The moon hung heavy and golden over the Magadhan camp. Crickets sang their song of indifference, unaware of the blood soon to be spilled.
Ashvath couldn't sleep.
Not from nightmares, but from something quieter, colder—an instinct that had saved him more than once. A breath too long. A silence too sharp.
He stepped out of his tent, sword on his back.
And in the shadows, something moved.
---
The Assassin Strikes
The blade came without sound—aimed not at Ashvath, but at Sita's tent.
Ashvath reacted faster than thought. He hurled a throwing dagger into the dark.
It struck.
A scream—guttural, feral—followed.
Ashvath sprinted across the camp as guards scrambled awake, torches flaring, weapons drawn.
He reached Sita's tent to find her already armed, hair loose, dagger raised.
"Are we under attack?" she gasped.
"No," Ashvath growled, stepping outside. "I am."
The assassin leapt from the shadows again—this time aiming for Ashvath's throat.
Their blades clashed in a whirlwind of motion. Steel sang against steel. The assassin moved like mist and death—trained in poisons, nerves, silence. Ashvath moved like a tempest.
The final blow came swift.
Ashvath disarmed him with a spinning cut, sent him to his knees, and ripped off the mask.
The face was tattooed with Kalinga script. The eyes were wide, bloodshot.
Ashoka arrived at that moment, flanked by guards.
"Who sent you?" the prince demanded.
The assassin smiled, even as blood dripped from his lips.
"I was sent not to kill—but to awaken. The Shadow must fall, for the Lion to bleed."
Then he bit down on something in his mouth.
Poison.
He died with a smile.
---
Suspicions and Storms
Ashoka paced as dawn broke.
"They're targeting you," he said. "You, not me. Why?"
Ashvath shrugged. "Because I'm the sword you can't lose."
Sita added quietly, "Or because he's more than your sword now."
Ashoka looked at them—too long. Too quiet.
And something in his gaze changed.
---
In the Temple of Fire and Dust
Far away, Mokshara stood before her god once more.
"The Shadow lives," her acolyte whispered.
"But not untouched," she replied. "We have pierced him, even if his body stands. Now the seed of fear grows in their camp. Doubt. Jealousy. And in doubt, kings fall."
She smiled.
"Let Magadha rot from within."
---
End of Chapter 6