Chapter 1 - Ambush at the Outskirts
Kashmir, India, 720 CE — during the reign of the formidable Karkota Dynasty.
The Kashmiri warrior advanced through the burnt grass, his muscular arms tense as he gripped his sword hilt. His eyes locked onto the Arab invader before him, blazing with fury and unrelenting hatred. The enemy had been a formidable one, parrying the Kashmiri’s blows one after another. But soon, exhaustion had caught up with him as well. In a single, fluid motion, the muscular warrior swung his blade, thus ending another Arab’s life.
“Prince Muktaveera! Behind you!” screamed a Kashmiri soldier.
Alerted just in time, Muktaveera spun around and stopped a fatal blow aimed at his abdomen. With swift fury, he struck the Arab’s face with a punch, delivered a powerful kick to the torso, and slashed his sword cleanly through the enemy’s skull.
In his eighteen years of life, Muktaveera had never endured such blistering heat. The village was nearly engulfed in flames, the air echoing with the screams of terrified citizens beneath the harsh midday sun. His eyes darted ahead—where he caught sight of another Kashmiri warrior.
The warrior was well-bearded and had sun-bronzed skin marked by countless battle scars, bearing a striking resemblance to Muktaveera—though he stood a little taller and was built with even more muscle. Muktaveera’s eyes widened as an arrow hurtled through the air, aimed straight at the unsuspecting figure. With a sudden burst of speed, Muktaveera surged forward, his blade flashing as he cleaved the arrow in two before it could strike.
“In the name of Lord Surya, be careful dada!” Muktaveera called out to his elder brother. “You’re the king of the Karkotas—you can’t afford to throw yourself into danger so recklessly!”
Chandraveera turned, utterly unfazed, a grin tugging at his lips. The scar across his left eye stretched as he smirked.
“You worry too much, Mukta. Death has been chasing me since the day I wore this crown. Looks like it’ll have to run faster.”
“But dada—”
“Sssh,” Chandraveera cut him off, raising a calloused finger to his lips. His eyes swept across the surroundings with sharp focus. The village had quieted. There was no clash of steel or war cries. The invasion had ended.
Almost all the Arab attackers lay dead on the ground. One remained—barely alive. He writhed on the scorched earth, clutching a wound on his chest, his breath ragged, blood bubbling at the corners of his lips.
Chandraveera strode toward him without a word, the hem of his bloodstained robe brushing the scorched grass. He stopped above the fallen man and placed his boot hard on the Arab’s chest—right over the bleeding wound.
The man screamed, a guttural, broken sound of raw pain. Chandraveera leaned forward slightly, his voice low but deadly.
“Who is sending you into our land?”
The Arab gasped, his lips trembling with blood. His eyes flickered with both hatred and helplessness, but he remained quiet. Chandraveera pressed his boot harder. The Arab screamed again, this time choking on his own blood. A fit of coughing racked his body before he managed to speak again.
“The Umayyad Caliphate,” he rasped, coughing once more. “From Sindh.”
Chandraveera’s eyes narrowed. “Is Yazid Abdul behind this?”
The Arab gave no answer. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he turned his gaze upward, dazed.
“TELL ME!” screamed Chandraveera.
“Not the Caliph himself…” the man croaked. “Our master… he commands us. May Allah bless that man.”
“Who is this master of yours?” Chandraveera demanded.
But the Arab only gave a broken laugh—then fell silent, his head slumping to one side as his body stilled.
Chandraveera stared at the corpse, expression unreadable. Then, without turning, he muttered to Muktaveera beside him,
“Why is someone—clearly beneath Caliph Yazid’s authority—commanding these Arabs to invade Kashmir? And why launch these scattered raids instead of seeking the Caliph’s permission to wage a proper war?”
Muktaveera frowned, his hand still gripping his bloodied sword. “Maybe he’s not trying to conquer,” he said quietly. “What if he’s trying to weaken us... burn fields, rattle the people, force fear into the air.”
Chandraveera’s jaw stiffened. “Fear only wins if we bow to it.”
A pause stretched between them. Then Muktaveera murmured, “Let’s check on Taraveera dada.”
Chandraveera gave a curt nod and swung onto his horse. Muktaveera followed close behind, the two brothers riding through the scorched remnants of the village, heading towards the east.
“Damn it!” Junayd roared, hurling a wine goblet to the floor. “When will I get rid of those wretched dogs?”
Caliph Yazid’s governor was tall and broad-shouldered, his beard neatly oiled. His dark eyes burned with fury beneath a furrowed brow, and his crimson robes—once regal—were stained from spilled wine and dust. A jagged scar stretched down the side of his neck, twitching every time he spoke.
He had just received word that his plan to raid the weakest village in Kashmir had failed as well. Over a thousand soldiers had been sent, and there had been no trace of their march. Still, the Kashmiris had somehow arrived first with a force five times larger. Fewer than fifty of them fell in battle, while nearly every Arab soldier was slaughtered.
“My Lord, I must admit though, that the Kashmiris are incredibly strong. Somehow, they reached the village before us. And I saw a few men, clearly nobles, each killing more than ten of our soldiers single-handedly,” said the guard who had brought the news. “Their strength is no joke, sir.”
Junayd turned slowly, fury burning in his eyes. “What did you say?” he yelled. “WHAT IN ALLAH’S NAME DID YOU JUST SAY, YOU FOOL?!”
He lunged forward and seized the guard by the throat, his fingers digging in with a crushing grip. The guard’s eyes widened in panic as he struggled to breathe, his legs kicking weakly beneath him.
“You dare speak of their strength like it’s a tale to admire?” Junayd growled, his face twisted with rage. “Did you forget who you serve?”
The guard clawed at Junayd’s wrists, gasping, “M-my Lord… forgive me—”
Junayd released him with a violent shove, sending him crashing to the ground, coughing and choking.
“I don’t need praise for my enemies,” he spat. “I need their heads. That’s it.”
He turned and walked toward the window. The setting sun bathed the land in a soft golden light—calm, pure, innocent.
Just like he once had been. But there was no space for that man anymore. He faced the guard. “Where is Farzaan?”
“In his quarters, m-my Lord,” the guard stammered.
Junayd didn’t blink. “Bring him. Now.”
Without a word, the guard turned and hurried away.
“Dada!” Muktaveera shouted, his voice cracking. He sprinted toward Taraveera, the middle sibling among the three. Taraveera was slumped against a tree, and his leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Sweat clung to his brow, glistening in the heat of the nearby fire.
“I’m okay, Mukta—just a fracture, I think.”
Chandraveera shouted at a nearby soldier. “Bring a horse! Take him to the medics! And if he falls, you die!”
The soldier scrambled to obey, frightened.
They carefully lifted Taraveera onto the saddle as he let out a pained groan. Muktaveera exhaled, his chest still tight with worry. But when Taraveera managed a weak smile, some of the tension melted from his face.
Muktaveera and Chandraveera mounted their own horses beside him.
“Let’s head back to Srinagar, brothers,” Chandraveera said firmly.
Muktaveera glanced at his injured brother, then at the road ahead. He allowed himself the hint of a smile.
“Race to the capital gates, Chandra dada?” he asked, mischief returning to his eyes.
“Why not, Mukta?” Chandraveera chuckled, already tightening his grip on the reins.
“Oh come on! That’s not fair—don’t leave me behind!” protested Taraveera from behind.
Muktaveera laughed as he kicked his horse into motion. The two brothers sped off, side by side, the sound of hooves pounding the earth beneath them.
