The sky was beginning to bleed into shades of saffron and gold. Within the temple, the priests moved with a rhythmic urgency, preparing for the Mangala Aarti. As the first sharp rays of the sun pierced through the morning mist, illuminating the dust motes like floating diamonds, the bells began to chime. Aryavardhan stood before the ancient Jyotirlinga, his head bowed, his eyes sealed in a deep, silent prayer that seemed to connect him to the very stone.
Rajvardhan, however, was restless. His mind was a storm of unanswered questions and lingering confusion. He waited until the final echo of the bells died away and the sacred prasad was placed in his hands before following his brother into the open courtyard. Unable to meet Aryavardhan’s intense, piercing gaze, he looked toward the horizon, where the sun was climbing steadily.
"Brother," he said, his voice taut with emotion, "explain this to me. I feel like a leaf caught in a gale. Why are we here? My mind cannot find peace."
Aryavardhan looked at the ocean, his expression softening. "Dear Anuj, think of where we stand. Before He crossed the sea to invade Lanka, Lord Shri Ram stood on this very sand. He worshipped Mahadev here, and pleased by His devotion, Mahadev remained as Rameshwar. Our ancestors belonged to the Surya dynasty; we are Suryavanshis. This place, touched by the first light of the Sun God, is sacred to our blood. It is from here that we gather the strength to move toward our ultimate goal."
With a solemn nod, Aryavardhan turned to the sun, his voice chanting the Aditya Hrudayam Stotra with a resonance that seemed to vibrate through the earth. When the prayer concluded, Rajvardhan asked for permission to return home, but Aryavardhan held up a hand.
"Wait," he commanded.
In a sudden, fluid blur of motion, Aryavardhan drew the sword from his waist. Before Rajvardhan could even gasp, the blade was offered—not as a threat, but as a passing of power. Rajvardhan knelt, accepting the heavy steel with a deep bow. In that instant, the space around him warped, and he was pulled through the air, reappearing heartbeats later in the familiar halls of the royal palace in Prabhas Kshetra.
Left alone, Aryavardhan closed his eyes and summoned the image of Vidyadevi Saraswati. Through an ancient, esoteric art, he allowed his physical form to dissolve, his consciousness unravelling into the five primal elements. He became the wind and the light, soaring northward until he reached the towering, frost-bitten peaks of the Himalayas.
At the base of a jagged snowy ridge, his spirit re-coalesced. The cold bit into his skin as his physical body manifested once more. Standing before him on a mound of shimmering ice was a sage, so deeply immersed in meditation that he seemed part of the mountain itself. The brilliance radiating from the holy man was blinding. Aryavardhan bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the snow.
After an eternity of silence, the sage’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at Aryavardhan not with surprise, but with recognition.
