He took off his silk robes. He gave his jewelry to the poor. He cut his hair. He watched his father collapse in grief. He heard the wails of Ayodhya behind him. And he kept walking.

Demon after demon attacked his little ashram. Rama killed them all—Viradha, Kabandha, the fourteen thousand demons of Janasthana. Each kill pulled him further from the prince he had been and closer to the warrior the world needed. He was not merely surviving. He was becoming.

Dasharatha wept. He begged. He offered his own life. But a king does not break his word.

“Father’s word is sacred,” he said. “The forest is not exile. It is simply a different kind of kingdom.”