The morning sun did little to burn away the chill that had settled in my bones. The air in the Gurukul felt different—charged, as if the very molecules were holding their breath in the aftermath of our forbidden duel. The faint, acrid scent of charred wood from the storage hut was a ghost in the air, a constant reminder of my lack of control. I moved through the morning routines like an automaton, my body performing the familiar motions of prayer and ablution while my mind remained trapped in the moonlit clearing, the feel of a practice sword in my hand, and the terrifying, raw power that had answered my call.
I kept my gaze fixed ahead, deliberately avoiding the space where I knew he would be. I didn't need to look to feel Neer's presence; it was a current in the air, a pull I had to consciously resist. When we filed onto the archery grounds for our lesson with Acharya Shatrunjay, I made sure to take a position as far from his blue robes as possible.
Acharya Shatrunjay stood before us, his posture as rigid and unyielding as the longbow in his hand. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned our ranks, seeming to pierce through the facade of discipline to the turmoil beneath.
"Children," his voice cut through the morning quiet, demanding absolute attention. "Today, we do not merely practice archery. We practice the art of focus. The annihilation of distraction. Your target is not a piece of wood. It is your doubt, your fear, your attachment. You must pierce its heart."
He demonstrated, his movements a study in economy and grace. The arrow left the string with a soft thrum and buried itself in the exact center of the distant target with a definitive, final thwack.
"Did you all see? Your mind, your breath, your soul—all must flow down the shaft of the arrow. There is no room for anything else."
A chorus of "Yes, Acharya!" echoed back. I nocked my own arrow, the familiar weight of the bow a comfort. I drew the string, the flex of the wood a prayer for focus. I sought the calm center I had trained my entire life to find.
But it was gone.
Instead of a single point of focus, my mind was a fractured prism. I saw Neer's smirk in the library. I felt the heat of my own flames licking at the night. I heard the echo of his voice—"You remain trapped in the chains of your rules." My breath hitched. I released the string.
The arrow flew, a pathetic, wobbling line against the sky. It missed the target entirely, skidding to a humiliating halt in the dirt several feet to the left.
A hot flush of shame crept up my neck. "Not like that, Agni!" Acharya Shatrunjay's rebuke was a lash. "Your mind is a storm cloud. You must be the sun that burns it away. Control your thoughts!"
I bowed my head, the failure a bitter taste in my mouth. This was who I was without my control—a boy who couldn't even hit a stationary target.
I was forced to watch as the others took their turns, a lesson in my own inadequacy. Dhara took her stance, but her hands trembled, her focus fractured as her eyes, against her will, darted towards Vayansh. Aakash was a statue of tranquility, his arrow flying straight and true as if guided by an unseen hand, his face a mask of impenetrable calm.
Then, it was Neer's turn.
He stepped forward, and the air around him seemed to crackle. There was no playful smirk now, only a grim intensity. He pulled the string back, further than necessary, the tendons in his arm standing out. For a moment, he was the very image of focused power. Then he released.
The arrow was a blur, a streak of violent intent. It struck the center of the target with such force that the wood, unable to absorb the impact, splintered with a loud crack and broke cleanly in two.
Silence.
"Neer!" The Acharya's voice shattered the stillness. "You struck the target, but the target struck back! You were not in control of your power; you were a slave to your anger. Power without discipline is chaos. It destroys everything it touches, including yourself."
Neer didn't meet his gaze. He merely stared at the broken target, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching. He offered no apology, no excuse. The defiance was in the set of his shoulders, in the storm brewing behind his eyes.
The lesson continued under the Acharya's stern guidance. I saw Dhara close her eyes, take a deep breath, and when she opened them, her gaze was steady. Her next arrow flew straight and struck the target's edge. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She had wrestled her distraction to the ground, for now.
As the session concluded, and we began to lower our bows, Acharya Shatrunjay's voice called out. "Dhara... you wait. We need to talk to you about something important."
Dhara froze, her face a canvas of surprise and apprehension. "Yes, Acharya? Please tell me..."
The Acharya's expression was uncharacteristically grave. He lowered his voice, but the field was quiet enough for his words to carry. "We were talking about Vayansh—"
He was interrupted by a voice that commanded the silence of the entire field.
"Daughter Dhara."
Gurudev Vishrajan stood at the edge of the training ground. His presence was like a sudden drop in pressure before a storm. All movement ceased. All sound died.
"You may go," he said to Dhara, his tone calm but leaving no room for debate. "Practice your archery." He then turned his ancient, knowing eyes to Acharya Shatrunjay. "Acharya. We need to talk to you about a very important matter. Now."
Dhara bowed, confusion and worry warring on her face. "Pranam, Acharya. Pranam, Gurudev." She hurried away, casting a last, uncertain glance over her shoulder.
Gurudev led a visibly troubled Acharya Shatrunjay a short distance away, their heads close together. I couldn't hear the words, but I could read the language of their bodies. The Acharya's shoulders stiffened. He shook his head once, a minute, disbelieving motion. Gurudev placed a hand on his arm, his words seeming to press down on the younger teacher, whose face grew pale as the full weight of whatever was being said settled upon him.
The official lesson was over, but a new, more insidious one had begun. Later, as I went to fetch water from the well to clean the equipment, I overheard two junior disciples huddled by the tool shed, their voices hushed and trembling with the thrill of a secret too big to keep.
"...Gurudev himself said it! That talking to her about Vayansh could create a great crisis..." one whispered, his eyes wide.
"The path to breaking the curse..." the other breathed, the words laden with a terrifying significance. "He said their union... their powers... they can change the very direction of creation..."
A curse.
The word landed in the pit of my stomach like a shard of ice, freezing me in place. My own nightmare, the prophecy that felt like a personal damnation, suddenly seemed small, a single thread in a vast, dark tapestry I was only just beginning to see. Dhara and Vayansh? Were they part of this? What was this curse that Gurudev feared so much he had to intervene personally?
The carefully ordered world of the Gurukul, the world of rules and disciplines I had clung to as my anchor, was suddenly revealed to be a fragile shell. Beneath its serene surface, ancient, powerful currents were moving, and I was caught in their pull. The sword in my dream was no longer just my burden. It felt like a key. And I was terrified of what lock it was meant to open.
---
Chapter End: The chapter ends with Agni realizing his personal nightmare is connected to a larger, ancient curse that even the Gurus fear, shattering his perception of his world and raising the stakes from a personal tragedy to a cosmic crisis.