Kartikeya begins preparing his army. This time, he is filled with anger and determination, intent on destroying everything in his path. In the royal court, the Minister of War holds a meeting to discuss war strategies. However, the king knows well that relying solely on the army, Magadh cannot defeat Kaushal.
Without informing anyone, the king leaves the palace and rides his horse swiftly toward the river. After a day's journey, he reaches the place he had visited many years ago.
This place was the village of the great sorceress Ambala, where she lived with her people. Sorceress Ambala was the eldest in her village, making her the leader.
The king's horse stops directly at her place. Although outsiders were generally not allowed here, no one dared to stop the king, especially since this place was within the kingdom of Magadh.
The sorceress Ambala, revered and feared in equal measure, was a woman of immense power and wisdom. Her reputation stretched far beyond the borders of Magadh. It was said that she could control the elements, read the future, and bend reality to her will. Many had sought her counsel, but few had been granted an audience. For those who dared to approach her without invitation, the consequences were often dire. Yet, the king rode into her domain without hesitation, driven by a deep sense of urgency and the knowledge that Magadh's survival depended on what he would ask of her.
As the king dismounted from his horse, he felt the weight of the atmosphere around him—thick with the energy of countless spells cast over centuries. The village was eerily quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of a stream. The air was cool, almost unnaturally so, as if time itself had slowed down in the presence of the sorceress's power.
The villagers, dressed in simple yet peculiar garments, emerged from their huts to watch the king with curious and wary eyes. They did not speak, but their expressions spoke volumes. They were aware of the gravity of the king's visit, knowing that such a powerful ruler would not come to their secluded haven without reason.
Ambala's dwelling stood at the center of the village, a large, ancient structure built from stones that seemed to hum with latent magic. Vines with unusual, luminescent flowers climbed its walls, and the air around it shimmered with an almost invisible aura. The king approached the entrance, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and trepidation.
Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames dancing as if moved by an unseen force. In the center of the room sat Ambala, her eyes closed, surrounded by strange symbols drawn on the floor. As the king entered, her eyes slowly opened, revealing a gaze that seemed to pierce through his very soul.
"Welcome, Your Majesty," she said in a voice that was both soft and commanding. "I have been expecting you."