The promise between them hung in the air, sweet and binding. As Megha’s words took hold, a genuine smile broke across Aryavardhan’s face—a rare sight for the stoic warrior. They moved toward each other, finding solace in a brief, warm embrace. The moment was shattered, however, by a thunderous neigh from Sugriva. The great horse tossed his head and roared, prompting the pair to step apart, though their hands lingered for a second too long.
Megha approached the winged stallion with a newfound confidence. As she turned her back to mount him, Sugriva stood perfectly still, his previous restlessness replaced by a q
uiet respect. With a graceful leap, she claimed her place on his back. Aryavardhan, momentarily stunned by her boldness and spirit, quickly mounted behind her, taking the reins once more.
Sugriva unfurled his massive wings and surged eastward toward Varunaprastha. As they soared, Aryavardhan glanced back at the horizon. The sun was dipping low, its fiery orange glow seeming to incinerate the shadows of their past troubles. It was a symbolic end; the old worries were burning away, making room for the hope of a new dawn.
The journey back felt swifter than the flight out. Sugriva moved with a focused intensity, cutting through the clouds until the familiar silhouettes of the palace gardens appeared below. They touched down softly in the very spot where their journey had begun.
Megha dismounted and gently stroked Sugriva’s muzzle, a silent gesture of gratitude for the magical flight. With a final look at Aryavardhan, she turned toward the Tridevi temple to begin her final rites of the day. Aryavardhan, his mind heavy with the weight of the coming empire, retreated to his royal chambers.
Inside the quiet of the palace, Aryavardhan sat in deep meditation, focusing his spirit on Lord Vishnu. Meanwhile, at the Tridevi temple, Rajvardhan stood watching the flickering lamps of the shrine. His contemplation was interrupted by the soft fluttering of wings as a snow-white dove landed nearby.
Recognizing the bird as a royal messenger, Rajvardhan approached it. Bound to its leg was a parchment inscribed in vibrant green ink—the signature mark of their brother, Dharmawardhana. The message was urgent: Return to the capital of Prabhas Kshetra immediately.
After a final bow to the idols, Rajvardhan signaled his charioteer. The chariot rattled through the palace gates, and within moments, Rajvardhan was standing at the entrance of Aryavardhan’s private study. He found his brother still lost in the silence of seclusion.
Rajvardhan stepped into the room and, without thinking, sat in the chair opposite his meditating brother. He began to read the message aloud, his voice breaking the stillness. A faint, knowing smile touched Aryavardhan’s lips, but when he finally opened his eyes, they were sharp and narrow.
The weight of that gaze hit Rajvardhan instantly. He realized his lapse in protocol. In their culture, the hierarchy of age and rank was sacred. To sit before an elder—especially a king—without being invited was a grave sign of disrespect.
Rajvardhan stood abruptly, pressing his palms together in a deep bow. "Forgive me, brother," he pleaded, his voice thick with regret. "I acted without thinking. I have no right to take a seat in your presence without your leave."
Aryavardhan rose slowly, his presence filling the room. "Brother," he said, his voice calm but firm, "you must remember that to seat yourself before an elder or a superior without command is to disregard the very fabric of our Aryan culture. Let this be the last time you forget your place."
He walked toward the window, looking out toward the horizon. "And I already know why you have come. Guruji has reached out through our brother. The capital calls for us."
