Krishnapriya gripped a peculiar weapon—a long staff tipped with a sharp blade on one end and a heavy broadsword on the other. It was a strange, hybrid instrument of war, unlike anything Aryavardhan had encountered in his travels across Aryavarta. Yet, his expression remained unreadable, a faint, cryptic smile playing on his lips that only served to irritate his opponent further.
With a defiant cry, Krishnapriya lunged. She vaulted into the air, bringing the bladed end of her staff down with the force of a falling star. Aryavardhan met the blow with a flick of his wrist, his sword clashing against her steel in a shower of sparks.
She didn't let up. Stepping back only to gain momentum, she swung again, this time utilizing the sheer weight of the broadsword's end. The impact was thunderous. Aryavardhan was forced to bring his left hand to the hilt, bracing himself as the vibration of the strike rattled his bones. They stood locked in a stalemate, muscles straining and breaths ragged, neither willing to yield an inch. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Aryavardhan shoved her back, creating a few feet of breathing room. However, he could feel his vitality beginning to leak away; his limbs grew heavy, and his reaction time slowed. Seeing the fatigue creeping into his eyes, Krishnapriya’s smile widened. She knew the sanctuary was draining him, and she was just beginning.
Far to the east in Varunaprastha, the sun had long since surrendered to the night. Megha opened her eyes, emerging from a meditation that had felt more like a fever dream than a prayer. Her mind was a clouded maze of half-formed images and a nagging sense of dread that sat like lead in her stomach.
Drawn by a desperate need for peace, she walked through the silent palace grounds toward the Tridevi temple. The evening air was cool, but it did nothing to soothe the tremor in her hands. As she climbed the temple steps, she found the priests moving through the shadows, lighting oil lamps for the evening rites.
She knelt before the icons of the Triple Goddess, her head bowed low. Charudatta, an elderly assistant priest who had known her since childhood, approached quietly. He saw the tension in her shoulders and the way her knuckles were white from clenching her robes.
"Child," he asked softly, his voice a comforting anchor in the dark. "What weighs so heavily on your heart?"
Megha looked up, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Gurudev, I feel as though the world is tilting beneath my feet. For the last hour, a cold fear has taken hold of me. I feel... I feel as if something terrible is happening, somewhere far away. What if my family is in danger? What if I am not strong enough to protect them?"
Charudatta placed a steadying hand on her head, his touch warm and fatherly. A ripple of calm washed over her, dulling the edge of her panic. "Deep breaths, daughter," he reassured her. "You are a spark of Mahalakshmi herself. Your presence alone is a shield for this house. Besides, Varunaprastha now stands under the shadow of the great Aryavarta. Who would dare challenge such a union? Rest your mind."
At the mention of Aryavarta, a single word echoed in the chambers of Megha’s mind, clear as a bell and filled with a strange, bittersweet pride:
"Abhinandan!"
