The winds shifted.
Gone was the scent of scorched stone and fire-kissed metal. In its place came salt, sorrow, and silence—the kind that dwells at the ocean's floor, where even gods do not whisper.
Parashurama stopped at the edge of a cliff that dropped into a sea with no horizon. The waters below were not blue, but obsidian—still, but thick with memory. Waves did not crash. They watched.
"Here lies the gate of Varuna," the sage said, planting his axe into the earth. "And within it, the memory of every oath broken… every kingdom drowned… every sacrifice made and unmade."
Devavrata looked down into the impossible ocean. His flame-arm from Agneyastra dimmed, uncomfortable.
"What must I do?"
Parashurama's voice was grave.
"You must step into the tide and let it drown you."
Devavrata turned. "Will I die?"
"You must."
A beat.
"But not in flesh."
And then he stepped back, and the sea rose.
Devavrata walked into the black water. It did not splash or resist—it welcomed him like a womb.
With every step, his body grew heavier. Not from water—but from memory.
He saw Hastinapura, not in gold—but in flame.
A future crumbling beneath oath-bound silence. Brothers raised blades against brothers. Crownless kings wept in corridors of war.
He saw himself—older, alone. A general without an heir. A legend without peace. Blood on his hands, and no end to war.
He saw his father, dying by a window, whispering her name.
And her—Ganga—not smiling, not weeping, simply watching from across the centuries.
He saw a throne, and upon it sat no king—only his own reflection, aged, alone, bound by chains made of vows.
And then, most cruel of all—he saw a child. Wide-eyed. Frightened.
Asking:
"Why didn't he choose peace?"
He sank.
"Who am I if all I build must fall?"
"What use is dharma if it demands the breaking of every bond I cherish?"
"Will I die… forgotten?"
But the sea did not answer.
It remembered.
It showed him a thousand futures, none of them gentle.
– It showed him the weight of dharma—how it binds even as it protects.
– It showed him the burden of becoming a legend.
– A world where he refused his vow, and kingdoms fell to ruin.
– A path where he chose love, but millions perished without his leadership.
– A silent echo of Ganga, watching from the banks of time, her face unreadable… her eyes infinite.
And then he stood—not in the sea, but on a mirrored plane of water beneath a storm that sang.
Lightning laced through the ocean floor. Tides spun into glyphs. Sea-serpents born of moonlight uncoiled around him, hissing ancient prayers.
And from the deepest trench rose a form—not of man, not of beast—but of balance: The will of the ocean given form : The Spirit of Varuna, Keeper of Oaths and Lord of Deep Waters.
It held a trident of jade coral. Its voice was a monsoon.
"Mortal Son of the River … Why do you seek my gift?"
Devavrata stood straight, though his knees trembled.
"To guard dharma. To protect the fragile peace that men break like glass."
"Will you summon me… to destroy?"
"Only to defend."
"Will you still summon me…
When the banners you guard fall in foreign winds, and your name is no longer sung in reverence, but in doubt?"
Devavrata closed his eyes for a breath—just one.
Then opened them, and fire swam in his gaze.
"I will —not for glory or reverence, but for the Dharma beneath stars."
A ripple passed across the surface. Not water—fate.
"And if the hearts you cherish…
Fail to see the path you walked, and remember not the silence you endured for their sake and choose to forksake dharma?"
Devavrata closed his eyes for a breath—just one.
Then opened them, and fire swam in his gaze.
"Then I will walk alone—so long as the path still leads to light."
"And if those you love…
Turn their backs upon you? Forget you? Call you tyrant?"
His jaw clenched. The spear-sword on his back thrummed.
But his voice did not falter.
"Then I will become the shadow they curse, so long as light still reaches the helpless."
Lightning flared. Not in the sky, but deep below the waves.
"Then you will carry sorrow…
Vast as oceans. Endless as time."
A pause.
The wind stilled.
"I accept."
A final silence.
And then the sea fell silent—as if testing the echo of his heartbeat.
Behind him, invisible but ever-present, a ripple shimmered across the water: a lotus bloom… Ganga's mark.
The Spirit of Varuna lowered its trident.
"Then let it be so. Let the depths be your burden and your shield."
The ocean did not crash.
It listened.
A single droplet floated upward, shimmering with eternity. Then another.
Then a thousand.
They spiraled around Devavrata in concentric halos, glowing with the rhythm of tides, of time, of truth.
The Sea Astra, vast and formless, spoke no more. But from the deep...
A voice rose.
Soft. Infinite. Familiar.
"My son…"
It was not thunder, not wind—it was water itself that spoke.
From the deepest current to the highest mist, it surged with love and memory.
"You walk among fire and storm… but you are never alone."
His eyes widened. The ocean reflected his childhood—rushing waters, laughter beneath the moon, the brush of her hand upon his brow.
"I am the river. I am the ocean. I am the tear in your silence."
A great wave rose in the distance—not to fall, not to destroy, but to bow.
"So long as you walk dharma's path, I will walk with you."
The waters wrapped around him—not drowning, not crushing—embracing.
His wounds faded. His limbs grew light.
But his heart—his heart grew heavier, with purpose.
Above the altar of tide and oath, the Sea Astra revealed itself:
A trident, ancient and unbreakable, carved from the bedrock of the first abyss.
Upon it shimmered oceans—storms trapped in silence, whalesong forged into steel.
It hovered before him. Waiting.
Parashurama's voice broke the reverie.
"The Varunastra. Wielder of the sea's sorrow… and its strength."
Devavrata stepped forward, hand steady.
He grasped it.
The wave bowed deeper.
The skies trembled.
But Devavrata did not move.
Not at first.
Because behind his eyes, he saw the truth.
Not vision. Not prophecy. Memory—of the future.
The trident pulsed in his grasp, and the sea showed him what the cost would be.
With every summoning, an oath is broken beneath the waves.
With every release, a forgotten god mourns in silence.
With every command… something ancient awakens—and follows.
Devavrata gasped, eyes wide—not in pain, but in revelation.
He saw it.
A battlefield drowned, both soldier and child.
A coastal village swallowed—not by cruelty, but by command.
A kingdom preserved, yet its soil wept salt for a thousand years.
The trident did not roar.
It wept.
Water curled along the hilt like fingers. Like memory. Like judgment.
Devavrata's hand trembled. Just once.
And then it steadied.
His voice came quiet—not defiant, but clear, like moonlight on riverstone:
"Then I will carry it.
Not as a weapon…
But as a burden."
Parashurama said nothing for a time.
Then, slowly, he bowed his head—not in instruction, but in recognition.
The storm passed. But not its echo.
He looked to Parashurama. "This is not a weapon."
The sage nodded solemnly. "No. It is a pact."
"And if I use it wrongly?"
Parashurama's gaze turned to the horizon.
"Then the waters will not rise to obey.
They will rise to judge."
Silence fell. The tide withdrew.
The trident dissolved into mist, waiting for the day it would be summoned again.
And the ocean—like his soul—was forever changed
The storm had calmed, but not vanished.
The sky still bore a hush, the silence that follows when the world knows something sacred has just happened.
Steam curled from Devavrata's skin. His breath was shallow, but steady. The sea had not broken him—but it had claimed a part of him. Not in death… but in depth.
Parashurama watched him with unreadable eyes, arms crossed, the outline of the next trial looming in the silence.
But he asked, his voice was quiet, testing—but not unkind.
"Tell me, boy. What did the sea show you?"
Devavrata stood still. His knuckles were pale against the haft of his weapon. His voice came low, and slower than before—like the tide pulling back after a flood.
"It showed me grief. Not mine—but the world's. Grief that has no name, no statue, no place to burn."
Parashurama nodded. "And did it show you your place in it?"
Devavrata looked up, eyes rimmed red, but fierce.
"Not as a savior. Not as a conqueror. Just… as one who must hold the flood back. Even if no one sees it."
The Sage studied him a moment longer, then asked:
"Would you wield it again, knowing what it takes?"
Devavrata hesitated. Then, he spoke.
"Only if I must. Not for glory. Not for fear. But if the innocent are drowning—and there is no other hand to reach—then yes. I would become the tide."
A long silence followed.
Parashurama broke it, voice soft with rare approval:
"Then you passed the second trial, not with strength—but restraint. Remember this, Devavrata. Power without pause is calamity."
Devavrata bowed his head, not in submission—but in reflection.
And then… he turned.
And though no figure stood upon the shore—he saw her.
Not in form.
But in presence.
The mist curled around ancient trees like strands of her hair. The river's tide shimmered with faint lotus petals, blooming and fading with each heartbeat. A breeze stirred the grass, and carried with it a sacred hymn—a lullaby no bard had ever written, but one every child once heard before memory.
And her voice—oh, her voice—rose like prayer between waves and wind, entering his mind like breath before words:
"Well done, my fierce river-child…"
His spine straightened, but his knees nearly buckled beneath the weight of her unseen gaze.
He did not weep. But he bowed—not in duty, not in worship, but in love.
Parashurama stepped beside him, his presence no longer that of a teacher, but something closer… almost kin.
He placed one firm hand upon the boy's back—warm, grounding.
Devavrata whispered, almost in awe:
"She was there."
Parashurama smiled, a rare curve in his battle-hardened face.
"She is the river," he said simply. "She is in all waters. In every drop of rain and tear and tide. And so long as you walk dharma's path… she walks with you."
Above them, the clouds parted.
Not by wind—but by will.
And for a single breathless moment, the sky reflected the river. And the river—the soul.