“Follow me, my lord," the woman whispered, her voice barely carrying through the thick forest. She moved with hurried grace, her children clinging to her tattered garments, small shadows of fear and desperation. The younger child still clutched the crust of bread Aryaman had given, nibbling it as if each bite held the promise of survival.
The air grew thicker as they journeyed deeper, the forest seeming to close in around them. Aryaman's skin prickled with a sense of foreboding. The damp scent of decaying leaves and the distant rustle of creatures hidden in the shadows heightened his unease. Himmat, ever watchful, twitched his ears, his hackles rising. Then the smell reached Aryaman—woodsmoke mingled with the sourness of unwashed bodies, and beneath it all, the acrid stench of despair.
A murmur drifted from ahead like a precursor. As they broke through the underbrush, the sight that greeted Aryaman stole his breath for a moment. The valley below was a sea of makeshift tents and ragged shelters sagging under the weight of hopelessness. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, moved within the camp, their faces gaunt with exhaustion. A little girl clung to her mother’s side, her fingers wrapped around a faded doll with missing eyes, her gaze empty as though she had forgotten what it was to smile. Nearby, an old man sat hunched over, clutching a worn locket as though it held the last of his memories. Banners of the temples, once vibrant and adorned with sacred symbols, were now dull, torn, and repurposed to patch tents and cover weary heads. Tattered prayer flags hung limply, their colours faded, their blessings unanswered.
"Great gods," Sanjaya breathed, his eyes wide with shock.
They began to descend, their path winding towards the heart of the refugee camp. The low murmur changed, shifting like the wind, as eyes turned towards them—some wary, others suspicious. A few men moved forward, positioning themselves defensively, their faces dark with mistrust. A scarred man stepped forth, raising his hand to block their path, his eyes fixed on Aryaman's sword and the military insignia adorning Sanjaya's attire.
"Who are you, strangers?" the scarred man demanded, his voice rough as gravel. "Why do you come here armed?"
Sanjaya inclined his head, his tone measured, diplomatic. "We are here to help."
Yet his formal garb and poised bearing seemed only to stoke the crowd’s resentment. Angry murmurs rose, bitter as ash.
"Help?" The scarred man scoffed, his lips curled in disdain. "No one has offered us any help. We've been shunted away like a plague to be avoided, leave us to our misery!”
Aryaman felt the tension, felt it gathering like a stormcloud. The weight of their hollow eyes bore down on him, full of suffering and the bitter sting of betrayal. His heart clenched—not in anger at them, but at the injustice that had brought them to this.
A frail voice broke through the crowd, trembling with disbelief.
"Could it be... my prince?" An old man pushed forward, his eyes searching Aryaman’s face, widening as recognition dawned.
"By the gods... it is you," the old man whispered, awe softening the lines of his worn face. He dropped to his knees, his body trembling with the effort.
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"Prince Aryaman. I served under your father during the northern campaign."
A ripple spread through the crowd. The refugees whispered amongst themselves—"the prince," "the young lord"—and their hardened gazes began to soften, confusion giving way to cautious hope.
The old soldier looked around at the crowd, his voice rising as he spoke.
"I fought alongside his father. I remember when Prince Aryaman was just a child, no older than some of your little ones here. During the harsh winter, when sickness spread through the villages, his father brought supplies, but it was young Aryaman who insisted on delivering food and medicine himself. I remember him wading through the thick mud after days of unending rain, his feet sinking with every step, yet he pressed on. He went from door to door, his small shoulders burdened not only by the bundles he carried but by the weight of his determination to make sure no one was left behind. I saw it with my own eyes—the boy was determined to make sure no one was left behind, no matter how cold or tired he became. His heart was pure then, and it must be pure now. If he says he will help, you can trust in his word. I have seen his family honor their promises time and again, and I know this young prince will do the same."
The refugees murmured, the old soldier's words spreading like wildfire, rekindling a belief that had long been extinguished. Aryaman stepped forward, feeling an unexpected warmth for this old man he didn't remember. Despite not recognizing the soldier, he could see the genuine loyalty in his eyes, and it moved him deeply. He gently embraced the old soldier, saying, "Thank you for your service."
The murmurs grew more hopeful, and the crowd shifted, their eyes now filled with a flicker of something that had long been absent—belief. A mother, her voice barely above a whisper, called out,
"My lord... is it true? Have you come to help us?"
Aryaman nodded, his gaze sweeping across the sea of faces.
“Yes,” he said, his voice clear and unwavering. “No empty promises, we are here to help and we will help you all. The darkness that drove you from your homes—it spreads still. I am here to unite the powers of the sacred local deities, to push back against this growing darkness. While I must continue on with that mission. My trusted aide, Sanjaya, here will get food and aid from the nearest Dayita town.”
The old soldier straightened, a glint of the warrior he once was returning to his eyes. "The prince will not abandon us," he said, loud enough for those around to hear. "He will see us through, as his father did."
The people began to murmur their agreement, and Aryaman turned to Sanjaya. "Ride to the nearest town of Dayita, show your official seal and get the local army to help you with transporting the supplies.”
Sanjaya bowed his head. "At once, Your Highness.”
“The nearest Dayita town is half a day's ride,” said Sanjaya addressing the crowd. “If anyone wishes to join me, they are welcome.”
A few young men from the crowd volunteered to join in. As Sanjaya turned to leave with them, a sudden shout erupted from nearby—two men struggling over a half-filled jug of water. With days of parched throats and the spring nearly dried up, the fight over the last remnants of water had grown fierce. One was thrown to the ground, only for a third to snatch the jug away, desperation turning their fear into fury. The jug fell, spilling its precious contents onto the dry earth.
A woman cried out in despair, and Aryaman felt the weight of the moment settle onto his shoulders. Aryaman took a deep breath. He stepped forward. He raised his hand, his voice steady, commanding without force.
"There is a spring to the east," he said, “Sanjaya can guide some of you to it before he sets off. The sister who brought us here also saw the water. Do not worry, there is plenty of water for everyone.”
The crowd felt a heavy burden lifted from their shoulders and a miracle happening in real-time. They bowed to the prince and wished him good health and long life as he set out to the temple of the local deity.
This is what I can do for now, he thought, his heart heavy with all he witnessed at the camp, as he rode on Himmat. Once I return from the linking of the local deities, maybe I can find a more permanent solution.