Rudra pushed open the cottage door, the soft creak of the hinges followed by the familiar scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and leftover stew. Inside, everything was as it always was—quiet, warm, and steady.
His uncle Ishaan sat near the hearth, oiling a worn pair of leather bracers in the flickering firelight. He looked up the moment Rudra stepped in, eyes sharp and quick, taking in every detail.
The fading marks on Rudra's arms. The healing cut on his lip. The relaxed way he moved, like someone who'd been in a fight—but wasn't broken by it.
"Back from the trial, huh?" Ishaan asked, setting the bracer aside. His tone was casual, but his eyes said otherwise. He knew exactly what today had been. Knew what was on the line.
Rudra dropped into the old chair across from him, letting out a breath. The heat from the fire soaked into his bones.
"Yeah," he said, voice low. "It's done."
Ishaan leaned in just a little, elbows resting on his knees. And?" he asked.
Rudra gave a small grin—tired, but proud. "I passed. Five minutes. Against a third-level Initiate."
Ishaan raised an eyebrow. "You serious?"
Ishaan stared at him for a second. Then let out a soft chuckle and leaned back. "You've really gone and done it now, haven't you?"
Rudra shrugged. "Guess so."
"You're not hurt?"
"A little sore," Rudra admitted. "But nothing bad."
Ishaan nodded slowly. "Good. That's good."
The room fell into a comfortable silence, the fire crackling between them. Ishaan picked up the bracer again, wiping the last of the oil into the leather.
"Proud of you," he said quietly, not looking up.
Rudra looked at the flames, eyes soft. "Thanks."
He didn't ask for details about the fight; Rudra's unmarked state and calm demeanor told him more than words could.
He pushed himself up from his chair. "Well then. Dinner's ready. Let's eat. You might heal fast," he added with a knowing look towards the faint marks, "but even you need fuel. Dawn comes early for an Inner Academy student."
The simple words carried immense pride and unwavering belief. Ishaan moved towards the small kitchen, the firelight casting a warm, steady glow over the tidy room, the smell of stew growing richer.
Dinner was quiet. The stew was simple, like the kind served at The Nook, but it tasted better here—home-cooked, warm, and comforting. Rudra and Ishaan didn't say much, but they didn't need to. The fire crackled in the background, and the air between them was calm, filled with unspoken pride.
When the bowls were cleaned and stacked, Rudra didn't go to bed. Something inside him buzzed with leftover energy, like his body still had more to say. He stepped outside into their small walled backyard.
The night air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of fresh earth. Above him, stars glittered like tiny flames in a deep black sky.
He walked to the patch of grass where he always trained. It was a little uneven, the soil packed down from years of practice. Familiar, steady ground.
Rudra sat down, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes, he focused on his breath, drawing it deep into his belly, letting the day's tensions – the physical pain, the emotional strain of Jade's news, the weight of Edward's expectations – flow out with each exhale.
His prāṇa began to flow, like a gentle river running through him. It moved through his body, quiet but strong, healing the small injuries, refreshing his muscles, smoothing over the soreness.
Then his thoughts focused.
Not on Jade. Not on the emotions.
But on the fight.
He slipped into the trance. The world narrowed to the hyper-focused theater behind his eyelids. The fight rewound, then played frame by excruciating frame, slowed to an analytical crawl.
He saw it clearly now, like watching a slow-motion recording behind his eyes.
Vaishnav's first move. That flash of movement, the way his body shifted just before the punch. Rudra hadn't seen it then—but he noticed it now. A twitch in the shoulder. A step too firm. A warning.
Then the chop. Rudra had blocked it. But now he realized—there was a moment, a tiny space when Vaishnav was off balance. He hadn't taken advantage. A missed chance.
More patterns appeared. The rhythm. The way Vaishnav always paired a low strike with a high one. The way his speed jumped right before his Prāṇa flared. There was a rhythm to it. A beat.
Rudra's eyes opened.
The air around him felt different. Brighter. Charged.
His body wanted to move.
He stood.
Not to practice forms or drills—but to dance.
Not for grace, but for growth.
His feet shifted, copying the step he should have taken in the fight. His shoulders rolled. His arm moved just like it had during that counter. But this time, it was cleaner. Sharper.
And then his body took over.
The Divine Dance began.
There was no script. No plan. Only instinct.
His body flowed through movements like a river carving stone. He dodged, spun, blocked, and countered—not against an enemy, but against the memory of one.
Each step matched a lesson. Each move corrected a mistake.
His prāṇa awoke again—not as a weapon, but as a partner. It moved with him, glowing softly in a deep blue light. The grass around him rustled as if pulled into the rhythm. The air shimmered slightly, as though heat was rising from the earth.
The chop. Blocked with his forearm. He felt the phantom impact, but now he saw the slight overextension, the brief moment Vaishnav was off-balance after the recoil. An opening missed. Could have stepped in, jammed his elbow…
He reviewed the flurry when Vaishnav got serious. The patterns emerged. Vaishnav favored combinations: a low kick to disrupt balance, followed by a high punch. A feint with the left, strike with the right. Predictable, once you see the rhythm. But the speed… He saw the prana flare subtly around Vaishnav's limbs just before an acceleration. That's the cue. The energy spike. Need to anticipate that surge.
He relived the moment he unleashed his own prana. The surge to his feet, the sudden shift in perception. He saw Vaishnav's eyes widen fractionally, the split-second hesitation born of shock. Exploited that. Need to create more moments like that. Use surprise.
Finally, the punch. His own movement, stepping into the overextension. The perfect alignment of his body, the channeling of raw strength amplified by prana focused purely on reinforcement, not technique. He saw Vaishnav's jaw begin to distort under the impact before the desperate flare of protective energy softened the blow. Timing. Leverage. Power concentrated.
The trance faded. Rudra opened his eyes, breathing steadily. The night air felt sharper. The faint ache in his knuckles was a reminder, not a weakness. He replayed the corrected movements in his mind's eye – dodging earlier, exploiting openings, anticipating the prana surges, controlling the distance.
His body felt alive.
More than that—stronger.
The small bruises vanished. His lip healed completely. The dull ache in his shoulders faded. But more than just healing, he felt rebuilt. His muscles denser. His bones firmer. His movements smoother.
His prāṇa flowed faster, easier. Like the pathways inside him had widened just a bit more.
The glow faded. The air calmed.
Rudra stood in the middle of the yard, breathing slow and steady. Moonlight shone down on him, revealing skin unmarked and eyes sharp with understanding.
He felt like more than he had been when he stepped outside.
Not in a loud, explosive way. But in a deeper, solid way. Like something inside him had locked into place.
He looked up at the stars.
A calm certainty settled over him, colder and sharper than the night air. The fear of the unknown was still there, the path ahead daunting. Jade leaving was a deep ache. But here, now, in the quiet of his backyard, Rudra knew one thing with absolute clarity.
If I face Vaishnav again… I wouldn't just hold my ground. I would win
He turned and walked back towards the cottage, the dawn suddenly feeling less like a deadline and more like the first step onto a battlefield he was finally learning to map.