There was a silence.
Ashvath finally spoke, voice calm but resolute:
"I serve the truth. If that truth lives in your heart, I will follow."
Ashoka smiled. "Then the storm begins."
---
The Gathering Flame
Later that night, a feast was called—not in celebration, but in unity. Fire torches lined the great open ground. Soldiers laughed, danced, drank and forgot war for a moment. Music played from bamboo flutes, and a few dancers from the village performed, draped in silks the color of autumn leaves.
Ashvath stood near the edge, arms folded.
Sita appeared beside him, in a simple red dress, her hair loose this time.
"You don't drink," she said, holding a goblet. "Not even water?"
"Only what I can swallow without regret," he replied with a half-smile.
She laughed. "Do you speak like that all the time?"
"Only when someone listens."
Her gaze lingered on his.
"You know," she said after a pause, "when I first saw you, I thought you were heartless. Just a blade walking on legs."
"And now?"
"Now I see you carry too much heart. You just don't know where to place it."
Ashvath looked away.
"I lost something once," he murmured. "A reason to be more than a sword. Since then, I've hidden from every face that looked kind. Including yours."
Sita stepped closer. "Then stop hiding."
Their hands touched—briefly, softly.
---
A Stranger in Chains
The moment broke when a horn sounded from the western gate. A group of soldiers approached, dragging a prisoner—a young man in foreign armor, bloodied but alive, his eyes proud.
Ashoka arrived in moments, robe thrown over his shoulder.
"Who is he?" Ashvath asked.
"A scout," one of the guards said. "Caught near the water line. From Kalinga."
The prince looked down at the prisoner. "You've come far to die."
But the man did not flinch. "I've come far to live free."
Ashoka raised an eyebrow. "Bold tongue for a chained dog."
The man spat blood. "Your kingdom builds walls with bones."
A tense silence followed.
Ashvath stepped forward. "Leave him. He's not a soldier. He's a symbol."
Ashoka looked at Ashvath, measuring his words.
"Fine. Let him live. For now."
He walked away.
But Ashvath saw something in that prisoner's eyes—the same fire he once carried.
---
End of Chapter 3