As the moon reached it's peak, a 17-year-old boy, stood in the ranks of the rebels as militia , waiting for marching orders in the shadows of forest. He wore chest armour reinforced with leather, simple leather bracers on his forearms and legs, and a dhoti, with bare feet. With a round shield in his left hand and a spear in his right, he might have looked like a ragtag bandit to others, but he felt dignified, no less than a noble. And his name was Nirbhay.
He was part of a group of ten, led by an experienced soldier of the rebel alliance.
"Lucky bastard! One day, I'll have my own armour like that," Nirbhay thought, feeling a pang of jealousy as he looked at their leader, clad in full chainmail armor with a proper helmet and leather boots.
"What are you looking at? Do you want to die?" snapped his elder brother, nudging him sharply with his elbow and speaking in a low voice.
