The Vaithara war camp buzzed with uneasy silence. Even the winds that once hummed across the grasslands seemed muted, as though nature itself held its breath.
Prince Jay Vashisth stood near the central tent, scanning the horizon where orange dusk bled into blue. His eyes, once sharp with ambition, were clouded by growing uncertainty. The cursed symbols found near the ruined temple still weighed heavy on his mind.
Just then, a dust-covered scout rushed toward him, panting, bloodied at the edge of his sleeve.
"My Prince," he gasped, falling to one knee, "news… from the western village… the one raided by the bandits three nights ago."
Jay turned swiftly. "Speak."
The scout steadied himself, swallowing hard. "They weren't looting for food or coin. They tore apart homes… scroll racks, old storage pits… even the temple archives. Villagers say they were searching for something. Some kind of old… parchment. An ancient paper, possibly a scroll."
Jay's brows furrowed, a storm rising behind his eyes. "A scroll?" He turned sharply, striding toward his tent. "Send for Lady Madhvi."
Within minutes, Madhvi entered, still wearing her pale forest-toned robe. Her presence, calm and grounded, was a contrast to the growing storm inside Jay.
"They were searching for a scroll," Jay said abruptly, cutting to the heart of the matter. "Something old. Something hidden in the village temple. Do you know what they could be after?"
Madhvi hesitated, her expression troubled.
"My father…" she began, looking toward the flickering flame of the oil lamp, "he's a mysterious man. Not everything he told me was truth, I realize that now. But… he used to speak in riddles. Teach me how to control my emotions, how to focus my will. He said the will governs the flow of ancient forces."
Jay's eyes narrowed. "You mean… magic."
She nodded reluctantly. "He called it willcraft. I thought it was meditation. But lately… I feel it in my skin, my breath, the way wind follows my steps. It's magic, yes. And he—he was not just a healer or herbalist. He was once a magician. A powerful one, I think. If there was something important… some scroll… he would know. But if he wanted it hidden, I would never have known. He was that good."
Jay's fists clenched. "This again… Magic. Necromancy. Things buried for centuries. Why now? Why is it rising again from the cracks?"
He slammed his fist on the map table. "It was supposed to be gone. Sealed away in ancient ages."
The tent went still.
Jay turned to one of his messengers at the entrance. "Send word to the capital. Now. Report everything—necromantic activity, this scroll, and the possibility of a dark magician aiding the bandits. Make sure the message reaches the War Council and the High Seer."
The soldier saluted and ran.
Jay exhaled, cold and sharp. "Madhvi, you're staying here. No arguments."
She opened her mouth to protest but stopped. His gaze was heavy—not commanding, but protective, quietly pleading.
"Fine," she whispered. "But promise me you'll come back."
"I always do," he said softly.
Then came the rallying call. Captain Varun entered, tall and grim-faced, flanked by lieutenants.
"My Prince," he said, saluting. "Camp status requested."
Jay straightened. "Report."
Varun nodded. "Total number in camp: 700. Five hundred able-bodied soldiers. One hundred support staff including blacksmiths, cooks, medics, scribes. Fifty-five are still recovering from previous bandit attacks. I've ordered medics to prioritize fast recovery."
"Good," Jay replied. "Send forty soldiers to patrol nearby villages. Five elite riders will carry the message to the palace. Make sure they're guarded until the first river checkpoint."
"Already arranged."
"Now," Jay said, stepping toward the war map, his voice lowering. "Prepare two hundred for a strike team. We move at nightfall."
Varun's eyes sharpened. "Target?"
"Bandits' jungle camp. South ridge, near Nara river curve."
"I'll assemble the troops."
Jay walked to the map and rolled it open across the table. His commanders entered—a trio of hardened veterans: Commander Yarik of infantry, Commander Sarvan of archers, and Commander Rauvish of cavalry. Beside them stood Aalin, a logistics officer in charge of support and supply lines.
Jay pointed to the terrain, fingers dancing over the route like a seasoned strategist.
"We'll march from the eastern bend, shadowing the Nara river. It gives us cover, sound masking, and faster mobility. Infantry leads the formation—iron wall in front. Second row—cavalry. I'll ride with them. Third row—support staff and rations. Archers stay rear guard, in case of pursuit or ambush. No one breaks formation unless I command it."
Aalin interjected, "Supply wagons can follow behind cavalry, two units wide. Five medics embedded evenly."
"Perfect," Jay nodded. "I want ten scouts ahead, moving in intervals. No fire signals—only flare arrows if emergency. Once we reach the jungle, we assess. No blind charge. We analyze, infiltrate, then strike based on terrain."
Yarik grinned. "It's been a while since we crushed some real bones."
Jay shot him a sharp glance. "This isn't a raid for glory, Commander. It's a mission to stop something darker. You see anything with runes, scrolls, or strange ritual symbols—you don't touch it. Mark it. Call me."
The commanders nodded in unison.
By nightfall, the camp was thunderous with activity. Steel clanged. Horses neighed. Armor was strapped. Rations were loaded. Archers tested bowstrings under torchlight. Cavalry blades gleamed under the full moon.
In the dim light of his tent, Jay donned his armor. Polished silver plates with subtle black engravings of the Vaithara crest—a roaring hawk over twin peaks. His gauntlets bore the family sigil. He fastened the shoulder guard, took a deep breath, then clipped his sword to his waist.
Outside, the assembled formation stood like a living beast—two hundred trained soldiers, waiting only for their prince's word.
Jay mounted his obsidian-black stallion, Rudraak, its hooves pawing at the ground with energy.
"Move out," he commanded.
The march began.