Chapter 32: The Last Arrow

Autumn gripped the forest, the sky a bruised tapestry of orange and purple, leaves spiraling in torrents of red and gold as a fierce wind howled through the trees. Devavrata stood atop a jagged ridge, the celestial bow blazing in his hands, its runes flaring like captured stars, pulsing with the Ganga's untamed fury.

Aruni crouched at his left, his short bow steady, his once-shaky hands now firm, his eyes glinting with a warrior's resolve. "He's down there," he said, his voice low, hardened by months of battle, pointing to the clearing below. "Dronaresh. This is it."

Vikrama flanked his right, his bow slung across his back, his healed shoulder a faint scar under his tunic, his tone cold and unyielding. "It ends here," he said, his gaze piercing the dusk. "No more running—for him or us."

Devavrata's chest thundered, the Ganga's pulse a war drum shaking his bones, his voice resonant with a storm's promise. "For Kshema," he said, his words cutting the air, a vow etched in steel and flame. He stepped forward, wind surging at his call, a vortex of power ripping leaves from branches, sending them swirling like a crimson blizzard as they descended into the clearing below.

The forest opened, revealing Dronaresh and his final stand—twenty ragged outcasts, their cloaks torn to threads, weapons jagged and stained, faces hollow with starvation and hate. They formed a jagged ring around a scarred oak, traps of rope, spikes, and crude pits glinting in the dirt, a fortress of desperation rigged to kill. Dronaresh towered at the center, his gaunt frame trembling with madness, his bow clutched tight, his voice a shriek that rent the twilight. "You! You stole everything—my wife, my boys, my soul! Come die with me, river-son!"

Devavrata raised his bow, wind exploding into a cyclone around him, his eyes blazing with grief and fury, a divine wrath ready to consume. "You built this ruin," he roared, his voice shaking the earth, trees groaning under the force. "Your hate ends now!" He loosed a wind-shot, a tempest bursting forth, a howling gale that tore through the air like a dragon's claw. It slammed into the outcasts' front line, four men caught in its jaws—bodies hurled skyward, chests caving in sprays of blood and bone, crashing into the oak with a thunderous crack, branches splintering as they fell lifeless.

Aruni fired, his arrow streaking like a bolt of lightning, piercing an outcast's chest, the force blasting through his back in a red fountain, toppling him into a spike trap, steel impaling him with a wet crunch. "For Kshema!" he shouted, his voice rising above the storm, nocking again, his next shot sinking into a throat, blood gushing as the man choked, collapsing in a heap.

Vikrama's bow sang, his arrow driving through an outcast's skull, brain and blood spraying as the body spun, hitting the dirt mid-scream. "No mercy," he said, his tone a blade's edge, firing again—another chest pierced, the man staggering into a rope trap, snapping tight, hanging him limp as blood dripped to the ground.

Dronaresh laughed, a sound raw and unhinged, loosing a volley—six arrows tipped with fire, blazing through the dusk like vengeful spirits, aimed to burn the disciples alive. His men charged, fifteen left, spears thrusting, bows firing, their war cries a desperate hymn to their doom. "Bleed for me!" Dronaresh screamed, his voice a cracked whip, nocking again, his arrow streaking at Devavrata's heart.

Wind roared at Devavrata's command, a maelstrom spiraling into existence, his hair whipping like a banner of war. "Not today!" he bellowed, his voice a god's decree, shaking the ridge itself. He unleashed a wind-shot, a hurricane exploding forth, meeting the fiery volley head-on. The gale swallowed the arrows, flames snuffed out in a scream of air, shafts shattering into glowing dust that rained like stars, scattering the outcasts in a whirlwind of chaos.

Aruni leaped to a boulder, his bow blazing, arrows flying with a hunter's precision—two shots, two kills—one through an eye, the head bursting in a red mist, another through a gut, the man doubling over, screaming as blood poured. "They're breaking!" he shouted, his voice alive, firing again, clipping a leg, the outcast falling into a pit, spikes piercing him through with a sickening squelch.

Vikrama moved like a shadow, his bow a relentless rhythm—chest, head, chest—three down, bodies piling at the clearing's edge, blood pooling in crimson rivers. "Breaking's not enough," he said, his tone steady, loosing again—an arrow sank into a shoulder, spinning the man into a spear thrust from his own kin, impaling him with a gasp.

Dronaresh's outcasts pressed, their numbers thinning—twelve left, then ten—spears clashing against the storm, arrows raining wild. A hulking brute charged Devavrata, axe raised high, his roar shaking the air. Devavrata sidestepped, wind coiling tight, loosing a shot that blasted the man's chest apart, ribs shattering in a red spray, the body soaring back to smash a tree trunk, wood cracking loud as he crumpled, blood painting the bark.

Another lunged, spear thrusting—Devavrata spun, wind surging, his arrow blazing through the man's arm, severing it in a gout of blood, the spear falling as he screamed, collapsing in the dirt. "You chose this!" Devavrata roared, his voice a thunderclap, firing again—a wind-shot tore through two outcasts, their bodies bursting in twin sprays of gore, flung into the traps, ropes snapping as they hit, spikes glinting red.

Dronaresh loosed again, his arrow blazing, aimed at Aruni's back. Devavrata saw it, wind howling—a gust caught the shot, hurling it into an outcast's chest, the man staggering, fire consuming his cloak as he fell. "You'll pay!" Dronaresh shrieked, his band shrinking—eight left, then six—their traps crumbling, pits filling with their own dead.

Aruni vaulted down, his bow singing—two shots flew, one piercing a throat, blood arcing high, another sinking into a chest, the man dropping with a wet thud. "Pay? You're done!" he shouted, his voice fierce, nocking again, his arrow winging a shoulder, the outcast stumbling into Vikrama's next shot—clean through the heart, a silent fall.

Vikrama fired, his bow a steady drum—head, chest, leg—three more gone, blood soaking the earth, their bodies a carpet of ruin. "Done and dust," he said, his voice cold, stepping forward as the outcasts' line shattered, their resolve breaking under the onslaught.

Dronaresh's voice rose, a mad wail over the carnage. "My boys! My life! You'll burn for it!" He charged, bow blazing, arrows raining—five, six, seven—fire streaking through the dusk, his men down to three, their spears faltering. Devavrata's wind surged, a cyclone swallowing the volley, flames dying in a howl, arrows bursting into ash that glittered in the fading light.

The last outcasts lunged—Devavrata fired, a wind-shot tearing through one's chest, hurling him into the oak, trunk splintering as he hit, dead. Aruni's arrow pierced another's skull, blood and brain spraying, the body spinning into the dirt. Vikrama's shot sank into the final man's gut, doubling him over, a scream cut short as he fell, blood pooling beneath him.

Dronaresh stood alone, his band erased, his bow trembling as he nocked one last arrow, his voice a broken scream. "Nothing left! You took it all—face me!" He loosed, the arrow blazing with fire, a desperate cry trailing its flight, aimed at Devavrata's heart.

Devavrata stood tall, the Ganga's pulse exploding within him, wind gathering into a storm that shook the forest, trees bending, roots tearing free, the earth itself trembling under his power. "For Kshema!" he roared, his voice a divine proclamation, raising his bow. He summoned all—the Ganga's torrent flooding his soul, wind's fury roaring through his veins, Vayu's spirit igniting the air—a power that cracked the sky, a storm born of grief, vengeance, and godlike will. His arrow glowed, wind wrapping it tight, a blazing star of light and force trembling with the might of a thousand tempests.

He loosed—the arrow blazed forth, a meteor tearing through the dusk, wind howling in its wake, a tempest that ripped trees from the ground, hurled stones skyward, screamed with the weight of every loss, every fight, every vow. Dronaresh's arrow met it, shattering into sparks that vanished in the gale, his eyes widening as the blazing shaft streaked toward him, a divine judgment unstoppable.

The arrow struck, piercing Dronaresh's heart, a burst of light and wind exploding outward, blood spraying as his chest erupted, his body lifting off the ground, hurled back to slam against the oak. Wood shattered, bark flying, the trunk splitting down the middle with a deafening crack, pinning him there, lifeless, his bow clattering to the dirt, his hate silenced in a gust that shook the forest to its core, leaves raining like a crimson storm.

The clearing stilled, wind fading to a whisper, dust settling slow in the aftermath, the air thick with blood and silence. Devavrata lowered his bow, the Ganga's pulse calming, a steady thread through the storm's end, Kshema's memory a fire in his chest, burning fierce and eternal. Dronaresh hung dead, his broken echo gone, the ridge a grave carved by wind and steel.

Aruni dropped to one knee, his bow falling, his voice soft, awed. "It's finished. You ended him—for Kshema."

Vikrama stepped forward, his gaze on Dronaresh's ruin, his tone steady, warm. "Ended him. Kshema's laughing somewhere, loud and proud."