The sun rose over the Kuru kingdom, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and bruised purple.
King Shantanu rode at the head of his retinue, but his feet barely touched the floor of the chariot. The heavy gloom that had clung to him for sixteen years—the shadow of the missing wife and the lost son—had evaporated with the morning mist.
He felt drunk. Not on soma or wine, but on the memory of the night.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Satyavati. He felt the roughness of her hands, the smell of the river on her skin, and the defiant blaze in her eyes when she told him she would drown his court if they disrespected her.
A shark tank, she had called his palace.
Shantanu smiled, a expression so foreign to his face that his charioteer glanced back nervously. Let them be sharks. He would bring them a Leviathan. He would marry her before the moon waned. He would silence the priests, bribe the ministers, and if the Council of Elders whispered about her caste, he would remind them that the King's word was heavier than the Vedas.
"Faster," Shantanu commanded, his voice ringing clear and strong.
"My Lord?" the charioteer asked, pulling the reins. " The horses are tired from the night wait."
"Then let them rest when they are dead!" Shantanu laughed—a rich, booming sound that startled the birds from the trees. "Today, we do not ride. We fly."
He looked at his hands. They were no longer the hands of a widower waiting to die. They were the hands of a man with a future. He felt a surge of vitality, a raw, thrumming energy that made him want to conquer something. He wanted to tear down the sky and wrap it around Satyavati's shoulders.
I promised her the world, he thought, scanning the passing forest. But words are wind. I need a token. Something to show her that she is not entering the palace as a beggar, but as a conqueror.
The forest of the borderlands was waking up. Golden shafts of light pierced the canopy, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. It was a perfect world. A world reborn.
Shantanu gripped his bow, not out of danger, but out of restlessness. He wanted to loose an arrow. He wanted to hunt. Not for food, but for glory. He needed a trophy to lay at the feet of his Fisher-Queen, a symbol that the King of Hastinapura was her hunter, her protector, and her slave.
"Halt."
The command was a whisper, but it froze the entire convoy. The charioteer pulled the reins so hard the horses reared silently. The guards stiffened, their hands hovering over sword hilts.
Shantanu stared into a clearing of sun-dappled ferns.
At first, he saw only the play of light and shadow. Then, the shadow moved.
It stepped out from behind an ancient banyan tree—a stag of impossible proportions. It was not a beast of flesh and bone; it was a creature of dreams. Its coat was not brown, but a shimmering, pale gold that seemed to hold its own light, independent of the sun. Its antlers were vast, branching crowns that looked like they were carved from polished obsidian, tipping into points of diamond-sharp white.
It did not graze. It did not twitch with fear. It stood perfectly still, its dark, liquid eyes fixed on the King, regal and unafraid.
Shantanu's breath hitched. Magnificent.
In all his years of hunting, he had never seen such a specimen. It was rare. It was wild. It was beautiful.
It is her, he thought, a smile curling his lips. It is the spirit of the river given form.
This was no ordinary kill. This was a sign. If he brought this creature to Satyavati—if he laid those obsidian antlers at her feet—she would know that he saw her not as a commoner, but as a goddess worthy of legend.
"My bow," Shantanu murmured, not taking his eyes off the prize.
The attendant passed him the heavy royal bow, crafted from ironwood and inlaid with gold. Shantanu took it, the weight familiar and comforting in his grip. He reached into the quiver and selected a specific arrow—one fletched with the feathers of a blue jay, tipped with cold steel.
He stepped down from the chariot, his movements fluid and silent. The dry leaves did not crunch beneath his feet; he moved with the predatory grace of a tiger.
The stag turned its head, exposing the long, elegant curve of its neck. The perfect target.
Shantanu raised the bow.
The world narrowed down to a single line of sight. The trees blurred. The sounds of the forest—the chirping crickets, the rustling wind—faded into a heavy silence. There was only the King, the weapon, and the target.
He drew the string back. The wood groaned under the tension, a sound of immense power waiting to be unleashed. He felt the familiar strain in his shoulder, the lock of his muscles. He aimed for the heart.
For you, my Queen, he vowed silently.
Shantanu exhaled.
His fingers released the string.
Thwum.
The sound was a deep, resonant bass note that vibrated in the air. The arrow leaped forward, a blur of death flying straight and true. It was a perfect shot. A master's shot. There was no wind to turn it, no branch to deflect it.
Shantanu lowered his bow, already anticipating the dull thud of impact, the fall of the beast, the glory of the hunt.
The arrow flew. It was a blur of death, closing the distance to the stag's heart in the blink of an eye.
Then, the air tore open.
There was no sound of a bowstring. No whistle of flight. Just a sudden, blinding flash of silver light that descended from the canopy like a lightning strike frozen in time.
CLANG.
The sound was sharp, metallic, and violent—like a hammer striking an anvil.
Shantanu blinked, his brain refusing to process the image before him. His royal arrow—crafted by the finest smiths of Hastinapura, tipped with steel capable of piercing armor—had not struck the deer. It had been struck mid-air.
A second arrow, slender and glowing with a faint blue luminescence, had intercepted his own with mathematical precision. It had hit the shaft of Shantanu's arrow, shattering the ironwood into a thousand splinters that rained down onto the forest floor like harmless confetti.
The Golden Stag, startled by the explosion of wood and steel inches from its chest, bounded away into the deep shadows, vanishing in a heartbeat.
The prize was gone.
"Impossible," the General whispered, his hand going to his sword. "Who could make such a shot?"
Shantanu did not speak. His shock was rapidly curdling into a cold, dangerous rage. He lowered his bow, his knuckles white. He scanned the treeline, looking for the assassin, the poacher, the fool who dared to steal from the Kuru King.
"Show yourself!" Shantanu roared, his voice shaking the leaves. "Or I will burn this forest to find you!"
"There is no need for fire traveller."
The voice came from above. It was not the rough, gravelly voice of a bandit. It was melodic, calm, and terrifyingly youthful. It sounded like water flowing over smooth stones.
Shantanu looked up.
Perched on the high branch of an ancient mahogany tree, some thirty feet in the air, stood a boy.
He did not look like he belonged to the forest. He did not look like he belonged to the earth at all.
He was perhaps sixteen summers old, but he held himself with the stillness of a statue. He wore robes of a silk so fine it looked like woven moonlight—shimmering shades of silver and river-blue that floated around him, defying gravity, as if he were underwater. The fabric rippled without wind, casting a soft, ethereal glow against the dark bark of the tree.
He was beautiful. Not handsome in the way of warriors, with rugged jaws and scars, but beautiful in the way of the gods. His skin was pale and flawless, radiating a faint luminescence. His hair was long, black as a raven's wing, tied back with a silver clasp, leaving a few strands to frame a face that looked carved from marble.
But it was the eyes that held Shantanu captive.
They were not dark like the earth. They were the color of the deep river—a swirling, turbulent grey-blue that seemed to hold ancient secrets. They looked down at the King not with fear, but with a serene, detached curiosity.
At his ears hung ornaments of silver and sapphire, chiming softly as he tilted his head.
"You?" Shantanu breathed, his anger momentarily paused by the sheer spectacle of the youth. "A child stopped my arrow?"
The boy did not smile. In his left hand, he held a bow. But it was not made of wood or horn. It was translucent, crafted from something that looked like crystal or perhaps solid ice, pulsing with a rhythmic, divine energy.
"The stag was not yours to kill," the boy said. His tone was polite, yet it carried an arrogance that bordered on divinity.
"I am the King of this land," Shantanu growled, his pride stinging. "All beasts under the sky belong to me."
The boy's expression didn't change. He didn't reach for a quiver. He simply raised his right hand and brushed his fingers against the crystalline string of his bow.
Hummmm.
The air vibrated. From nothingness, light gathered. It spun and coalesced until a long, silver arrow materialized on the string, glowing with a cold, celestial fire.
He turned the weapon—not toward the forest, but directly toward Shantanu.
"And this beast," the boy said, his voice hardening like freezing water, "caught my eye first. It is a tribute. My mother sent me to find a gift worthy of my father. And I do not let others steal my offerings."
He drew the string back effortlessly. The tip of the arrow of light pointed straight at the King's heart.
"Turn your chariot around, Traveler. Or the next arrow will not strike wood."
"Traveler?"
The word hung in the air, heavier than the humidity of the forest.
Shantanu's eyes narrowed into slits of burning gold. He threw his head back and laughed—a harsh, incredulous sound. "You have eyes of the river, boy, but you see nothing. I am no traveler. I am the Law in these woods. I am the Lord of this Earth!"
He grabbed another arrow from his quiver, this one fletched with red eagle feathers—a war arrow, designed to puncture plate armor.
The boy on the branch didn't bow. He didn't tremble. He barely blinked.
"A Lord?" The boy tilted his head, his voice echoing with a chilling, melodic indifference. "A true Lord protects the life in his garden. You... you just want to kill it. You are no Lord. You are a butcher in silk."
Shantanu's face went purple. "I do not negotiate with children."
He moved with the blinding speed of a veteran warrior. In one fluid motion, he drew, aimed, and loosed.
Thwack.
The arrow screamed toward the boy's throat. It was a kill shot, fired with enough force to embed itself in the mahogany trunk behind him.
The boy did not flinch. He did not even dodge.
He simply tilted his bow. The crystalline weapon hummed, and a shield of translucent blue energy—like a sheet of frozen water—materialized in front of him.
Ping.
Shantanu's heavy iron arrow struck the barrier and crumpled like a dry twig, falling uselessly to the forest floor.
Shantanu froze. Sorcery.
The boy looked down, his silver robes fluttering in a wind that wasn't blowing. "Your aim is true," he noted, sounding like a teacher grading a student. "But your weapon is... primitive. Like your temper."
"Then let us see if you bleed like a mortal!" Shantanu roared.
He leaped back into his chariot. "Drive!" he commanded.
The chariot surged forward, crushing the undergrowth. Shantanu became a blur of motion. He didn't fire one arrow; he fired a storm. One. Two. Three. He was the greatest archer of his generation for a reason. He could loose three arrows before the first one hit its mark.
The air was filled with the hiss of death. A triangulation of steel aimed at the boy's head, heart, and stomach.
The boy finally moved.
He didn't jump; he flowed.
He stepped off the branch as if walking down an invisible staircase. He drifted through the air, his body twisting with the impossible grace of a ribbon in water.
The first arrow missed his shoulder by an inch. The second passed through the billowing silk of his sleeve. The third, he caught.
He caught it out of the air with his bare hand, his pale fingers snatching the steel shaft inches from his chest.
He landed on a large mossy boulder, soundless as a shadow. He looked at the arrow in his hand—shaking his head with disappointment—then snapped it in two with a casual flick of his wrist.
"Is this the strength of the warriors of this land?" the boy mocked, tossing the broken pieces aside. "My mother told me the men here were giants. But you... you are just a loud man with a toy."
Shantanu's vision went red. The insult to his prowess—and the dismissal of his power—broke his restraint.
"You want a giant?" Shantanu snarled, tossing his bow aside and grabbing a heavier, darker weapon from the rack of the chariot. "Then I will bury you like one."
He leaped from the moving chariot, landing heavily on the earth, the ground shaking under his golden boots. He drew a sword—a massive, curved blade that gleamed with a hungry light.
He charged.
Shantanu was a tank. He closed the distance in seconds, swinging the blade in a horizontal arc meant to cleave the boy in half.
The boy didn't draw a sword. He simply raised his crystalline bow.
Clang!
Shantanu's steel blade collided with the delicate crystal bow. But the crystal didn't shatter. It rang like a temple bell.
Shantanu pushed, his muscles bulging, veins popping in his neck, putting all his earthly strength into the bind. He was strong enough to wrestle tigers. He should have crushed the slender youth.
But the boy stood firm. He held the older man's strike with one hand, his feet barely sinking into the moss. He looked bored.
"You fight with anger," the boy observed, his face inches from Shantanu's straining features. The cold radiating from the boy was intense—like standing next to a glacier. "Anger makes you heavy, stranger. Water is soft. That is why it breaks the rock."
With a sudden burst of energy, the boy pushed.
A shockwave of blue light exploded from the contact point.
BOOM.
Shantanu was thrown backward. The King of Hastinapura flew ten feet through the air, crashing into the dirt, his sword spinning away into the bushes.
He gasped, the wind knocked out of him. He scrambled to his knees, coughing, his royal finery stained with mud. He looked up to see the boy hovering above him—literally hovering a few inches off the ground, an arrow of pure blinding light nocked on his string, aimed directly between Shantanu's eyes.
The boy's expression was no longer bored. It was lethal.
"Yield," the boy commanded, the tip of the celestial arrow glowing brighter than the sun. "Or the next one takes your soul, not your breath."
The command echoed through the clearing, backed by the hum of celestial energy.
Shantanu stared up at the glowing arrow tip. He tasted blood in his mouth—his own. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing him into the dirt. He was the descendant of Bharata. He was the protector of the Aryavarta. And he was being held at gunpoint by a child in silk robes.
Yield? The word was poison. A Kuru King does not yield. He conquers, or he dies.
Shantanu's eyes closed. The rage that had been hot and fiery turned cold and calculating. If steel could not touch this sorcerer, then he would use the weapons of the sages.
He began to whisper.
It was a low, rhythmic chant in Sanskrit, a vibration that started deep in his chest.
Om...
The air in the forest suddenly grew heavy. The birds stopped singing. The wind died. The static charge in the atmosphere spiked, making the hair on the guards' arms stand up.
The boy on the rock frowned. He tilted his head, listening. His expression shifted from arrogance to sudden, sharp recognition.
"A Mantra?" the boy whispered, his eyes widening. "You invoke the Agneyastra against a single archer? You are mad."
Shantanu didn't stop. He stood up, ignoring the arrow pointed at his face. He held out his empty hand. The air around his fingers began to warp and twist, glowing with a terrifying orange heat. He was summoning fire—divine fire.
"If you are a spirit," Shantanu intoned, his voice layering with power, "then burn like one."
The boy's face hardened. He didn't flee. He didn't beg. He dropped his bow and brought his hands together in a complex mudra.
"If you want fire, Stranger," the boy said, his voice calm but thrumming with immense power, "I will give you the Ocean."
The boy began his own chant. Blue light swirled around him, forming a vortex. The moisture in the air condensed instantly. The ground beneath him turned to mud. He was summoning the Varunastra—the divine weapon of water.
The forest was caught between them—Fire and Water, Rage and Calm.
The energy built to a screaming pitch. Shantanu's hand was a miniature sun. The boy's hand was a tidal wave held in check.
"RELEASE!" Shantanu roared, thrusting his hand forward.
"SUBMERGE!" the boy commanded, thrusting his palm out.