His eyes widened. A shiver of excitement ran through him. He was only fifteen, yet he felt as if destiny itself had placed this relic in his hands. Without hesitation, he gathered the quiver, the darts, and the board, carrying them to his room.
Once there, he looked around for a place to hang the board. To his delight, luck seemed to favor him—a single nail already jutted out from the wall, once used to hold a small painting. Smiling, he realized no extra effort was needed, and more importantly, he would avoid attracting his uncle's ire.
Now, with the board in place and the darts in hand, the adventure was ready to begin...
Hurriedly, Sumendu hung the dartboard onto the nail and stepped back. He pulled out the first dart, gripped it tightly, and—ignoring the strange warning etched in Sanskrit, "प्रत्येकं बाणं कालयन्त्रम् अस्ति" (Each dart is a time machine)—flung it toward the board.
The dart struck the outer ring.
"Damn it," he muttered, disappointed that he had missed the bull's-eye. He stepped forward to retrieve it.
But before he could reach the board, the world around him shifted. It was as if he had walked straight through a curtain of time. The room was still there—but not quite. The air felt heavier, the sounds outside different, the very atmosphere charged with tension.
Startled, he turned in confusion. A cracked, weathered mirror stood in the corner. He moved toward it and froze.
The reflection staring back was not that of a fifteen-year-old boy. Instead, a hardened thirty-five-year-old man gazed back at him—broad-shouldered, clad in the uniform of a soldier from a princely state.
A deafening explosion rumbled in the distance, shaking the ground beneath his feet. His pulse quickened. He was no longer in the safety of his uncle's house—he was in the middle of a war.
His eyes darted to the desk, the same one that had once concealed the darts. Upon it lay a rolled-up letter, sealed with the insignia of royalty. Hands trembling, he picked it up. Though written in Sanskrit, the words flowed effortlessly in his mind, as if he had known the language his whole life:
"दिवा प्रकाशेन दुर्गं प्राप्नुवन्तु। क्षणम् अपि न हास्यतु। राज्ञः प्राणः संकटग्रस्तः अस्ति।"
(Reach the fort by daylight. Do not lose a moment. The king's life is in danger.)
Sweat trickled down his temple. His breathing grew shallow. Outside, the chaos intensified—shouts, clashing steel, and the unmistakable sound of hooves pounding the earth.
Then came the blood-curdling war cry, closer this time.
Before he could act, the door burst open. A woman staggered inside, an arrow cruelly embedded in her back, blood spilling from her lips. Her eyes locked onto his, wide with shock and pain.
A raw cry tore from his throat—
"Nima!"
He rushed forward, catching her as she collapsed into his arms. Lowering himself to the floor, he cradled her gently. She knew she was dying; her head rested in his lap. She was his only love, and her life was now slipping away.
Her lips moved—she was trying to say something. He bent closer to hear her words, his heart shattering. She urged him to leave, but he refused to listen.
She folded her hands and pleaded with her eyes, as if to say: Time is short, the enemy is here—do not waste another moment. Go.
She pulled him close again and whispered, "Raviwarman is in..."
Those were her last words. Her life was gone.
With a heavy heart, Sumendu laid Nima gently on the floor, her lifeless eyes still haunting him. Swallowing his grief, he pulled out his sabre and darted out of the back door. Two enemy soldiers were already in hot pursuit, their footsteps pounding closer.