Before Durjaya could understand what had happened, she leapt at him like lightning.
The first strike grazed the edge of his crown.
The second split his shoulder guard.
The third forced him to step backwards.
“Sulochana!” Kumudvati cried.
There was no fear in that cry.
There was joy.
The joy of seeing awakened power.
Durjaya stood stunned for a moment.
Then he drew the sword at his side.
“I believed you were still weak,” he said.
Sulochana’s sword flashed.
“Weakness belongs to the body. When honour is threatened, the will forgets the body.”
The battle began.
Durjaya was no careless prince without training.
His strikes came swiftly.
His armour was strong.
His steps were those of one raised upon the battlefield.
But Sulochana’s swordsmanship belonged to another order.
It was not merely the art of a warrior.
It was the rhythm of dance.
The discipline of breath.
Even with a sword in her hand, her body moved like music.
When Durjaya’s blow came with force, Sulochana’s step escaped through rhythm.
When his anger surged forward, her wrist sent that anger into empty space.
When his sword came to cut, her eyes had already read its path.
For a moment, Kumudvati watched the battle in rapture.
It was this very art that Sulochana had taught her.
This same rhythm of breath had touched the side of her ear.
These same hands had guided hers when she released her first arrow.
Now that knowledge stood before her as flame.
But then she saw the soldiers of Trigarta rushing towards her.
She rubbed her bonds against a nearby iron pillar until they broke loose.
Then she drew a sword from the sheath of the nearest soldier.
Those who saw her move almost laughed.
“A princess with a sword?” they thought.
But their laughter vanished when the first soldier fell.
The sword of the second flew into the air.
The third stumbled backwards.
Kumudvati’s style of combat was not fire like Sulochana’s.
It was a blade of moonlight.
It appeared gentle, then revealed its edge in an instant.
Her garments of the vow, the ornaments of a bride, and the flowers in her braid all seemed opposed to war.
Yet that very contrast made her extraordinary.
Everyone within the wedding pavilion stood astonished.
Two princesses in bridal garments—Sulochana and Kumudvati—flashed their swords and transformed the pavilion into a battlefield.
There was anger in their movements.
But no delight in violence.
There was grace in their bodies.
But no weakness.
There was auspiciousness in their garments.
Judgement in their hands.
For a moment, even Durjaya was entranced.
That moment became his danger.
Sulochana read the hesitation in his gaze.
“Nivara.”
His sword was turned aside.
“Parshva Prasara.”
Her step carried her behind his defence.
“Niyantra.”
Her wrist trapped the hand that held his sword.
“Praharadi.”
Durjaya’s weapon flew through the air, passed over the sacred fire, and fell upon the floor.
In the next moment, Sulochana’s blade rested against his throat.
“You learned how to force kingdoms into marriage,” she said. “Now learn defeat.”
At that moment, the doors of the pavilion thundered open.
The Alchemy-Perfected Warriors entered.
Behind them came the soldiers of Trigangeya and the guards of Panchanada.
One by one, the warriors of Trigarta dropped their weapons.
Whatever courage remained in them ended at the doors of the pavilion.
Sulochana bound Durjaya and pushed him before the Alchemy-Perfected Warriors.
“He is a prisoner,” she said. “Defeated not by blood, but by disgrace.”
The greatest of the Alchemy-Perfected Warriors bowed his head.
“As you command.”
Durjaya’s hands were bound.
The remaining forces of Trigarta surrendered. (To be Continued)
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