The early morning mist curled around the red sandstone spires of Panchanagari as a sealed letter arrived at Savignya's chambers. The courier, cloaked and breathless, placed it directly on her desk. She dismissed him with a nod and turned to the wax seal. It bore a familiar insignia—Trishan's mark, pressed with care.
She opened it quickly, her breath catching halfway down the first page.
Details of political shifts under Rankriti's rule. And then—Rohak. He had been sent to Jangal Mandala.
Savignya sat back, frowning. Rohak? Sent alone?
Then her eyes stopped.
A name unspoken.
A symbol.
A two-headed eagle.
She read it again. Her fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the parchment. It wasn't Sarthak who posed the real danger. It was someone greater—someone hidden in shadow—backing him.
The Yamsabha had long suspected this. Sarthak's claim over an entire mandala could not have happened without unseen support. But no one had proof. Until now. Trishan's letter did not confirm it, but it hinted—sharply, dangerously.
Savignya stood, the hem of her robe brushing stone. She began to pace. Her boots tapped rhythmically across the floor like a ticking clock counting down to war. Papers were swept aside. Maps half-unrolled. She muttered to herself.
Gather the Yamsabha.
And wait.
Wait for Rohak. For his return. For the message he carried, and the truth hidden within it.
But another fear loomed.
If Rohak failed… if he was captured or silenced… Sarthak would not tolerate it. War would spill from the forests into the cities, and another cycle of death would begin. The scars of the last war still festered, and now fresh wounds threatened to tear open.
And Arya…
Nothing. Not a single word about Arya in the letter.
She pressed her lips together. Either he was forgotten, or erased.
She summoned her messengers. Riders were dispatched with sealed scrolls. Every Yamsabha member had to be informed. There was no time left for caution.
She returned to her seat and stared at the letter again, as if some hidden code might leap out from the ink.
The doors creaked open. Vijala stepped in, her presence soft but alert. She approached without a word and stood beside Savignya's chair.
"My lady," she said, her voice low, "do you think you've taken on a responsibility that was never meant to be yours?"
Savignya didn't move. "What makes you say that?"
Vijala stepped forward, folding her hands. "Your duty is this city. Shelter, food, order. If Rankriti commands, we follow. But Sarthak, Jangal Mandala, the eagle—all of this… is beyond your scope."
Savignya turned her eyes to the balcony, where the sun had begun to glow faintly.
"I tried to let it go," she said. "To forget the dreams of battlefields and glory. I told myself I was foolish for believing I had a role beyond this city's walls. But the incident in Jangal Mandala shook me. And what happened at the temple of Aghorvan—no, that wasn't chance."
She turned, fire in her eyes. "If the storm is coming, I will not wait for it behind a closed gate."
Vijala bowed her head. "Then walk carefully, Savignya."
Savignya nodded slowly. She appreciated the warning.
By sunset, the great circular hall in Panchanagari buzzed with tension. The Yamsabha had gathered—all the members seated around a polished stone table, their faces lit by the soft golden light of oil lamps.
Savignya stood at the head of the hall, the letter in her hand.
"This morning, I received word from Trishan," she began. "Rohak has left for Jangal Mandala."
One of the twins leaned forward, brows furrowed.
"Without informing us? He was handling most of Chorpatta's communication. That's… not like him."
"It wasn't his decision. Trishan ordered it directly," Savignya replied.
The other twin looked grim. "Then something serious is moving."
She nodded. "Yes. And there's more."
She held up the letter.
"An old enemy might have resurfaced. A two-headed eagle. Trishan believes this may be the force behind Sarthak. He isn't certain—but if he's right, this changes everything."
The Yamsabha grew silent. Faces tensed. Eyes exchanged meaning.
Kritipal leaned back, fingers steepled. "That… man has not moved in years."
"And yet now he might move towards the Jangal mandala," Savignya said. "In secret. Through others."
There was a long pause.
"What of Arya?" Parashar finally asked.
She looked down. "There's no mention of him."
The air in the room grew colder. For a long time, no one spoke.
"Then we prepare," Dhanudanda said. "For war, not whispers."
Savignya nodded. "Yes. Rohak's mission will confirm what's true. Until then, gather strength. Reinforce allies. Watch the roads."
A consensus was reached. The Yamsabha would wait—but not idly.
Meanwhile, beyond the reach of safe roads and city lights, Rohak stood at the threshold of Jangal Mandala.
The forest rose before him like a great sleeping beast. Trees stretched like skeletal arms, draped in moss. Vines slithered along the ground.
Three whisperers appeared from the edge of the trail. Cloaked in earth-toned robes, faces hidden, they greeted him with brief nods. They exchanged a few letters.
Rohak tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. His fingers gripped the sword at his waist—the gift from Vayodhara. Its hilt pulsed like cold iron in his palm.
He gave a nod. No words.
He turned toward the jungle and took a step.
The second step was harder.
The third, heavier.
Behind him, the whisperers vanished like smoke.
Ahead, the shadows grew thicker.
And with a deep breath, Rohak disappeared into the forest that swallowed men whole.