In the shadowed corridors behind the throne, ambition had curdled into fear. Some nobles still clung to old dreams—of regencies, of fragile alliances born in Devavrata's absence. But since the day thunder shook the palace stones at his return, those dreams had begun to die quietly. There were no challengers now. Only witnesses. And the weight of inevitability pressing upon every breath.
The ceremony was held in the Hall of Ascent, beneath the sky-vaulted dome of Hastinapura—a dome that had not seen a true Crown Prince crowned in decades.
Golden banners stitched with the Kuru eagle flared in the wind. Lines of brahmins chanted blessings in the language of the stars. Ministers stood in rigid silence. Even the most arrogant nobles had learned fear again since the thunder of Devavrata's return shattered their illusions.
He wore no jewels.
No armor.
Just grey robes, wind-worn and sun-scarred, and around his wrist, the crimson thread of Parashurama.
But his presence filled the hall like a rising tide.
Shantanu's hand trembled, not with age, but with awe. He had crowned ministers and commanded armies, but never had a moment weighed heavier. The boy he'd once guided with bedtime tales and sparring drills now stood transformed—no longer merely heir, but something vast. Familiar, yet distant. His son… and yet, something the world might not be ready for.
When Shantanu stepped forward to place the circlet of the Kuru Crown Prince once more upon his son's brow—this time before the assembly and the sacred fire—the very stones seemed to resonate with approval. The eagle crest above the throne fluttered in windless air. The ancient brahmins swore they saw a second shadow stand beside Devavrata—a translucent echo of Lady of the Waters herself.
A hush fell over the Grand Hall of Hastinapura.
The sun outside dimmed, as if the heavens themselves paused to listen.
From his heart-core, a golden nascent lotus bloomed—its petals spinning with radiant inscriptions of Dharma, Wisdom, and Kingship. Mid Nascent Soul aura unfurled from his body like a divine tide, bending the very light within the chamber. Courtiers sank to their knees, not by choice, but as leaves bow before a storm.
Then he spoke—and the words were not merely heard, but felt, vibrating through marrow and mind.
"Behold—Devavrata!"
His voice rang like a war-drum struck by gods, echoing through the temple of ancestors above the court.
"Born of my blood. Son of Shantanu. Baptized in the sacred waters of the Celestial Ganga.
Chosen by the stars. Trained by the Heaven Sage.""
A wind rose. Torches guttered. Behind Devavrata, his own aura—refined and steady—unfolded like a lotus of starlight
The floor trembled. Even the Elders felt it—a shift in karma, a ripple in the ley-lines below the palace.
The great emblems of the Four Directions stirred. From the north, a wind carrying Himalayan snow. From the west, the scent of ocean salt. Even the souls of past Kuru kings whispered in the flames of the Eternal Brazier.
"Today, I name him Yuvaraja—Crown Prince of Hastinapura.
Not for bloodline alone, but for wisdom earned, power tempered, and destiny embraced."
A sigil of golden flame blazed above Devavrata's head. A shockwave burst outward—not of sound, but of divine intent. Birds rose from distant towers. The ley-lines under Hastinapura thrummed in harmony.
As the crown touched his brow, Devavrata did not bow.
He simply closed his eyes, and the aura around him—once storm-like—settled into stillness.
Not absence of power.
But control absolute.
And far above, they watched.
In the realm where sound bore shape and time walked backward, a lotus of a thousand petals unfolded slowly. Upon it sat one who did not speak, for speech itself bowed to his silence. Vishnu, the Preserver, watched—not with interference, but remembrance. Somewhere, a great wheel shifted one spoke forward.
In the middle astral realms of Svarga, where the silver lotus blooms drift between dimensions, the news stirred unrest.
The watchers had seen his path.
A boy tempered in dharma. Trained by Parashurama, who had broken kings and drunk the blood of tyrants. A mortal who had reached Void Ascension and returned with humility intact.
Now crown Prince of the Empire.
Now dangerous.
A conclave gathered.
Narada, the ever-wandering sage, strummed a warning on his veena.
Indra sat upright on his throne of storm clouds.
"The boy grows. Stronger than fated. His heart holds peace… but also conquest."
The celestial scribe Chitragupta nodded gravely.
"And Parashurama's teachings... He holds the teachings of the Bhargava path. He knows astras that have never been drawn."
Indra's eyes narrowed. "Test him. Let us not be blind when the tides of destiny shift."
And so they sent a tester.
Not a god. But a shard of the divine—a celestial warrior, half-mortal, born of starlight and storm, hidden in human guise. He entered Hastinapura as a herald from a border kingdom, seeking alliance and honor combat.
Devavrata accepted.
They did not fight in the palace grounds, where banners fluttered in gentle winds and nobles whispered of silk and succession.
They did not fight in the royal arena, whose marble floors had seen centuries of martial form and ritual duels crafted more for spectacle than survival.
They fought beneath open heavens—on the ancient Fields of Surya, where ley-lines crossed like veins of fire beneath the cracked and sacred earth. It was a place where destiny bled freely, where generations had once drawn astras in despair or glory, where the very soil remembered screams and the ghosts of forgotten kings whispered through the dust.
The sun watched warily, casting an amber glare as if reluctant to illuminate what was to come.
Even the soil recoiled. The ley-lines beneath the Fields of Surya hissed like ancient serpents awakening. Birds circled high above, then fled. Somewhere in the eastern temple, an idol cracked at the forehead. A sage watching from afar murmured a prayer—not for victory, but for balance.
Here, time itself held its breath.
The court had assembled at dawn expecting pageantry, robes of silk and chants of gold, a moment of legacy. A demonstration of prowess. A ritual flourish to affirm the Crown Prince's rise.
But what they saw was not ritual.
But what they witnessed instead was the unmaking of certainty.
The challenger came not on horse nor chariot, but as a disturbance in reality—where air grew dense and sound muted before him. The moment the challenger stepped upon the field, the sky dimmed.
Saniskara, the Celestial Herald, descended like a verdict. His robes shimmered with constellations. His presence bent gravity. His voice did not echo—it caused memories to tremble.
From the Celestial Tribunal, he came—not a god, but worse: a servant of divine balance, who bore the authority of cosmic law.
"Test the heir of Kuru," the order had said. "Weigh his soul. If he is found wanting, end the line."
The skies churned. Thunder grumbled. Somewhere, the stars dimmed.
When Saniskara shed his mortal disguise, reality peeled like old bark. His form glowed like polished obsidian carved from starlight. Lines of light moved beneath his skin—veins of burning mantra.
Priests fell to their knees, sobbing without knowing why. A deer on the distant hills fell dead from terror. Even the war-hardened generals of Hastinapura backed away, instinctively clutching blades they could not hope to raise.
The nobles gasped. Priests backed away, clutching their rudrakshas.
"By the Trimurti… is that a Deva?" whispered a trembling courtier.
"No," murmured the High Priest. "He is beyond that. He is a judgment."
High above, in the golden pavilions of Svarga, the gods watched.
"That is Saniskara," said Varuna, his voice like rain against temple roofs. "Why has he been loosed?"
"He tests the mortal," Indra intoned gravely. "One who carries both river and storm in his blood."
"He looks like a man," said Yama, eyes narrowing. "And yet... I cannot read his fate."
Only Devavrata stood unmoved.
"I do not seek conquest," Devavrata said, voice barely above a whisper yet carrying across the field. "But if destiny must test its vessel, I shall not step aside. Let truth speak through blade or silence—it makes no difference to dharma."
Clad in ash-grey robes, hair bound in a warrior's knot, his iron sword unadorned, he looked less like a prince and more like a monk. Yet the very air around him—still and impossibly deep—seemed to whisper truths the stars had long forgotten.
"You've come a long way," he said. "Speak your truth," Devavrata said, his voice soft but unshakable.
The challenger's voice echoed with layered tones—one voice, many echoes.
"I am Saniskara, of the Celestial Watchers," the man spoke, voice echoing without sound.
"I am the hammer of heaven. A trial sent by those who see beyond mortal sight. You stand between the world and a future not yet written.
We will see if you are worthy of it."
And the sun itself dimmed as he bowed before the throne.
Shantanu stepped forward. "You dare challenge a prince of Hastinapura?"
The challenger turned to him.
"No. I was told to."
And then he looked at Devavrata.
"You trained under the Axebearer. You carry forbidden knowledge in your blood. We feared Parashurama's wrath once. Now we wonder if his shadow walks again."
Power is never without its price, the gods knew. And mortals who brush too close to the flame of cosmic truth seldom return unchanged. The boy might win this duel—but what part of him would survive it?