The air between them was thick with more than just the dust of battle; it was heavy with a history only the two of them understood.
Aryavardhana let his sword slip from his grip. It hit the earth with a hollow thud, a silent plea for the violence to end. He reached out a hand toward Krishnapriya, an unspoken bridge offered across the carnage. For a heartbeat, she wavered, lowering her guard and settling into her stance. But as Aryavardhana turned his back to walk toward the stillness of the lake, the fragile truce shattered.
Krishnapriya couldn’t let him reach the water. She let fly an arrow that grazed him, sending him stumbling to one knee. He faltered, the weight of a thousand moments pressing him down, but he forced himself back up. He didn’t look back. Even as five more arrows hissed through the air to block his path, he kept moving—disarmed, vulnerable, and driven by a purpose she couldn't yet grasp.
When he finally reached the muddy bank, Aryavardhana knelt. The lake was a dark mirror. In his reflection, he didn’t see a king; he saw a map of his own survival. The jagged lines across his face were stories of every strike he had barely escaped. He cupped the cool water and splashed his face, and as the grit of war washed away, a strange, terrifying vitality flooded his veins.
Krishnapriya, watching from the left, saw her opening. Seeing him distracted by his own reflection, she aimed for his shoulder and loosed a final, lethal bolt. But the man who stood up was not the man who had knelt.
With a fluid, predatory grace, Aryavardhana spun and caught the arrow mid-air. The shock on Krishnapriya’s face was visible even from a distance. The exhaustion that had plagued him moments ago had vanished, replaced by a cold, burning enthusiasm. He looked toward his discarded sword, and in a flicker of impossible light, the blade vanished from the dirt and reapplied itself into his palm.
The Final Duel
Seeing this, Krishnapriya’s eyes filled with tears—not of fear, but of the tragic realisation that this would only end one way. She snapped her staff in two, the wood splintering with a crack like thunder. In an instant, the shards transformed: a spear in one hand, a heavy battle-axe—a parashu—in the other.
They charged.
The collision was a blur of steel and desperation. She lunged with the spear while swinging the axe at his sword hand. Aryavardhana ducked, the wind of the spear whistling over his head, and parried the axe with a strike that sent sparks dancing into the daylight. The sheer force of her power vibrated through his bones; he finally understood that he wasn't fighting a mere mortal, but a force of nature.
"Enough," he breathed, deciding to hold nothing back.
He stepped into her space, inviting the dance. Krishnapriya didn't hesitate; she ran her hand over her axe, and the heavy metal flowed like liquid, reshaping itself into a gleaming sword. They stood face-to-face, two gods of war sharing one final, deep sigh. Then, they vanished into a whirlwind of steel. The only evidence of their presence was the rhythmic, deafening clack-clack-clack of blades meeting at impossible speeds.
By high noon, the world had gone still again.
Near the lapping waves of the lake, Krishnapriya collapsed. She sat on the scorched earth, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. Sweat soaked her hair, and her chest heaved with the weight of her defeat.
Aryavardhana stood over her, looking almost untouched. Aside from a few shallow scratches on his brow, he looked as though he had just woken from a rest. He took his angavastra, calmly wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked down at her—not with malice, but with a heavy, sombre respect.
"Krishnapriya," he said, his voice steady and low. "Your bravery is unmatched, and your skill is a gift. But this war is over. Don't throw your life away for a lost cause. Accept what has happened. Surrender to me."
