Sindu's sandals sank into the damp earth, each step muffled by fallen leaves.. The forest stretched ahead, its silence broken only by the chatter of birds and the hiss of cicadas. His mind, though, was far from the peace around him.
He moved through the forest with the ease of a man certain of his place in the world. In his own eyes, he was already the finest warrior of the durbar. No soldier had ever dared to truly challenge him—and that, to him, was proof enough.
"Hard weapon practice again..." The thought gnawed at him.
His guru would not spare him—the wooden staff strikes, the endless drills, the bruises he would carry back to his chambers.
"The longer I stayed away from that training ground, the freer I felt. Why should I waste hours under Guruji's glare, sweating and bleeding, when I already know my worth?"
To Sindu, training was unnecessary repetition. He believed he had already mastered what others spent years chasing. Discipline, pain, humility—such things were for common soldiers, not for a prince destined to rule.
Perhaps his hands were meant to command, not blister—or was that only what he wanted to believe?
"I am the best warrior in the realm. I've proven it."
A smile touched his lips as he remembered the new guardsman from yesterday. The man hadn't even fought; he'd simply frozen, his sword dropping as he stared in pure admiration. He hadn't even needed to swing. That was the power he commanded—a presence so formidable it ended conflicts before they began. That was true mastery.
"Every sparring match is just further proof. How could I not call myself the finest?"
Their hesitation, their half-hearted blows, their quick surrender—he took all of it as recognition of his unmatched skill.
A low branch grazed his forehead as he ducked too late, its rough bark scraping like the calluses he refused to let harden on his hands. He cursed under his breath, shoving the branch aside, as if it too mocked his perfection.
Guruji never accepted it. He always said fear blinded his opponents.
A warrior tested by hesitant hands knows nothing of real battle.
A hot breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and for a moment, the sound was not soothing, but sounded like the low, scoffing laughter of the old man himself.
He kicked at a loose stone on the path, sending it skittering into the undergrowth, a petty dismissal of Guruji's doubts.
"Guruji calls their hesitation weakness, but to me it is recognition. They don't dare fight because they already know I've won.".
And so he walked freely, untroubled by the thought of missed lessons. He considered himself untouchable, a warrior perfected, a blade already honed to its sharpest edge. The long shadows of evening stretched through the forest, but a final, brilliant shaft of setting sun broke through the canopy. It felt like a solitary spotlight meant for him alone, a golden cage of light in the deepening blues of twilight.
"Why should I, a prince, waste hours breaking my bones with weapons? he told himself bitterly. My place is in the durbar hall, shaping laws, guiding men, not swinging blades like a common soldier."
The weight of duty pulled in two directions—his father's stern decree that a ruler must master the art of war, and his own belief that wisdom and strategy should be his weapons.
He stopped under a tall mango tree whose branches spilled heavy with fruit. Lowering himself onto the thick roots, he leaned back and shut his eyes. The sweet smell of ripening mango filled the air , sweet and heavy, a promise of idleness
"I need an excuse,"
His mind raced: a sudden fever? A twisted ankle? A message that demanded his presence at the council? Each excuse felt flimsy. His guru was sharp, not the kind to be fooled easily. The chatter of birds nearby seemed to take on a taunting, questioning rhythm. Lia-ar. Lia-ar.
A crow cawed above, shaking a mango loose. It struck the soil with a dull thud. Sindu picked it up, its golden skin warm in his palm. Perfect. Untouched. Like him.
"Perhaps I'll tell Guruji I must inspect the orchards for the royal feast. Father trusts me with such duties. Yes... he'll believe it."
He let the excuse unfurl in his mind, savoring its neatness—until another voice cut through, sharp as a staff strike:
"Excuses are weapons of the weak, Sindu. A prince who avoids hardship will be crushed by it when the time comes."
The voice—Guruji's, or his own conscience—echoed in his skull, stripping his pride bare.
Shame surged through him. Defiance followed. His fingers clenched. The golden skin split pulp spilling over his hand, sticky and warm. The sweetness clung to his skin, but it soured quickly, thick and heavy. The air grew heavy with sweetness—cloying, suffocating.
No one believed him—perhaps not even himself.