Megha didn't hesitate. She had trained since childhood and had mastered the mace, spear, and sword. Reaching out, she gripped the bow with both hands, ready to wrench it from Aryavardhan’s grasp.
However, the moment he let go, the world seemed to tilt. The bow wasn’t just heavy; it felt as if it were made from the core of a mountain. Its weight crashed down on her, pulling her arms toward the earth. She gasped, her muscles straining until they burned, but the weapon remained unyielding. With a cry of frustration, her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the grass, pinned by the sheer weight of the wood.
Aryavardhan leaned down, his movements fluid and effortless, lifting the bow from her hands as if it were a feather. Megha sat in the dirt, breathless and humiliated, her hands shaking from exertion. The smile on Aryavardhan's face softened into something approaching compassion. He reached out a hand to help her up.
"You are named Devika," he said, "and indeed, there is a spark of the divine within you. I can see it. You are no ordinary maiden." He looked down at the weapon in his hand. "But this is the Narayana Dhanush. It was crafted by ancient sages, and it does not respond to muscle or bone. It responds to the soul. Only one who has conquered their own ego—one whose mind is as still as a lake at dawn—can bear its weight."
He turned back to her, locking his eyes onto hers. "Right now, your heart is a storm of anger and pride. Until you find peace within yourself, you will never be able to lift this bow, let alone wield it. Tell me, Princess, how can I fight a woman who is still at war with herself?"
Megha didn’t respond with her usual fire. Instead, she stood perfectly still, letting Aryavardhan’s words settle deep within her. She closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer to the Tridevi, the three mothers of the world. In that moment of surrender, the anger that had been simmering in her chest grew cold and quiet.
When she reached for the Narayana Dhanush again, she didn’t fight its weight. She didn’t try to dominate it. She simply accepted it. Using only one hand, she gripped the wood. It felt heavy—vastly anciently heavy—but it no longer dragged her down. As she pulled the string back, the sound it made wasn’t just a snap; it was a terrifying, low-frequency rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the island.
Aryavardhan handed her a single arrow, his eyes fixed on hers. "Your mind is caged by a storm of your own making," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor. "Fire this. Pierce the clouds of your own psyche."
Megha notched the arrow and aimed it toward the bleeding orange of the western horizon. As the arrow hissed into the sky, the atmosphere groaned. A massive, localized torrent of water suddenly erupted from the air above her, creating a vertical ocean that fell exclusively upon her.
The sensation was miraculous. She felt the heavy, chilling pressure of the water against her skin, washing away the grit of the road and the heat of her temper. Yet, as she looked down at her silk robes, she gasped. The water flowed through the fabric as if it were air, leaving her clothes bone-dry while her skin was drenched. It was a baptism of the soul—a cleansing of her pride that sank into the earth.
