At dawn, war drums echoed across the city of Lohitpuri, their relentless rhythm vibrating through the streets and filling the air with anticipation. Four sigils, symbols of power and allegiance, billowed in the wind atop towering banners. The first, a sword entwined with leaves and creepers, represented Savignya's disciplined yet unrelenting force. The second, a golden bull, stood as the proud emblem of Parashar's unshakable command. The third, a bow and arrow, bore the mark of the fiercely ambitious Dhanudanda. The last, two swords crossed over a shield, was Arya's banner—a symbol of defiance, resilience, and an unyielding will to survive.
Lohitpuri, the city that had become the heart of their resistance, buzzed with preparation. Soldiers strapped on their armor, checked the sharpness of their swords, and whispered prayers to their gods. Some shared nervous laughter, others sat in quiet contemplation. The tension was suffocating, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on them like a storm about to break.
Standing atop a raised platform at the city's temple, Parashar, clad in full armor, his golden bull sigil gleaming in the morning sun, addressed the vast army before him. His voice rang out, clear and commanding, as he unsheathed his sword and held it high.
"Men, we march today!" he roared. "Pledge your loyalty, pledge your blood! We will march to the end. We will stop for nothing. Steel bends, but we do not!"
The soldiers erupted into cheers, their voices a deafening roar of unity and resolve. The war drums intensified, their beats fueling the fire within every warrior's chest. Then, with a powerful gesture, Parashar pointed his sword toward the city's gates. The march had begun.
The four warlords mounted their chariots, their second-in-commands riding beside them on horseback. Arya, though young, held a presence that could not be ignored. The twins, mounted on swift horses, flanked him, their eyes sharp, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. Ashvapati, refusing the comfort of a chariot, chose instead to march at the forefront, his mere presence inspiring those behind him.
Behind them, thousands of soldiers, cavalry, and elephants moved in unison, a wave of steel and determination heading toward Sharvanagar—the stronghold of Sharvas.
In Sharvanagar…
The news of their advance reached Sharvas's ears swiftly. Sitting within his chambers, a smirk played on his lips as he listened to his informants. He expected this. They were coming.
"Good," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Let them come."
Raktapasu, Eknandini, and Kritipal stood around him, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"They think they can walk into our lands and take what is ours?" Raktapasu sneered. "We will show them why that is a mistake."
Sharvas stood, adjusting his armor, and addressed his gathered commanders. "Prepare the men. Send messages to the others—let them know it's time."
Within hours, the city was in full motion. Soldiers lined the walls, their armor gleaming under the sun. War machines—massive catapults, arrow launchers, and siege weapons—were stationed at key points, ready to rain destruction upon their enemies. The city gates were fortified, every weak point reinforced. No corner was left unguarded.
Outside the city, the open battlefield stretched wide, a land that had witnessed many wars before and would soon be stained with fresh blood.
As night fell, Sharvas gathered his warlords one final time. "Tomorrow, we meet our enemies," he declared. "Remember their faces, because you won't see them again."
His words were met with a thunderous roar of approval. Soldiers banged their weapons against their shields. The air buzzed with an almost electric energy.
"None shall pass! None shall live!"
The army roared in unison, their voices filled with unwavering resolve.
By dawn, Parashar's forces had reached Sharvanagar. The morning mist hung low over the battlefield as the two armies faced each other from a distance. Tents had been set up behind Parashar's lines. Soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, adrenaline coursing through their veins.
Four warlords from each side rode forward, their horses kicking up dust as they met in the empty land between their armies. They stopped, facing each other, a final attempt at dialogue before swords were drawn.
Parashar spoke first, his voice steady. "You still have time, Sharvas. Call off this madness, surrender your claim, and step aside. This is your last chance to reconsider."
Sharvas chuckled, shaking his head. "You stand at my city gates and ask me to reconsider? The arrogance."
"You know we can't go back now," Dhanudanda interjected, his voice tinged with frustration.
"Even if you wanted to, we wouldn't let you," Raktapasu countered with a smirk.
Arya, his gaze steady, leaned forward slightly in his saddle. "I hope you've said your goodbyes," he said coldly before turning his horse and riding back toward his army.
The others followed suit, their silence heavier than words.
Sharvas and his warlords did the same, returning to their respective forces.
The last attempt at words had failed.
There was nothing left but war.