युद्धपथे निश्चलः, पुत्रो रौद्रस्य तिष्ठति।
न ज्ञानं न मोहं, केवलं तेजो विभाव्यते॥
"On the path of war he stands—
The son of wrath, unmoved by fear or doubt,
Not yet shaped by wisdom, nor shadowed by delusion—
Only fire courses through his veins."
The Eastern Balconies of Lanka
The palace of golden Lanka stood like a jewel carved by thunder—each spire shimmering with the sun's last embrace. Evening had not yet fallen, but the air already trembled with anticipation, as if it knew war would soon devour its silence.
On the eastern terrace, where polished stone met the open sky, Prince Akshay Kumar stood alone, his youthful frame leaning on the lion-carved railings. His long hair, untouched by battle's dust, flowed freely as he watched his elder brother, Meghnath, train with arms so mighty they could split the heavens.
Below, Meghnath's arrows broke the wind like thunderbolts, each strike splitting air with elegance and rage.
Akshay's eyes narrowed. "How does one command the skies?" he murmured.
A faint rustle broke the stillness. Not of wind. Not of silk. But of feathers.
A shadow leaned against the column beside him—one that was not there before.
Clad in robes blacker than midnight's deepest hour, with eyes ancient as the first mantra whispered into fire, the figure neither bowed nor spoke.
Akshay turned, startled, but the man's presence was... right.
"Who walks so softly into the quarters of a prince?" the boy demanded.
"One who has walked softer into the halls of kings," came the reply, calm as riverstone. "And into battlefields where gods wept without witness."
Akshay drew his short sword.
"Name thyself."
The man looked out toward Meghnath, then up to the red-smeared sky.
"I have had many names. Some call me Kakbhushundi. Others, the crow of the end times. Few see me. Fewer listen."
The boy lowered his blade—not out of fear, but out of something older. Something he did not yet understand.
"What do you seek here? Are you a sage or a spy?"
"Neither. I am a witness. And sometimes… a mirror."
Akshay's brow furrowed. "A mirror? To what?"
"To that which you will never read in the scrolls of the victors. To truths that hide between battles. To stories even your father cannot command."
"You speak in circles."
"Because the world is round," Kakbhushundi smiled faintly, "and fate spins on axes unseen."
Akshay turned back to the view of his brother—now hurling a divine spear that struck lightning from thin air.
"He will become legend," the prince said.
"He has," Kakbhushundi replied. "In more worlds than you know."
"And I?"
There was silence.
Akshay's voice turned softer, uncertain yet hungry. "Tell me, O traveler of time—what stirs in the winds ahead? The sky feels heavy, the earth restless. Do you see something I cannot? What becomes of me in the days yet unborn?"
Kakbhushundi did not answer at once. His eyes, older than kingdoms, turned to the sky—now tinged with crimson, like a wound before it scars.
He spoke slowly, as if each word was drawn from a well deeper than lifetimes:
"The fruit does not know the day it will ripen. The flame does not choose the wind that bends it. And you, young Akshay, are both—bright with fire, yet green with the sweetness of youth."
He stepped closer, and his voice lowered into something sacred.
"Yes, I have seen what lies beyond this silence. I have seen a war that splits the heavens. I have seen you—draped in golden armor, yet wrapped in questions no sword can pierce. Shall I show you one such telling? One vision among many, where your breath still echoes long after conch shells fall silent?"
Akshay swallowed, nodding faintly.
And so Kakbhushundi began.
"In most worlds, you ride your chariot out to meet the vanaras. With pride in your chest, and fire in your eyes. You strike down many. And then... you fall."
Akshay's hand tightened around the railing.
"Fall?"
"Yes," Kakbhushundi said, voice grave. "Not because you were weak. But because you were too young to know the weight of war. And the world does not always wait for youth to ripen."
A storm cloud passed above. Somewhere below, the sound of a conch echoed through the streets.
"But I have seen," he continued, "a vision where you did not fall that day. Where Ravana, in a rare moment of wisdom, held you back. You lived... but you saw."
"What did I see?" Akshay whispered.
"Everything. The deaths of your uncles. The wrath of Hanuman. The burning of Lanka. The fall of your mighty brother. Your mother's tears. Your father's grief—curled in pride yet hollowed by loss."
Akshay's breath slowed.
"And you?"
Kakbhushundi looked straight into the young prince's eyes.
"In that vision, you did not fight. But you remembered. After the war, when all was ash, you walked barefoot through the ruins. You found Rama—not as an enemy, but as one who had carried out the burden of dharma. You bowed—not to a victor, but to truth."
Akshay's chest heaved with something deeper than breath.
"Is it cowardice not to fight?"
"Sometimes," Kakbhushundi replied, "it is greater valor to understand than to kill."
He walked closer, voice now like a mantra carried by fire.
"You are not just a prince, Akshay. You are a question the war forgets to ask. What becomes of those who are ready to die, but not yet ready to lose themselves?"
"In that vision," Akshay said slowly, "what became of me?"
Kakbhushundi looked out toward the ocean.
"You became a chronicler. A silent flame that preserved the stories no bards dared to tell. In the temples that rose after Lanka's fall, it was you who whispered to the walls that Ravana was once a great devotee. That even demons could burn with love for the divine."
A long silence passed.
Then Akshay said, voice trembling slightly, "And in this world?"
Kakbhushundi turned to leave, the feathers of his shawl stirring like leaves in wind.
"That," he said, "is a decision not yet written."
As he stepped into the shadows, Akshay called out, "Why do you show me this?"
Kakbhushundi paused, half-turned.
"Because your heart listens. That is rarer than victory."
A faint breeze fluttered past the prince, and a single black feather drifted to the floor.
Akshay picked it up.
And for the first time, as he looked at Meghnath hurling divine weapons like wrath made form, he did not feel smaller. He felt awake.