The altar before them no longer felt like carved stone.
It pulsed—like the heart of the mountain itself, like an old wound reopened to test if it still bled.
The Names of Power etched on its surface shimmered now in three colors: red, gold, and black. Each line sang—not musically, but like fire sings to dry leaves. Like hunger sings to silence.
Parashurama placed his hand upon the altar. "The first truth is flame."
A circle of ash ignited around them. A sigil older than rain. The sky did not darken this time. It burned.
"Agneyastra," he whispered, "is not fire. It is destruction disguised as purity. It does not burn—it judges. It does not wait for command. It tests your heart the moment you dare call it."
Devavrata's eyes watered as the air turned liquid.
Breathing felt like swallowing hot sand.
His robes began to smoke.
"Kneel," Parashurama said.
He did.
"Offer your name."
"I am Devavrata, son of Shantanu, borne of Ganga."
"Wrong," Parashurama snapped. "Your blood is not enough."
He gestured toward the fire-ring, which now rose like a dome around them.
"Strip away your names. Your oaths. Your bloodlines.
What remains?"
Devavrata closed his eyes.
Pain rose in waves. Flesh blistered. His spear-sword hissed and cracked in its sheath.
"What remains?" the sage demanded.
Devavrata opened his mouth—yet no words came. His lungs filled with smoke, not air.
His body teetered forward—he was falling—collapsing—
And then he saw it.
A memory that wasn't his.
A child screaming as his village burned.
A warrior kneeling before corpses of kin he couldn't save.
A boy praying to fire—not for power, but for forgiveness.
He understood.
His eyes flew open, now glowing amber-gold.
"I am the one who chooses not to burn the innocent."
The fire exploded inward.
The sigil cracked. Parashurama stepped back, shielding himself with one raised arm.
And in the center of the flames, unburned but not untouched, stood Devavrata.
His robes were gone, turned to ash. But over his skin now danced fine, golden mantras—scar-patterns that pulsed with inner light.
Hovering before him— was a flame.
It unfolded, like a lotus made of infernos, petals breathing tongues of gold and scarlet. From within it, a voice emerged—not heard, but felt—in the marrow, in the void between heartbeats.
"You dare hold flame."
The words were not spoken. They burned themselves into his bones.
"Who are you to wield judgment,?"
Devavrata now stood alone, in a field of endless ash. The stars above were still burning—but bleeding. Bleeding fire.
Across from him, standing in a body forged of coals and suns, towered the Law of Fire.
Agni, Guardian of the Flame Sutra.
Its eyes were two comets. Its voice, thunder trapped in an oven of time.
"Answer thrice. Falter once—and be forgotten."
Devavrata clenched his fists, though his body felt like wax before the sun.
The First Flame roared:
"When you strike—will it be to protect, or to punish?"
His mind flashed.
To bandits he had slain. To rebels he had spared. To a prince beaten in war and a child caught in crossfire.
He answered, voice hoarse:
"To protect. Even if I must punish."
The flames recoiled—then licked closer, whispering.
The Second Flame rose, crackling through skies of fire:
"When fire consumes the innocent, who bears the sin—fire, or the hand that calls it?"
He bowed his head.
"The hand. Always the hand. Flame is truth—it only answers."
The air grew hotter. Now he bled from his lip and eyes. And still he did not fall.
The Third Flame whispered—not aloud, but inside his soul:
"And when your oath breaks your heart, and your heart begs to break the world—what will you do?"
He shuddered.
Visions struck him—visions not his own.
He saw himself, older, standing before shattered armies. Alone. Eyes burning. His vow a noose.
He saw a woman walk away—her footsteps echoing forever in his chest.
He saw the world call him "righteous"—yet leave him empty.
Devavrata's voice trembled—but did not waver.
"I will burn.
But not the world."
Silence.
Then—
The infernal figure, taller than towers, dipped its blazing head.
"Then rise, bearer of burdens."
"You will carry my memory.
Every time you call my name, the flame will ask again.
And every time you answer wrong… it will consume you more than your enemies."
The ash-field vanished.
He was on the mountain again—on his knees.
And in his hand, the flame coiled into a sleeping serpent of light—warm, but waiting.
Agniyastra.
Not a sword. Not a spear.
Just fire. Waiting. Watching.
Devavrata reached out—
And the flame darted into his palm.
No wound. No searing.
But behind his eyes, he saw a truth he would never forget:
Each time this weapon is used, a star goes dark.
Each time it is called, a forest dies somewhere, unseen.
And every time it obeys… it remembers your soul.
He fell to his knees.
And wept—not in pain, but in awe.
Parashurama stepped into the blackened circle. The ground steamed under his feet.
"Now," he said, voice quieter than before, "you begin to understand."
Devavrata did not look up.
"You're not teaching me to fight," he whispered.
"You're teaching me to carry burdens the world cannot see."
The sage nodded.
"Welcome, Devavrata.
Not to war.
But to the weight of flame."
Devavrata lifted his gaze, eyes hollow and shining.
"It spoke," he whispered.
"It asked me why I deserved it."
Parashurama gave a grim nod.
"They all will."
Interlude:
The wind had returned.
Not fierce, nor cold—just present, as if the mountain itself was exhaling after holding its breath.
Devavrata sat on a ridge below the altar, the Agniyastra coiled around his forearm like an embered bracelet. It no longer burned, but its warmth lingered—as if fire had become a heartbeat.
He stared into the horizon, where storm clouds were beginning to form over the western sea. Somewhere beyond them lay the next trial.
Parashurama stood behind him, silent. Watching. Measuring.
At last, Devavrata spoke.
"It asked me if I would burn the world."
His voice was low, still hoarse from the trial.
"It asked me what I would do when my vow breaks my heart."
Parashurama stepped forward, his axe resting across his shoulders like a mantle.
"And what did you say?"
Devavrata looked down at his hand, flexing it slowly as golden sparks flickered between his fingers.
"I said I would burn. Not the world."
Parashurama studied him for a moment longer—then sat beside him.
"Then you answered better than I once did."
A silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… real.
Finally, Devavrata turned to him, something softer in his eyes.
"My mother used to say… that flame only destroys when forgotten. But when remembered, it becomes a hearth."
His voice almost cracked.
"She taught me that fire is not anger. It is presence. It is the soul, unhidden."
Parashurama grunted—an odd, thoughtful sound.
"The river teaches you still."
Devavrata nodded slowly.
"She was my first teacher. Before sword, before oath. She taught me stillness that moves. Mercy that doesn't flinch."
He turned to Parashurama.
"And you teach me wrath without blindness. Fire that doesn't forget itself."
Parashurama met his gaze, stern as ever—but behind it, something old and unspoken passed between them. A kind of understanding only warriors with scars under their bones could share.
"Balance," the sage murmured.
"That is the difference between a weapon and a warlord."
Devavrata's brow furrowed. "Will I survive the next trial?"
Parashurama stood, lifting his axe again.
"That depends. The sea. It… remembers."
He began to walk toward the southern path, where the wind now tasted of salt and sorrow.
"Come, boy. The Varunastra waits. And the ocean does not forget the blood we spill."
Devavrata rose, tightening the wrap over his arm. The fire within it pulsed once—gently. Not demanding. Just present.
He followed.
And above, the clouds rolled in.