The first light of morning broke over the hills, painting the sky with streaks of orange and crimson. But to Veer, the beauty of the sunrise felt like a cruel mockery — a reminder that nature could still be peaceful while his heart was anything but. The air was heavy with the scent of rain, the kind that carried both life and destruction.
The previous night's council meeting still echoed in his mind. Leaders from each allied tribe had gathered, their voices clashing like steel on steel. Some demanded immediate war, others preached caution, and a few simply wanted to protect their own borders. Veer had sat in the middle of it all, his face calm but his mind spinning like a storm.
Now, standing atop the hill outside camp, he could see the valley below — a patchwork of green fields, rivers, and small settlements. That valley was the heart of the Nine Tribes Alliance, and if the enemy crossed into it, there would be no turning back.
Behind him, the camp stirred to life. Warriors sharpened spears, polished shields, and tied charms around their wrists. Women moved quickly, preparing food for the march, while elders offered silent prayers to the gods. And there, just beyond the rows of tents, the blacksmiths' forges roared, shaping the metal that would decide life or death.
"You're awake early," a familiar voice said.
Veer turned to see Asha, her hair tied back, her bow slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were sharp, but there was a shadow of worry in them.
"I couldn't sleep," Veer admitted. "Too many thoughts, too many… possibilities."
She stepped closer, studying him for a moment before speaking again. "The warriors trust you, Veer. More than they trust their own leaders. But trust is a blade with two edges — it can protect you, or it can cut you when you falter."
Her words struck deep, but Veer only nodded. "Then I cannot falter."
They walked together back toward the camp, where Chandan was waiting with a map spread over a low table. The lines and markings showed enemy movement — small raiding parties near the border, scouts sighted in the hills, and a large force gathering to the east.
"They're testing us," Chandan said grimly. "Pushing at the edges to see where we break."
"Then we give them nothing," Veer replied. "Every raid they attempt will fail. Every scout they send will not return."
"But that will reveal our strength," Asha countered. "If they know exactly how strong we are, they will come in greater numbers."
"Perhaps," Veer said quietly, "but fear will do more damage to them than any sword."
A silence fell between them as the rain finally began to fall — slow at first, then heavier, soaking the earth and drumming against the tents. Somewhere in the camp, a war drum sounded, its deep beat spreading through the air like the heartbeat of the coming battle.
That night, the rain did not stop. Veer sat alone in his tent, staring at the small stone idol of Lord Shiva that he always kept beside him. He whispered a prayer, not for victory, but for clarity — for the strength to lead without losing himself.
Outside, the sound of footsteps approached. It was an old messenger, his cloak dripping wet. He knelt before Veer, his voice low.
"They're moving, my lord. The enemy will be at the river by dawn."
Veer's fingers tightened around the idol. There it was — the moment he had been waiting for, and the one he had feared.
He rose slowly, every movement deliberate. The storm outside seemed to grow louder, the wind rattling the tent flaps as if the world itself was warning him.
"Wake the warriors," Veer said, his voice calm but sharp as steel. "Tomorrow, the valley will not remember peace — but it will remember us."
And as the night stretched on, the storm raged — but in Veer's heart, a fire burned brighter than any lightning in the sky.