The courtyard of Vyomtara lay silent beneath the early sky.
Morning mist drifted low across the stone, curling around pillars and training posts like pale breath. The air was cold enough to sting bare skin, yet calm—undisturbed by wind or birdsong.
The triplets arrived barefoot.
They wore simple training clothes: dark fabric tied close to the body, sleeves rolled, hair bound neatly back. No ornaments. No sigils. No symbols of status.
Only flesh.Only breath.
Rishi Vedananda stood at the center of the courtyard, his staff resting lightly against the ground. His eyes were closed, yet his presence filled the space like a still lake—quiet, deep, and watchful.
Today, there were no weapons in their hands.
Only the ground beneath their feet.
"Before you touch violence," the Rishi said softly, "your body must remember stillness."
At his signal, the triplets spread out across the courtyard.
"Sit."
They lowered themselves onto the cold stone.
"Spine straight. Chin relaxed. Breath slow."
They obeyed.
"Power does not begin in the hands," he continued. "It begins in alignment."
The Rishi guided them through movements older than any Path.
Stretches that opened joints and sinew.Postures that tested balance and patience.Slow transitions that burned quietly through muscle and bone.
They learned how to stand without tension.How to shift weight without sound.How to breathe without haste.
Sweat formed—not from exertion alone, but from restraint.
Aditya struggled against stillness, muscles tightening whenever he was told to relax.Sasi adapted quickly, finding rhythm in breath and motion.Aryan moved with quiet precision, his balance settling as though the ground itself guided him.
"Remember this," the Rishi said as they held a long, trembling stance."A weapon magnifies what the body already is."
He tapped his staff once against the stone.
"If your foundation is flawed, your weapon will betray you."
Only when their breathing steadied—only when their bodies quieted—did he allow them to rise.
That was when they saw the weapons.
Wooden racks lined the edges of the courtyard.
Practice swords carved from pale oak.Blunted spears and worn staves.Wooden tridents, bows, axes, glaives, chains, hooked blades—some familiar, others foreign and strange.
All of them dull.All of them honest.
"You were born into a warrior house," the Rishi said."Not nobles who hide behind walls, nor scholars who fight with ink.Before you choose a weapon, you must learn to respect them all."
"No metal," the Rishi said. "No shortcuts."
Then he gestured.
"Touch everything."
The day unfolded without instruction.
Aditya moved first, drawn instinctively to weight and reach. He tested staves, swung axes, tried spears that demanded control rather than speed. Each weapon taught him something different—and each punished his impatience in its own way.
When he lifted the wooden trident, he paused.
The weight pulled forward.The balance demanded his whole body.
He adjusted his stance without being told.
The weapon did not move quickly.
It moved truthfully.
Sasi took his time.
He tested daggers, curved blades, longer swords. His practice was slow and deliberate—adjusting angles, refining grip, listening to how breath shaped motion.
Some weapons felt clumsy.Some felt sharp even without an edge.
With a wooden sword in hand, his movements flowed—cut into recovery, motion into stillness.
Aryan tested everything.
Staff.Spear.Axe.Even the chain.
Each weapon was lifted, weighed, understood—and returned gently to its place.
Only then did he approach the bows.
Different weights.Different curves.Different tensions.
When he finally chose one, he did not fire.
He simply stood.
Breathing.Listening.
Rishi Vedananda observed without comment.
As the day stretched toward afternoon, arms trembled and palms burned. Muscles protested.
None of the boys stopped.
On the second day, the Rishi corrected them.
Not techniques.
Foundations.
He adjusted Aditya's feet until strength flowed downward instead of bursting outward.
"Force without grounding wastes itself," he said quietly.
He corrected Sasi's shoulders, slowing his breath until blade and lungs moved as one.
"A rushed breath leads a blade to die."
He guided Aryan's posture, teaching him how to hold tension without strain.
"A bow does not obey strength," he said. "It obeys patience."
On the third day, the Rishi stepped back.
"Choose what you wish to train today," he said. "Nothing more."
Aditya returned to the trident, practicing thrusts, sweeps, anchoring strikes—each movement demanding discipline, power contained rather than released.
Sasi remained with the sword, refining cuts until even sound seemed to follow his timing.
Aryan trained at distance, adjusting stance, angle, and draw—his arrows flying only when intention fully settled.
At dusk, Rishi Vedananda finally spoke.
"You have not chosen your Paths," he said."And you should not."
He studied them—not their weapons, but their posture, their breath, their stillness.
"What you have begun," he said, "is understanding."
Behind them, faint silver rings hovered quietly—unchanged, each bearing a single Ashoka mark.
No chakra surged.No constellation answered.
Yet something far more important had taken root.
Not power.Not destiny.
Foundation.
And the courtyard of Vyomtara, steeped in mist and silence, bore witness to the first true steps of warriors yet to be named.