No one could say when it happened.
There was no single morning, no sudden realization. Time had simply moved—like water slipping past stone, quiet and relentless—until one day, the reflection staring back was no longer that of children.
The boys were eight now.
Taller. Leaner. Their shoulders straighter, their gazes steadier. Something unseen had settled into them—not power, not yet—but presence. The kind that made servants pause an extra breath. The kind that bent conversations without raising a voice.
Behind them lay the music hall.Ahead stood iron and stone.
The gates of the Vajraśila Royal Academy of Arkavaira.
Mist clung to the mountain air as the Vyomtara carriage slowed along the winding road. Beyond the gates, thunder-stone walls rose through drifting cloud, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of discipline. Pale spires pierced the fog, banners etched with sigils of knowledge, restraint, and unyielding resolve.
Students from across the kingdom had gathered—some nervous, some proud, some already masking ambition behind practiced calm.
Arkavaira held many academies.More than twenty, scattered across its vast lands.
Five stood above the rest—pillars of legacy, rigor, and influence.
And among them, Vajraśila stood unmoving.
The closest of the great academies to House Vyomtara.The finest within reach.
Not chosen for comfort.Chosen for purpose.
The carriage came to a halt.
Elaria Vyomtara did not move at once.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced too tightly. She had dressed them herself that morning—straightened collars, smoothed hair, memorized faces as though afraid they might change if she blinked.
"This is only an academy," she said softly, more to herself than to them.
"But it feels like a border."
Aditya jumped down first, landing lightly. He grinned—older now, sharper—but something gentler flickered beneath it.
"We'll write," he said quickly, as if sensing the ache before it surfaced. "All the time."
Sasi stepped down next, composed and steady. He turned back and bowed slightly—not as a child to a mother, but as someone who understood duty.
"We will tell you everything," he promised. "What we learn. What we see."
Aryan exited last.
He did not rush. He stood beside Elaria a moment longer than the others, his presence quiet but grounding. Then he reached into his sleeve and placed a folded paper into her hands.
"I wrote the first letter already," he said simply. "So you won't have to wait."
Her breath caught.
She smiled—then pulled all three of them into a fierce embrace, holding them as though imprinting their existence into her bones.
"Every day," she said, voice trembling but firm. "Whenever you can—write. I will read them all. And I will reply. Always."
Varesh stood behind her, unmoving. His expression remained steady, but his gaze lingered—sharp with restraint. He knew this moment. Knew it could not be delayed.
"One day," he said quietly, "every child must leave."
Not to abandon home—but to understand the world.
"To rule wisely," he continued, "you must first see how people live. How they struggle. How they choose. That journey will come later."
He looked at his sons.
"For now… you learn."
The academy gates began to open.
Stone and metal groaned together—ancient, patient, unyielding.
Students moved forward in small groups, swallowed gradually by vast corridors and echoing halls. Vajraśila did not welcome. It endured—and demanded the same in return.
Aditya clenched his fists once, excitement warring with something unfamiliar.Sasi inhaled, steadying himself.Aryan lifted his gaze to the academy crest carved above the gates—thunder-stone etched with symbols of law, will, and foundation—studying it not as authority, but as threshold.
They stepped forward together.
At the boundary, Elaria called out one last time.
"Remember who you are."
All three turned.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
They nodded—
and crossed.
The gates of Vajraśila closed behind them with a sound that echoed longer than it should have.
Elaria remained still long after the road fell silent.
"They were just in the music hall," she whispered.
Varesh placed his hand over hers.
"And now," he said gently, "they are at the beginning."
Above the academy, the clouds drifted slowly apart.
And somewhere within those thunder-stone walls, three boys—no longer children, not yet men—took their first steps into a wider world that would one day test everything they had been taught.
Childhood had not ended with tears or thunder.
It had ended with a door closing—
and a path opening beyond it.