I was thirteen when the wind changed.

  You could smell it in the fields—drier, sharper, more watchful. The city grew quieter, even when it was loud. Even the pigeons over the temple spires circled a little wider, as if the sky itself had grown cautious.

  They say time moves fast for children. That you blink, and you’re grown. But for boys like us—Chaitra, Bhal, Riksha, and me—time didn’t move fast. It moved heavy. Like a cart with a broken axle, dragging us toward manhood with more bruises than blessings.

  We had spent years training in the dust. Years building bodies that wouldn’t break. Years learning to swing weapons like they were extensions of our hunger. And we had survived—barely.

  But no amount of training prepared us for what came next.

  The day we heard that Pandu was dead—everything changed.

  The News That Shook the StoneIt came from a merchant’s boy. He wasn’t even shouting it—just murmuring as he tied a sack shut.

  “King Pandu is dead. The Pandavas are returning.”

  At first, no one believed it. Pandu had been gone so long he’d become a myth. Some said he lived in the mountains forever. Others whispered he had turned into a hermit and no longer remembered his name.

  But by sunset, the royal horn sounded.

  And Bhishma summoned the council.

  And the streets began cleaning themselves.

  That’s when we knew: it was true.

  What They Said in the Streets“He died with his head in Madri’s p,” said one guard.

  “They say he broke a curse. Or tried to,” said a stable girl.

  “Madri threw herself on his pyre. Left the children with Kunti.”

  “So the sons of gods return now.”

  They said it like a festival.Like the return of summer.But I saw the lines between their eyes.

  No one knew what would happen next.

  Five boys were coming home.

  But not just any boys.

  The Pandavas.

  Us, ThenWe were not boys anymore, either.

  We had grown taller. Leaner. Wiser.

  Chaitra’s voice cracked between sentences now. Bhal had arms like small logs and a temper to match. Riksha had gotten faster, meaner. And I—Avyakta—I had stopped smiling in public.

  Our clothes no longer hung loose on us.

  Our weapons were no longer toys.

  We were waiting.

  For what, we didn’t know.

  The Warrior’s TestThree days after the news broke, our fathers came to the barracks and stood before us.

  “It is time,” Suryadatta—my father—said. “The rite of ash and steel. You will be tested.”

  “Tested how?” Riksha asked.

  “You will stand before your commanders and spar. You will break or be broken. And if you survive—truly survive—you will be named warriors.”

  It wasn’t ceremonial.

  There were no songs.

  Just fire.Steel.Eyes watching to see if you would shatter like gss or ring like a bde.

  Night Before the TestThat night, none of us slept.

  We sat around a low fire, sharing a few strips of dried meat, trying not to show the fear in our throats.

  “What if we don’t make it?” Chaitra whispered.

  “Then we die boys,” Bhal said. “But I’ll be damned if I die quiet.”

  Riksha looked at me.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think we’ve been dying slowly for years. Tomorrow is just whether they admit it.”

  Silence after that.

  Only the crackle of fme and the slow shifting of our breaths.

  The Return of the PandavasOn the morning of the test, the Pandavas arrived.

  Their chariots did not glitter. They did not enter like gods.

  They walked.

  Five boys. Taller than I remembered. Sharper. But not untouched.

  Yudhishthira walked like a man who had already made peace with loss.Bhima looked like he’d fought mountains.Arjuna’s gaze burned—restless, calcuting.Nakul and Sahadeva moved in sync, like the same thought split in two.

  And Kunti walked behind them. Not weeping. Not weak.

  She walked like someone who had carried five fires through the forest and brought them back unburned.

  Crossing PathsWe saw them only briefly—passing us on the pace road.

  Chaitra whispered, “That’s them.”

  Bhal: “They look... older.”

  Riksha: “They look like they belong.”

  I said nothing.

  Because I remembered how they would bleed.

  How they would lose everything and still be worshipped.

  And I wondered—for the first time—how much of their pain I would have to watch up close.

  The Circle of CombatThe arena was cleared. No nobles. No princes. Just the boys. Just the bdes.

  Each of us stepped into the ring, one by one.

  Bhal fought like a storm—broke two staffs before he fell from exhaustion.

  Riksha moved like fire—drew gasps from the watchers, even as he took a cut to the ribs.

  Chaitra ughed as he dodged blow after blow, until one caught him on the jaw and sent him flying. He rose, blood dripping from his mouth—and kept fighting.

  Then it was my turn.

  The FightI didn’t win.

  But I didn’t fall.

  I stood.

  I bled.

  I moved not like a soldier, but like someone who had already died once and remembered the shape of fear too well to let it rule him.

  When it was over, I dropped the staff.

  And I looked up at the sky.

  “I am not made of ash. I am not a footnote. I am still here.”

  AfterWe stood together, bloodied, bruised—but standing.

  Bhishma watched from the high ledge.

  He didn’t smile.

  But he nodded.

  Once.

  And that was enough.