THE last day of their training arrived. Like all other days, they went for their daily run before standing in front of Athruyam and Feyūnhaḥ. The sun still hid behind the cedars, yet the colors of the sky shifted. Before the final battle was to commence, Tūmbṃār and Iḷēhaḥ did something rather unexpected. They knelt with their hands folded and, upon standing, approached Athruyam and Feyūnhaḥ, raising their still folded hands. And finally kneeling to them, they said:

O respected ones, you who have trained us, you who have raised us;

We ask your permission to engage in war;

May the Gods and Benefactors with their precepts pronounce this battle.

Athruyam and Feyūnhaḥ were dumbstruck by what they had said. The words they uttered were the same ones that Zūryaṃār had spoken as he and Lūshhaḥ approached all the elders on the other side of the battlefield, before the commencement of that great war. Zūryaṃār held fast to the principles of his days that included the rules of war; he would not engage without express consent from his elders, even though—at the time—they had been his foes. And now the two had done the same to Athruyam and Feyūnhaḥ whom they thought of as friends, teachers, and for that time, their masters. Feyūnhaḥ was in a fluster and did not know what to say, but Athruyam instead laughed.

“You have my permission; may the Gods and Benefactors preside over this battle! You surely know this, but I shall say it nonetheless: I intend for you to defeat us. If you cannot do so, then even if I assent to your departure, the chances of you defeating the enemy shall be slim indeed, nay, impossible. Come at us with the intent to kill and use all you have at your disposal to try and fell us. I shall not hold back, and you should do likewise.”

Iḷēhaḥ and Tūmbṃār gulped.

They understood that none should die in this final battle. Athruyam’s words were more a declaration of how they should engage, but it still made them feel uneasy.

Athruyam and Feyūnhaḥ bowed to the trainees and walked a few paces back, while Tūmbṃār and Iḷēhaḥ returned to their original positions and bore their weapons. The boy postured himself into his crouching stance, and the maiden held her right leg front, leaning onto her left leg with her staff pointed toward Feyūnhaḥ. Athruyam stood in his upright pose but with his sword held forward as Feyūnhaḥ held her black daggers in a reverse grip.

All four of them activated their Dvı̄sahlvah, Athruyam to fire, Feyūnhaḥ to air, Iḷēhaḥ to water, and Tūmbṃār to lightning – a first for him! The ladies held their mouths agape while Athruyam instead smiled, glad in heart that the boy could figure it out for himself. It seemed to the two ladies that this development must have been related to his special training. They knew then that he was indeed able to use the aether, something they thought improbable given the time needed to hone it.

Iḷēhaḥ intended to ask him about it but resigned herself to sating her curiosity later. Now they would need to hold their attention to the battle.

A silence hung in the air as the combatants looked intently at one another. That long moment held for what surely felt like an eternity as the light breeze swayed around them. A surreal sight it was, for all was calm, yet holes, craters, and destroyed foliage marked that clearing, and there was sure to be more of it after the end of their final battle.

When the calm had subsided, Athruyam looked to Feyūnhaḥ, and they nodded their heads. The Lord of the Cedars then pointed his blade at Tūmbṃār and shouted, “Let the battle commence!”

Upon uttering those words, Tūmbṃār rushed toward Athruyam, and Feyūnhaḥ to Iḷēhaḥ. Swords clashed, and daggers were parried as sparks and trace quantities of mist flew into the air.

Iḷēhaḥ spun her staff and caught it at its base, intending to swing it down onto Feyūnhaḥ’s head. But Feyūnhaḥ rolled back before Iḷēhaḥ lunged forward. Her staff impacted the ground and burst, issuing a mass of dust and mist that enshrouded the entire clearing.

It became nigh impossible to see beyond a few feet. Iḷēhaḥ paced forward with slow steps and listened for any movement of her target, and she heard something from behind, sharply evading to the side. A surge of fire and wind cut through the mist, and the maiden could see the princess running toward her.

Iḷēhaḥ held her staff out toward Feyūnhaḥ as she coursed her power into it. In moments, the Dvı̄sahlvah glowed, and the staff ejected a torrent of pressurized water. The princess leaped into the air, and the water cut through the trees in the back, felling at least ten rows before rending the area with a tremendous blast.

The maiden then ran to the falling princess, and on reaching her, she spun herself. Staff clashed against daggers, and Feyūnhaḥ shot out of the mist with a fierce gust. Iḷēhaḥ held the staff above herself and spun it again, bringing forth more gust from her Dvı̄sahlvah that cleared the haze.

A few of the cedars burned as the princess knelt on the ground near the edge of the clearing, biding her time for the maiden’s next action. Iḷēhaḥ glanced behind herself and did not see either Athruyam or Tūmbṃār.

The mist did little to obstruct Tūmbṃār’s attacks, his sword firmly locked against the lord’s. Athruyam then spun in place and landed a kick that threw Tūmbṃār out of the mist toward the burning cedars.

He recovered in flight and skidded across the grass deeper into the woodland. He fled from the action and Athruyam gave chase just as the mist was clearing. They ran together while separated by few columns of trees until they reached an area where several cedars seemed to have been violently blown off their stumps; the smell of wood and a few traces of mist still hung in the air.

Their gazes locked, and they cautiously walked about each other, spiraling ever closer. When only a few feet stood between them, Tūmbṃār leaped and spun his leg to Athruyam’s blade.

Using it, Tūmbṃār sprang himself up high and as swift as an eagle, dove and crashed their swords together. Lightning and fire coalesced, and sparks and embers flew in a frenzy as they singed the edges of their raiments.

Athruyam was forced toward the ground as his feet cracked the surface beneath him. He took his free hand and held the blade at its edge. With more of his power coursing into the Dvı̄sahlvah, a mass of elemental power erupted from the blade and sent Tūmbṃār crashing toward a cedar.

Tūmbṃār had little time to recover, for the lord followed him as he flew. As soon as he hit the tree, Athruyam lunged his blade. Tūmbṃār blocked the attack, but the force behind Athruyam’s strike was too great for the tree to bear. It burst into splinters, and Tūmbṃār shot through, felling more cedars in his flight. He tumbled across the ground, digging his fingers through the dirt. And after halting, he saw the trail left before him.

Athruyam for that moment gave him some respite as he paced himself toward Tūmbṃār. With his Dvı̄sahlvah ignited, Tūmbṃār encased the blade in fire. He ran to Athruyam and, in quick succession, struck against his foe’s blade.

The clangs of the metal were sharp, the smell of the dirt was strong, and the embers ran hot. Their raiment was soiled, and their faces were scratched, but they gave no thought of it. The heat of the battle had taken hold, and they quickened their strikes—overhead, to each side, to lunges and parries, and each recovering as quickly as they had struck before. One could liken the action almost to a playful dance, were the objective anything other than the spilling of blood.

The stalemate broke when Tūmbṃār crouched under Athruyam’s swings and thereafter sent his fist straight into the lord’s gut. With Athruyam stunned by the blow, Tūmbṃār took his chance by forcing him up high and issuing a fierce gust that blew him back to the stumps. The situation had reversed. Now Tūmbṃār chased after the lord in flight.

Athruyam recovered himself on the other side and now they stood across from one another as their Dvı̄sahlvah gleamed under the light of the dawn. They slowly raised their blades and raged all their power into them. A cascade of colors and lights arose from both their weapons, the power concentrating toward their tips, and streams of various elements coursing along their length.

Athruyam then hesitated, for if such a potent surge of powers were to release then and there, the woods, and the gardens, and even the palace could well be caught in the fallout.

“Tūmbṃār! How much longer do you intend to feed your Dvı̄sahlvah? Do you plan to annihilate these woods?”

The boy gritted his teeth as he felt his energy sapped by the armament. Yet he smiled and said, “Master! Do you see the far-off cedars in the distance? The ones that stand above all the others? They shan’t fall! I promise this!”

Five tall cedars could be seen from afar and towered above the rest, almost like a large hill. They stood about a mile from where they were, but this did not assuage Athruyam’s doubts. He at once retracted his powers and stood in place with his hands joined together at their tips. Though he wanted haste, he could not afford a mistake with what he was about to do.

Athruyam, with heavy tension in his hands, spread them apart, and a void appeared between them. The void expanded until a gaping black hole obstructed Tūmbṃār’s view. The boy grew frantic, and his concentration broke; the powers surged at the tip, issued with great speed and effulgence. The brilliant flash of coursing lights and elements blasted in front of the void and vanished without a trace. Hairs like tentacles appeared from within, and the menacing presence of the void frightened Tūmbṃār as it loomed in front of him. Just as it was to cover him, it stopped. It quickly receded to a singular point—and vanished.

Tūmbṃār panted, sweat trailing down the side of his head. He had not seen anything of its like before. This was the first time he had ever experienced such dread, greater than with any animal, greater than with any person, and certainly greater than the mysterious things and beings he had witnessed. And his heart pounded harder and faster as his breathing became erratic. Yet he would not let this stifle him, and he rushed toward Athruyam, with his blade held over his head.

The lord panted from exhaustion, having little energy left for countering or casting his powers, and so he gripped his sword firmly in anticipation. The blades once again clashed, this time without the elemental encasing.

Leaping and spinning about Athruyam, Tūmbṃār dealt fierce strikes but the lord guarded against every one in perfect stance and grace. Even as he tired, he resisted against it; he would not let the ebb and flow of battle mar his form.

Athruyam took to his offensive posture and forced the boy back with his sword. He held it high above his head and swung down on Tūmbṃār’s blade. The lord’s strikes were swift, and the boy could barely keep pace with his movements.

Tūmbṃār found himself pushed back with each strike, but he took glances toward his sides, and seeing an opening, he rolled out from the onslaught. Athruyam then rushed forth, and Tūmbṃār immediately raised his free hand and issued a stream of fire. It thrust the lord back and seared the ends of his robes, but he soon dispelled the flames.

They then circled about one another. No words were spoken, and all was silent; even the air was still, and no breeze rustled the leaves or swayed the grass. Their breathing had calmed, and Tūmbṃār thought to himself that as it stood now, he would not be able to defeat Athruyam. He had used much of his powers, and his strength was not enough to overcome the lord’s, at least not in a direct confrontation.

He exhaled, and glaring at Athruyam, he clapped his hands together and a mass of steam arose from out of his palms and gassed the entire clearing. The lord was caught off-guard but persisted through the steam to give chase to the fleeing boy. He could not at that moment discern what he was thinking, but knew there was little to be had going back that way. With the state Tūmbṃār was in and with Iḷēhaḥ preoccupied with Feyūnhaḥ, Athruyam thought the two would have little chance to defeat both him and his sister.

The battle seemed, in all likelihood, to be in his favor.

Iḷēhaḥ was faced with an onslaught of strikes as Feyūnhaḥ struck in and around the staff in an attempt to break the maiden’s guard. Her attacks increased in intensity with each strike as sharp streams of wind, and violent sparks of lightning thrashed about the weapons. Iḷēhaḥ, stuck in the rhythm of her enemy, could not find a way to maneuver herself out of the princess’s grasp.

Suddenly, Feyūnhaḥ altered the swing of her attacks and plunged the daggers into the ground. The earth erupted, projecting more dust. Great pieces of rock protruded swiftly from the earth, sending Iḷēhaḥ flying.

Feyūnhaḥ ran across the raised rocks and leaped at the edge in pursuit of Iḷēhaḥ. The maiden recovered in the air, and her staff once again clashed with the princess’s daggers. The situation was not in her favor, and they soon began to fall. Were she to keep plunging at her current rate, she would more than likely be rendered unconscious from the impact.

In haste, Iḷēhaḥ dropped her guard and pushed her staff against the princess. The daggers moved to the side and cut into Iḷēhaḥ’s shoulders. Trace amounts of blood flew into Feyūnhaḥ’s face and blurred her vision, and given her chance, Iḷēhaḥ took her right hand off her staff and pressed it against the princess’s chest. And with all her might, she released a blaze of wind and fire that burst between them and sent the two flying far from each other.

Iḷēhaḥ crashed into the ground, and Feyūnhaḥ flew higher into the sky as her clothes singed under the flames. The maiden brought herself up, barely able to move. She then heard shouts in the distance, and when she glanced to her side, she could see Tūmbṃār running toward her.

“Iḷēhaḥ! Heal us!” he cried.

She had little strength left to respond, and while her control of space was not as great as it should be, she attempted to do as Tūmbṃār said. Holding her staff above, she twirled it rapidly. Right behind Tūmbṃār, she took notice of Athruyam and became frantic.

She started twirling faster and faster as she ejected water and air from her staff. The droplets that sprinkled out moved about Iḷēhaḥ like a small vortex.

The boy picked up speed, hastening toward the suspended reservoir. Athruyam caught on to what was happening, and he raced faster toward Tūmbṃār as each of his steps cracked the ground beneath him. He then noticed that Feyūnhaḥ was missing, and wondered where she had gone.

Tūmbṃār was now only a few yards away, and just as Athruyam was about to grab him, he held his arms out and cycled the air around them. And moving them back, the air circulated with greater vigor. At that moment, Tūmbṃār launched toward Iḷēhaḥ.

Her eyes grew wide as the boy came flying at her with a big grin across his face. He grabbed onto her, and they flew toward the edge of the clearing.

Athruyam halted, now unable to catch up to Tūmbṃār but he sensed something above and looked to the sky. He saw his sister descending toward the northern side of the woodland and called to her, but she would not respond. Shocked by this, he sprinted in her direction, increasing his speed with short bursts of air.

Now Tūmbṃār had also taken notice of Feyūnhaḥ, and on seeing her, an idea came to him. When they landed, he lifted the injured maiden above his head and angled her toward the falling princess.

“Tūmbṃār! Tūmbṃār, stop! Do you hear me? Dare not throw me!” But the boy paid no heed and flung her like a missile.

A noise could be heard in the distance, and Athruyam shifted his gaze to the source. He beheld Iḷēhaḥ in flight, and he halted in utter disbelief. She left behind a trail of screams before flying out of sight.

And then, he sensed something and turned around to see Tūmbṃār right behind, racing toward him. With Athruyam’s guard lowered, there was naught he could do.

With a fist encased in a thick crust of earth and streaks of lightning arcing upon its surface, he threw it straight into the lord’s face! The boy arced his arm downward, and Athruyam smashed into the ground with a wave of dust and dirt, amassed with sparks and ejecting well-nigh fifty feet in the air.

When the strike had landed and the dust had settled, Tūmbṃār lifted his hand while he panted. He saw Athruyam’s swollen cheek. He was still conscious, and turned his face to Tūmbṃār. He tried curling his fingers but they would not move. He tried lifting his legs. They would not budge.

He smiled at the boy and with a hoarse voice said, “You have bested me, Tūmbṃār.”

The increased rush of the wind stifled the rest of her screams. Iḷēhaḥ was still in flight, but she neared her target. Within a few moments, she crashed into Feyūnhaḥ, and the two landed near the edge of the woodland.

Iḷēhaḥ groaned for a bit and opened her eyes. She tried to move her arms but could not. Looking to her side, she saw Feyūnhaḥ. The maiden twisted her body over and tried to nudge her friend with her head. Feyūnhaḥ did not move. She then put her ears near Feyūnhaḥ’s mouth and could hear her breathing. She sighed, letting her face fall into the grass. In the distance, she could hear Tūmbṃār’s joyous calls, and she understood the test to be over. With little care to respond, she fell into a slumber beside the sleeping princess. The sun stood just a little above the woodland of cedars.