The midday sun blazed overhead, its heat pressing down on the akhara. Inside, swords clashed with the sound of thunder, each strike ringing through the courtyard like iron against the sky. Acharya Vedan, once a Maharathi of the mountains, moved among his disciples, his eyes sharp, his voice commanding.
"Good. Hold your stance! Strong arms make warriors, but stronger hearts make legends. Surya, my boy—you will become the greatest warrior of this age."
The prince smiled, pride gleaming in his eyes. With practiced grace, he struck again, his movements clean and elegant. The other students looked on in admiration, though one younger boy tightened his grip on his sword, watching with quiet curiosity.
At the gate, a shadow stirred. A boy, no older than fourteen, stepped forward. Dust clung to his bare feet from a long road, and his tunic, patched with clumsy stitches, hung loose on his thin frame. His eyes, dark and heavy with sorrow, carried more weight than his years should have borne. He bowed low, his voice breaking the rhythm.
"Gurudev... I have come to learn. Take me as your student."
Acharya did not even turn his head. "And what offering do you bring me, child? Knowledge is not cheap. Do you bring gold? Land? A patron to vouch for you?"
The boy straightened, trembling under the question, though his voice stayed steady. His hands, rough and scarred from toil, clenched at his sides.
"Gurudev... I have nothing. No gold, no gems. Only myself. My body, my will. Take me as your servant if you must, but let me learn."
A ripple of laughter ran through the disciples. One broad-shouldered youth, his jewelled hilt flashing in the sun, muttered loud enough for all to hear:
"Empty hands, empty blood."
The words cut deep, but the boy did not flinch.
The Acharya raised an eyebrow, disdain curling in his voice. "Nothing? Then tell me, boy—are you some prince in hiding, cloaked in rags to test me?"
The boy shook his head. His voice like a rasp.
"I am no prince, no royal blood. My kin..." His fingers twitched, grasping at a ghost. "All I had was my grandmother. She was slain by—"
"Enough." Acharya's voice cracked sharp, silencing him. "Why do you stand here as if the world owes you? This akhara is no charity for orphans."
Laughter swelled again, feeding on his words. But the boy remained still, fists clenched, but did not speak, still hope in his eyes. Acharya's gaze hardened, the arrogance of one who had once trained kings flashing in his eyes.
"Do you not know, boy? The gods favor those born under fortunate stars—not those who crawl from the dust. The path of Pranna is carved for heirs to thrones, not for strays of the fields. My students will be legends. My akhara is for those destined for greatness, not for your kind. Leave, before your dust stains this ground."
The boy bowed once more, deeper this time, as though pressing the last of his dignity into the dirt. The disciples' scorn pressed against him, heavy as chains, but he did not waver. Slowly, he turned and began to walk. His feet dragged through the dust toward the gate. Behind him, the laughter followed like a cruel echo into the wilderness. He did not look back.
A faint sigh escaped him, and a wry, sorrowful smile ghosted across his lips.
"I knew this would happen... Without name or kingdom, no one accepts you. Not the Acharya's fault. It's just my fate. A birthmark I was born with."
Under the temple's shadow.
The bazaar hummed with life—vendors bellowed over clattering carts.
The boy wandered to the bazaar's edge. The smell of the bazaar, ghee and spiced lentils drifted from a food stall, where nobles in silk kurtas and merchants weighed down with gems laughed over steaming plates. His stomach twisted, hollow and aching. A child inside tossed half a roti carelessly to the ground.
The shopkeeper saw him and snapped, waving a hand.
" Oye! Move along, boy! Don't stand there. Your kind makes my shop look filthy."
The boy lowered his gaze and stepped back without a word.
"Food will come," he murmured. "Or it will not. Sleep will find me—whether on silk or stone, it's all the same."
His eyes lingered on the temple steps, where the banyan's shade stretched like a tired hand. A broken cart sat nearby, its splintered frame offering the promise of rest, poor though it was. Clutching his stomach, he turned from the bazaar and walked on. His shadow trailed him, as he trudged toward the wild.
As he faded from view, a hum escaped his lips—soft, steady, the only sound left to carry—hope.