The memory shifted, jumping forward like a heartbeat. The next day, Megha returned to the island, her spirit restless. The banyan tree stood empty. The silence of the island felt different today—heavy with anticipation.
A small squirrel darted across her path, its tiny paws clicking against the stones as it raced toward the sea. Instinctively, Megha followed.
Suddenly, a sharp thrum cut through the air. An arrow, fired with impossible precision, hissed past Megha’s cheek, the wind from its passage stinging her skin. It didn’t strike a target; instead, it sliced through the stems of three different fruit trees, sending a harvest crashing to the ground in an instant.
Megha turned, her heart hammering against her ribs. In the distance, standing amidst the shifting shadows of the trees, was a figure dressed in the simple, rough garb of an ascetic.
Krishnapriya, watching from the shadows of the memory, felt a sense of impending destiny. She followed Megha as the princess began to walk toward the mysterious archer, the secrets of the island finally beginning to unfurl.
Megha tracked the figure through the trees, her heart light and her steps rhythmic. When she finally closed the distance, she found Aryavardhan transformed. He was no longer the silent meditator; he embodied the hunt. In his right hand, he gripped a bow etched with the rugged symbol of an ancient tree, and a heavy quiver of arrows rested against his shoulder.
A playful laugh escaped Megha's lips. She couldn't help but admire the sharp lines of his silhouette against the lush island greenery. "You call yourself a mere guard?" she teased, clapping her hands with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "In my eyes, an archer with your grace belongs on a throne, not lurking in the shadows of a forest."
Aryavardhan didn’t return her smile. Without a word, he adjusted the fletching of an arrow and drew the string. The twang was instantaneous. Megha felt the hot rush of air and the whisper of wood as the arrow grazed the tip of her right ear.
Her breath hitched. She quickly shifted from playful to indignant, her mouth opening to scold him for his recklessness. But before she could speak, a second arrow hissed past her.
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Aryavardhan replied, his voice as cold and steady as the mountain air. "My path is determined by the Divine, not by the flattery of a stranger.”
Megha spun around, her anger ready to boil over. But the sight behind her turned her blood to ice. Pinned to the earth by the two arrows was a thick, poisonous snake. It was still alive, thrashing and coiling in a frantic, terrifying knot around the shafts.
A cold sweat broke out on her skin. She realized then that the snake had been inches from her heel, coiled and ready to strike. Aryavardhan hadn't been trying to scare her; he had been calculating. He used his arrows to trap the creature without killing it, sparing both the maiden and the snake.
Shaken, Megha watched him calmly sling his bow back over his shoulder. The realization of his skill—his "infallible mark"—left her speechless. She stood in silence, the stillness of the island ringing in her ears, her heartbeat slowly returning to normal.
