Morning light spilled across the eastern courtyards of House Vyomtara, pale gold filtering through tall stone arches and settling over the training grounds like a quiet invitation.
The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and stone. Somewhere beyond the estate walls, Arkavaira stirred—distant bells, servants beginning their rounds—but within House Vyomtara, time moved differently. Slower. Measured. Intentional.
Aditya stood barefoot on the polished stone, rolling his shoulders once, then again, until his breath found a steady rhythm that matched the world around him.
Six years. Five months.
The wooden practice spear rested easily in his grip, familiar enough that he barely noticed its weight. His fingers tightened—not from tension, but readiness.
Beside him, Sasi adjusted his stance with quiet precision, eyes half-lidded, as though listening to something beneath the surface of the morning itself. His movements were minimal, deliberate—every shift conserving energy rather than spending it.
Aryan stood between them.
Hands empty.
Still.
Too still, some might have thought.
But Duke Varesh Vyomtara knew better.
"You're late," Achintya said mildly from the edge of the courtyard.
The old man leaned against a stone pillar, posture relaxed, sky-blue hair tied back loosely. Despite his casual stance, his silver eyes missed nothing. In his hands rested a long, three-pronged wooden weapon, its surface worn smooth by decades of use. He tapped its butt against the stone once—light, unhurried.
Varesh stepped forward, a practice sword already resting across his shoulder. It wasn't ceremonial. It wasn't threatening.
It was simply… present.
"You three ready?" Varesh asked.
Aditya grinned. "You're the one fighting children, Father."
Achintya chuckled softly. "Confidence before breakfast. Dangerous habit."
Sasi inclined his head in a brief bow. Aryan mirrored the gesture—precise, restrained.
Varesh moved first.
No signal.
No warning.
The sword descended in a clean arc—not fast enough to injure, not slow enough to ignore.
Aditya reacted on instinct, stepping forward as his spear lifted to intercept. Wood met wood with a sharp crack, vibration racing up his arms. He absorbed the force, feet sliding back half a step before he steadied himself.
"Too stiff," Varesh said calmly, twisting his wrist and disengaging. "You brace like you're expecting the world to hit you."
Aditya frowned, adjusted his footing, and reset.
Before he could respond, Achintya moved.
The trident did not thrust.
It guided.
One prong nudged Aditya's spear aside while the haft tapped lightly against his ankle—not hard, just enough to remind.
"Ground," Achintya said. "You fight from above it, not with it."
Aditya stumbled, caught himself, and laughed despite the sting. "That was unfair."
"Life is," Achintya replied pleasantly.
Sasi stepped in then, smooth as flowing water. He didn't aim to strike—he aimed to redirect. His hand brushed Aditya's shoulder, guiding him aside as he slipped effortlessly between Varesh and Achintya.
Varesh's sword halted inches from Sasi's chest.
Not because it was blocked.
Because Sasi was already gone.
"Good," Varesh murmured.
Aryan moved last.
Still without a weapon.
He stepped into the open space his brothers had created, feet silent against the stone, gaze steady and unflinching. Achintya's trident shifted—not in threat, but in awareness.
Aryan raised one hand.
Not to strike.
To stop.
Varesh's sword cut through empty air as Aryan pivoted, fingers brushing the flat of the blade, guiding its momentum aside and dissolving it into nothing.
For a heartbeat, the courtyard held its breath.
A flicker of pride touched Varesh's gaze—quickly buried beneath discipline.
Achintya smiled.
"Again," he said.
This time, the elders attacked together.
Varesh pressed from the front, sword movements controlled and relentless. Achintya circled, trident weaving patterns that closed paths rather than chasing impact.
Aditya felt the pressure immediately. His heart pounded—not with fear, but exhilaration. He adjusted his stance, letting his weight sink into the stone, remembering Achintya's words.
He struck—not hard, but true.
Varesh parried easily.
But nodded.
Sasi flowed like a shadow, always where the strike wasn't, hands brushing, redirecting, unraveling rhythm.
Aryan watched.
Then acted.
He stepped where the two forces crossed, timing flawless, presence undeniable. Varesh's sword hesitated for the briefest instant.
That was enough.
Aditya lunged—not to hit, but to threaten. Sasi closed the gap from the side. Aryan planted himself between both elders, arms slightly spread, grounding the moment itself.
Achintya tapped the stone twice with his trident.
"Enough."
Varesh lowered his sword.
Silence settled—not strained, but complete.
Aditya bent forward, hands braced on his knees, breathing hard and grinning. "Did we…?"
"You didn't win," Varesh said.
"But," Achintya added, eyes warm, "you didn't lose."
Sasi straightened, thoughtful. "We moved too early in the second exchange."
Varesh nodded. "And too late in the first."
Aryan said nothing.
He simply studied his hands, as though committing the sensation of the moment to memory.
Achintya stepped closer, resting the trident against his shoulder. "You three fight like a family."
Aditya blinked. "Isn't that the point?"
Achintya's smile deepened. "Most forget."
Varesh sheathed the practice sword and rested a hand on each of his sons' shoulders. His grip was firm—steady.
"Strength isn't about overpowering," he said quietly. "It's about knowing where to stand—together."
The sun climbed higher, warming the stone beneath their feet.
From a distant balcony, Sarvani watched in silence, eyes soft, lips curved with quiet approval.
Six years. Five months.
Still children.
But the foundation had already been laid—not of weapons or techniques, but of trust.
And that, far more than steel, would shape the future.