The warlords returned to their respective bases, carrying with them the weight of strategy and the silence of men preparing for war. In Parashar's camp, all the chiefs gathered once more beneath the great canopy. The air was thick with the scent of oil lamps and the muted clatter of weapons. Each man stood in place, alert and unyielding, awaiting the final words that would bind them to the coming battle.
"Everyone knows their role?" Parashar asked, his voice firm and deliberate, carrying an authority that allowed no hesitation.
The warlords, grim-faced and resolute, nodded as one. None spoke further; words were no longer needed. They dispersed quietly, slipping away to their assigned stations like pieces of a vast machine falling into motion.
Arya remained a moment longer before turning toward the twins. He found them waiting, their eyes burning with the same restless energy he had seen countless times before. Walking up to them, Arya spoke in a tone that balanced command with concern.
"You know what's about to happen," he began. "We are going to fight a war against people far stronger than us. I cannot go into this war without you two. But at the same time, I do not want you to be hurt. Keep yourselves out of danger, stay away from the battlefield. Manage the Chorpatta and keep me informed of everything you find. But do not engage in battle. We have no idea who or what we are truly about to fight."
The words had barely left his mouth before Rudra snapped back, his voice sharp and stung with pride.
"Really?! You want us to stay out of danger? And you think working with the Chorpatta will keep us safe? You believe fighting in the streets is safer than standing in the battlefield? Man! You have no confidence in us, do you?"
Arya raised his hand slightly, steady and calm. "No, no. I have full confidence in you. I know that with you at my side, no one can even touch me. But I want you to be safe. That is all. Never once have I doubted your strength in a fight."
Raghav, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. His voice was quieter than Rudra's, but heavy with conviction.
"Arya, you carry your burden, and we carry ours. Yours is to win this war. Ours is to make sure you can do it. We will always remain by your side. We are here today because we stood with you before. We faced Kaushan together. We fought Upendra together. And now we will stand against these men together. We have done this before, and we will do it again. I understand your concern for us. But we are in this with you, and there is no turning back."
Arya's lips curved into a faint, tired smirk. "Well, I don't doubt you two. Just stay close to me in the battlefield. Don't do anything foolish—and don't die."
The twins exchanged a quick smile with him, then turned to leave the tent, preparing themselves for the war that awaited them. Arya remained, alone with his thoughts.
He fastened the straps of his armor, the leather creaking under his touch. A sword was handed to him, heavy and cold. A shield followed, its iron rim glinting in the dim lamplight. Last came the helmet, lowered carefully onto his head. In that moment, the weight of it all pressed down upon him—not only the armor, but the responsibility it symbolized. For the first time, Arya felt its full measure. He was no longer just a boy thrown into struggles greater than himself. He was a man, and on his shoulders rested the fate of many. Duty had made him older than his years.
Outside, the war drums thundered to life, their rhythm echoing across the camp. The steady beat summoned soldiers to their places, the sound of countless boots striking the earth in unison. The formations began to take shape, each line a living part of the greater whole.
Parashar's army was to move in an arrowhead formation, sharp and relentless. Three lines stood in order, each one vital to the design. The first line, shields and spears, would push forward like a wall of iron, creating space by brute force. The second line, swords and shields, would enter those openings, fighting man to man, blade against blade. Behind them, the third line—archers—would rain down volleys, cutting down distant threats before they reached the heart of the formation.
Arya and Dhanudanda were positioned in the second line, shoulder to shoulder with seasoned warriors. Their task was to follow where the spears opened ground, pressing forward with swords to hold and expand the breach. It was a place of high risk and high reward, where the tide of battle would be decided in blood.
At the center of the formation, Parashar himself led a convoy of mixed spearmen and swordsmen, holding the point of the arrow steady. His men would drive forward, unyielding, while also ensuring no enemy could break through to the core. To both his flanks stood Ashvapati, silent and unshakable, his soldiers spread wide and ready to protect the sides of the arrowhead. Ashvapati's role was clear: shield the advance from being swallowed by the enemy's counterattacks.
At the rear, Savignya commanded her soldiers and the war machines. Her role was to secure the ground already taken, ensuring no enemy force could slip past and strike at their backs. Her catapults and heavy machines would thunder into the battlefield, clearing paths and shattering defenses, her calm surface hiding the ruthless warlord beneath.
On the opposite side of the field, Sharvas's soldiers began to fall into formation as well. Their arrangement was one of sheer defense and brutal counter-strike: the Kavach, or shield formation. Raktapasu commanded the front lines, two thick rows of warriors. The first row carried heavy shields and spears, forming a barrier that would absorb the initial blow. Behind them, swordsmen with shields waited, ready to rush forward into any gap.
Sharvas himself stood behind them, leading two additional lines of soldiers supported by war machines. His presence was a looming threat, ready to reinforce wherever the battle grew fiercest. On his left, Eknandini formed up with two lines of spears and swords, while on his right, Kritipal did the same. Both flanks bristled with discipline and steel, poised to envelop or crush their enemies at the first sign of weakness.
Behind every line, cavalry units pawed the ground impatiently. Their role was simple yet devastating: if any line was breached, they would charge in, trampling the enemy and sealing the gap with speed and fury. The battlefield itself became a chessboard of flesh and iron, each move anticipated, each counter prepared.
Finally, the conch shells were blown, their deep notes echoing across the field. The sound was ancient, older than any man present. It reverberated in Arya's chest, a call that marked the end of waiting. It was the sound that turned soldiers into warriors and men into martyrs. Both armies stood ready, the silence between the shankh-blasts filled with the weight of what was about to unfold.
Arya stepped forward, joining his line, the heavy armor settling onto his body like destiny itself. He thought, What will happen next? Do we truly have a chance? But he knew such thoughts were useless now. They were already too deep in this conflict to step back. The only path left was forward.
"If I don't win," he told himself, "Sharvas and his allies will burn down the cities, leaving no life behind. Everything will be ash. I cannot allow that. I must win this war."
The drums beat louder. The arrowhead began to advance. And Arya, no longer a boy, took his first steps into the battle as a man who bore the lives of many.