Chapter 1: The Mad Man is Evoked

  The thick forest of Darvan was alive with whispers of wind weaving through towering sal trees and the rustle of creatures hidden in shadows. Somewhere deep in its heart, two young figures rode swiftly on horseback, their eyes fixed upon a nimble deer darting ahead.

  Prince Rakhtaveer of NakshtraKulam gripped his bow tightly, his muscles tense beneath his bronze-plated Armor. His sharp eyes locked on the deer, assessing its path, calculating its every move. Beside him rode his sister, Princess Devyani, poised and regal even on the back of her galloping white mare. Her silken robes flowed behind her, her gaze equally fierce, her arrow nocked and ready.

  "That one's mine!" Rakhtaveer growled under his breath.

  Behind them stood a small entourage of ministers, guards and some troubled people of Nakshtra, everyone watching without blinking to see the arrow of which royal bloodline would be the first. This was more than just a hunt—it was a spectacle.

  The deer made a sharp turn into a clearing. Both riders loosed their arrows at once. A sharp squeal echoed through the air, but not from the deer. Instead, a wild boar that had wandered into the path of the arrows collapsed in the underbrush, pierced cleanly through the heart.

  "You hit the wrong one," Rakhtaveer snarled, his voice laced with both frustration and disbelief.

  Devyani, though surprised, remained calm. "Perhaps the animal found itself in the wrong place."

  But Rakhtaveer was not in the mood for wordplay, taking it on his pride to kill the animal. With a guttural shout, he spurred his horse forward, throwing the bow, drawing his sword with a flourish. Chasing the horse towards Deer, with the sword in one hand, closing inch by inch. In a matter of seconds, he caught up to the deer and he climbed up the horse on the big stone making it jump in front of deer, losing himself from the horse and jumping off, flipping back from a upside down position, with a one clean strike on the head of the deer running from beneath. And the animal was dead.

  Cheers erupted from behind as ministers and guards hailed the prince's skill. "Long live Prince Rakhtaveer! The warrior of NakshtraKulam!" they cried.

  Yet, as the adrenaline of the hunt faded, admiring himself of the blood of the deer on his clothes, Rakhtaveer's eyes flicked toward his sister. She had already dismounted and was speaking in hushed tones with Minister Rajan, the eldest and most trusted advisor to their father, King Rajratna.

  "You should return," Rajan urged gently. "The city awaits your guidance. The King arrives today."

  Devyani nodded. "Yes. There's much to be done."

  With a proud glance at her brother, she mounted her horse again and rode off, her banner swaying in the wind.

  Raktaveer, reached near the procession and A murmur reached Rakhtaveer's ears from nearby ministers.

  “This is the pride of Nakshtra Kulam! The Fierce we need!” one said.

  "But she's the one running the kingdom," another replied.

  "Its more than the valor that is required to rule a kingdom! even a foot army man can have a valor.!" Other-one added.

  Surprised folks immediately bow ... “Annadata!”

  Their words stung like a blade. His grip tightened around his sword.

  Rakhtaveer turned toward the speaker—Minister Adityan, a senior member of court.

  “Annadata would then remember—when the land was soaked in blood, it wasn’t coin or counsel that saved the people. It was my father’s sword."

  “What about you?” Adiyan returned the favour.

  This led Rakhtaveer speechless, steps back and orders pointing

  "You both. Come barefoot to the palace gates. And you will carry the deer and the arrow to my chambers. Let that be your lesson for today."

  “Don’t let the guards do the work!” Veersen added.

  “No bother. Brother Veersen as there will be no guard with him.”

  Adityan, taken aback, bowed silently but his eyes held disappointment. As the prince rode away with his entourage,

  The other one said, “Annadata, I would do the needful, I would request you to please not do touch it.” Adityan kindly smirked and pointed him to go towards the bow, and he approached the deer, grumbling to himself.

  While walking back with the deer, he saw, something shining on near the boar.

  Approaching the body, he turned it over, his breath caught.

  There, embedded in the boar's side, was a dagger.

  Not just any dagger. The hilt was ornate, etched with the royal insignia of NakshtraKulam—a dagger that had been lost months ago during a royal transfer to the Eastern fortress.

  "How... how is this here?" Adityan whispered.

  He immediately hid the dagger with the boar skin and stood up and ordered “Leave the bow there, and go away, I will take it from there.”

  As he faded away, Adityan retrieved the blade, his hands trembling, memories rushing back. That dagger had once been implicated in a audacious theft, an event covered up within the highest echelons of the palace. Someone dangerous was at play. He wrapped the dagger in cloth and rushed swiftly toward the capital, his mind heavy.

  NakshtraKulam stirred awake.

  From winding gullies lined with clay-tiled roofs, people rushed out—barefoot, wide-eyed, smiles breaking across sun-kissed faces. The scent of wet earth and incense mingled in the air as flower petals rained from rooftops of baked mud houses. Children waved flags made of dyed cloth, running through narrow lanes.

  Drums thumped—some large, some hand-held—and men in dhotis beat them with all their heart. Conch shells blew near temples. Young boys climbed trees and walls for a better view, while elders sat on charpais pulled out to the roadside, and fresh rangolis bloomed like sudden bursts of colour on the pathways.

  The people of NakshtraKulam—sun-bronzed, wide-eyed with joy—stood as one Janasamuh (Community), unified in awe.

  Many folded hands. Some bowed to the ground. Others chanted verses of welcome drawn from age-old granthas. Joy was not just seen—it was distributed.

  The palace, though humble in stone, bore carved wooden beams with stories of old kings etched into them—each pillar a monument to pride. Flags bearing the royal emblem fluttered in the breeze from bastions wrapped in vine.

  At the entrance of the Mahamahal, the Queens awaited.

  At the eastern gate, where the procession would pass, stood Queen Mrinalini in turmeric-hued silk, her silver-threaded dupatta cascading like moonlight. Queen Rajini, draped in deep green cotton with copper borders, had a crescent-shaped nath (Earing) adorning her face and a tiara carved from sandalwood and pearls.

  By their side, stood the children—Rakhtaveer and Devyani—each cloaked in tradition and rising destiny. the prince and princess wore royal turbans wrapped in layers of saffron and indigo, embroidered lightly with mirrors that caught the sun.

  Rakhtaveer wore a dark angavastram over his chest armor, embossed with the royal seal. His eyes, sharp as a falcon's, scanned the path ahead. Devyani stood in a regal lehenga, her dupatta trailing like starlight. Her hands were painted in mehndi.

  Then came King Rajratna, seated atop a tall white horse, with eyes red like embers, the King entered the gates. His Armor was still marked with ash and blood, not yet polished—worn like proof of his courage. Around his waist was the legendary sword Vajrasaar, rumoured to be forged in the sacred fires of Sage Agnibhanu.

  Behind him, his guards marched in rows—shields slung across their backs, spears upright.

  The crowd erupted.

  “Raja Rajratna ki Jai!”

  “Long live our King!”

  Cheering echoed across the valley, bouncing off the palace walls. Some threw flower petals, others tossed rice, and a few even beat copper plates in joy.

  He dismounted with the grace of a dancer, yet the weight of a thousand wars in his stride.

  The conch blew.

  The people fell silent.

  The King stepped forward.

  The queens performed the aarti, their flames flickering in sync with the chants echoing from the temple towers.

  King Rajratna dismounted with practiced ease, his weather-worn boots landing softly on the red carpet rolled across the palace courtyard. His armor bore scratches from battle, and yet he walked like a man untouched by war—straight-backed, eyes sharp, gaze assessing. The crowd quieted, the air thick with reverence and expectation.

  He approached Mrinalini first.

  The oldest queen stood tall, wearing a turmeric-hued silk, the fabric catching the morning light like liquid gold. A silver-threaded dupatta cascaded from her shoulder like moonlight on calm waters, its delicate shimmer whispering dignity. Her wrists, wrapped in bands of ancestral silver, bore stories of decades lived with unwavering steadiness. A single emerald tikka rested on her forehead, poised like the unspoken wisdom in her eyes. She did not smile, nor frown; her presence alone calmed the courtyard, like the hush before a sacred chant. This was a queen who needed no display—her legacy spoke louder than colour or ornament.

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  Rajratna bowed his head slightly—a rare gesture. “Your strength guards the palace stronger than stone walls, Mrinalini.”

  She smiled softly. “And your return strengthens it once more, Maharaj.”

  A flicker crossed Queen Rajini’s face, half-hidden behind her crimson veil. She stood to the side, stiff but composed, eyes locked on the king's every move.

  The king turned to her next.

  Queen Rajini took a poised step forward, draped in deep green cotton, so fine it clung to her form with natural grace, edged in copper borders that glinted like forged dusk. Her crescent-shaped nath shimmered with rubies, a curve of defiance and elegance that danced every time she breathed.

  Her tiara, carved from sandalwood and set with pearls, crowned her thick, ebony hair coiled into a loose bun that looked sculpted by the gods. But it was her eyes—lined in kohl, sharp and alive—that held the kingdom in their sway. They held heat and calculation, longing and strategy, pride and pain—all flickering in moments like fire behind smoked glass.

  Her beauty was unapologetic, a storm cloaked in silk. Her lips, naturally tinted, curved into a smile only when she willed it—not out of courtesy, but power. She knew her effect, and wore it not like a veil, but a weapon. Every movement of hers was a dance—measured, magnetic, unforgettable. She was an irresistible flame.

  “Rajini,” the king said. “I see the palace has stood tall in your care.”

  She bowed her head, just a breath slower than Mrinalini had. “It is my dharma, Maharaj,” she replied, her voice silk over steel. “And your children have grown—one in mind, the other in might.”

  Then, the king turned to Devyani.

  “Minister Rajan tells me you have held the kingdom firm in my absence,” he said, voice rising just enough for the court to hear. “I am proud of you, my daughter.”

  Devyani stepped forward with poise. She wore a deep green lehenga with minimal ornamentation—commanding in simplicity. Her expression remained measured, but her fingers, folded in front of her, briefly tightened.

  “Only as you taught me, Father,” she replied, bowing.

  A proud glint sparkled in Minister Rajan’s eyes as he nodded subtly from the sidelines. Behind him, Ministers Adiraj and Rudransh exchanged unreadable glances. Whispers rippled among their aides.

  The king finally faced Rakhtaveer.

  “And your tactics aided our victory,” he said, taking a half-step closer. “The surprise flank at Virpur was your idea, yes? Well done.”

  Rakhtaveer stood in polished Armor, his sword still strapped to his back. He smirked—a flash of pride—but his jaw tensed. The praise had come second. And the court had noticed.

  His mother, Queen Rajini, shifted slightly beside him, the movement so restrained it was almost imperceptible. But her eyes burned.

  “Virpur was not just a tactic,” Minister Veersen muttered low to his neighbour, “It was what turned the war.”

  Adityan, arms crossed, grunted. “Timing is everything. The king praised who needed praising first.”

  Rakhtaveer’s smirk faded. “Victory belongs to the crown,” he said aloud, carefully, yet the words clanged like steel—too sharp to be humble.

  Minister Adiraj smiled thinly.

  He leaned toward Rudransh and whispered, “Watch the prince’s fire… It may yet burn the kingdom—or forge it anew.”

  A low wind rustled the flags above them. The courtyard stood still, bound by silent currents of loyalty and ambition. The king turned back to the crowd, but behind him, the true war—of legacy, of love, of power—had already begun.

  As King Rajratna made his way down the line of ministers, he came to Minister Adityan. They embraced briefly. Adityan whispered a word into the king's ear.

  "Kalidhar."

  The king's brow tensed momentarily, but he nodded and smiled outwardly. Their eyes met, a silent conversation taking place.

  ------------------------

  Later, as the moon bathed the palace in silver, the echoes of celebration faded into the gentle hum of veena strings and anklet bells. Somewhere in the corridors, laughter still drifted, but behind closed doors, a different kind of conversation was taking shape.

  King Rajratna stepped into Queen Rajini's private chambers—dimly lit by sandalwood lamps and perfumed with attar of roses. The carved windows cast patterned shadows on the floor, flickering like half-whispered secrets.

  Rajini awaited him, reclining on a velvet divan, draped not in the formal silks of court, but in a translucent muslin saree that clung to her like morning dew on petals. Her hair was loosened, cascading in waves down her shoulder, and a single red bindi glowed like a flame between her brows. She rose slowly, the sway of her form deliberate, her anklets singing softly with every step.

  “You look tired, Maharaj,” she said, voice like warm honey. She poured him a goblet of spiced wine and approached, placing it in his hand, but letting her fingers linger around his.

  He took a sip, his eyes narrowing slightly. “It was a long campaign.”

  She moved closer, tracing the edge of his Armor with her painted nails. “And your son… our son… stood beside you like a lion.”

  Rajratna nodded, distracted. “He tought bravely.”

  Rajini stepped behind him now, unfastening the clasp of his shoulder guard with quiet ease. “Then what more is needed? He is ready, Rajratna,” she whispered near his ear. “Rakhtaveer deserves the title of Yuvraj.”

  He sighed, eyes lowering. “He is a warrior, yes. But war is not all. He lacks restraint… a king must temper fire with wisdom.”

  She circled around to face him, eyes glittering like storm clouds over still waters. “And Devyani? Would you let her take the throne?”

  “She is steady,” he said, almost to himself. “She listens. She leads.”

  Rajini drew even closer now, one hand resting on his chest, her voice dropping lower. “But she is a woman,” she breathed, eyes locking with his. “Will you crown a daughter in place of your son? Your bloodline?” Her hand slid upward to his shoulder, her gaze unrelenting. “My son?”

  There was a moment’s silence. Her presence, her scent, her touch—all tangled in his mind like a net. His body tensed beneath her fingers. His breath hitched.

  But then—his eyes blinked clear.

  He gently took her hand and moved it away. The weight of the crown returned to his shoulders.

  “She is my heir,” he said firmly.

  Rajini’s smile vanished like a candle snuffed by wind. Her eyes darkened with restrained fury, but she said nothing more.

  Rajratna turned, the silence between them now sharper than any sword. And without another word, he left the chamber—his footsteps echoing through the marble like the drums of distant thunder.

  That night, after the simmering exchange in Queen Rajini’s chamber, King Rajratna stepped out into the corridor, his jaw clenched and brow shadowed by unrest. The silken hem of her voice still lingered in his ears—sweet like honey but thick with ambition. Her touch, her plea, the wine on her breath—it all had nearly worked.

  Nearly.

  His footsteps echoed softly along the sandstone hallway lit by flickering diyas, but inside, his mind was a storm. "She is my heir." The words had struck like iron—final and irrevocable—and yet his heart beat heavy with the weight of it all.

  He descended the marble steps into the lower courtyard, past the sculpted arches of dancing apsaras, past the guards who straightened but dared not speak. The wind was cooler here, scented with the musk of horses and hay.

  That’s when he saw it—

  A flicker. Not of fire, but of movement—sharp and deliberate.

  High above the palace wall, a shadow stirred. Then came the sound.

  One sharp chirp. Then three softer ones.

  Not a bird. Not an accident.

  Rajratna paused mid-step. His instincts, forged over decades of battle and betrayal, ignited. His eyes narrowed. Without a word, he veered off the stone path, moving swiftly but without panic.

  He crossed toward the stables, the shadows thickening around him. The horses stirred gently in their stalls, sensing his presence. A groom bowed quickly and vanished, leaving the king alone.

  He slipped behind the final row of stalls, where the torchlight barely reached. There, concealed by the bulk of the royal mounts and the ancient banyan tree leaning over the stable wall, a figure emerged from the shadows.

  Cloaked in black, face masked, the figure bowed low. His voice was just above a whisper.

  "Maharaj, our scouts report movement near the southern coast. The Eastern Kingdom approaches. They march under darkness."

  Rajratna didn’t flinch.

  "So soon?" he muttered, eyes scanning the sky as if seeking a larger omen. "They must see us as weak after our recent losses."

  The spy nodded.

  "Exactly, my king. And… they do not march alone."

  Rajratna’s knuckles tightened around the carved horse post. Another blow. Not from the battlefield this time—but from the chessboard of kingdoms. A test. A provocation.

  He said nothing more. The spy melted into darkness once again, like a story half-told.

  He stood alone, between horses and war winds, the weight of crown pressing invisibly against his temples.

  The night suddenly felt thinner.

  --------

  The Next Morning. Stone Hall, Inner Palace.

  The doors to the inner durbar creaked open with solemn weight, the air inside the stone hall heavy with silence. Shafts of morning light pierced through high-latticed windows, falling like golden bars across the cold floor. King Rajratna entered alone, his presence cutting through the quiet. He took his place at the head of the crescent table carved from blackwood, his face unreadable.

  Only a handful of men had been summoned.

  Minister Rajan, the silver-haired elder, whose wisdom had shaped two generations.

  Adityan, still nursing the bruises of Rakhtaveer’s rash punishment but loyal to the crown.

  Veersen, the youngest, clever and quick-tongued, always backing the prince.

  And in the shadows, Adiraj and Rudransh—serpents coiled beneath silk.

  No guards. No scribes.

  Just power, and the thin line that divided loyalty from ambition.

  Rajan opened with grave urgency.

  "We are vulnerable, Maharaj. The Eastern Kingdom is no longer watching. They move."

  Veersen leaned forward.

  "This is the time to strike back—not cower. Let the prince lead. Give him his moment."

  Rajratna's eyes flicked sideways, but before he could respond, Adiraj's voice, smooth as oil, slipped in.

  "He is brave, no doubt. But is bravery enough to guard the coast?"

  Rudransh followed, eyes narrowed in mock concern.

  "We send him now, we may never get him back."

  The words floated like incense—scented with false worry.

  In their glances, their stillness, their hopes were written clear:

  Let the boy die in battle. Let the path clear itself.

  At that moment, the stone doors opened again.

  Rakhtaveer.

  He had not been invited. But he came, unbent, unbothered.

  He strode to the centre, eyes blazing, jaw set.

  "If you speak of me, speak before me."

  The silence was instant.

  "Yes," he continued, looking directly at the king, "I am young. I am impulsive. And yet you call me prince only when it is convenient."

  He turned to the ministers. "You fear the enemy at the coast? Then let me face them. Not in theory. Not in whispers. In war."

  Adityan raised a brow. He saw not just fire, but the recklessness beneath it.

  "Do you seek glory… or understanding?" he asked, voice firm.

  "Both," Rakhtaveer answered, unflinching. "And if I fail, at least let it not be in your court but in battle."

  Veersen gave a sharp nod, pride gleaming in his eyes.

  Rajan, however, spoke low and heavy:

  "We stand at the edge of a blade. A mistake here may lose us the coast for a generation."

  The hall went still.

  Adiraj smirked silently. Let him go, he thought. Let him be eaten.

  Rajratna leaned back in his seat, gaze pinned on his son. His eyes searched not for bravery, but for something deeper—humility, control, wisdom.

  He found only defiance… but also something else. Desperation. The need to matter.

  A long breath.

  "He will lead," the king declared.

  Shock rippled through the chamber.

  "But he rides with the mark of my seal. And he does not ride alone."

  He looked at Adityan. "You will advise from the shadows."

  Then to Rajan. "Send word to Devyani. She is to oversee all reinforcements and dispatches. Nothing moves without her word."

  The king rose. Decision made.

  The durbar was dismissed with a silent wave.

  The stone hall slowly emptied, but King Rajratna rose before any of the others. His face, carved from resolve, betrayed nothing of the storm inside. With a silent nod, he turned and walked out through the arched doors into the long corridor, his boots echoing against marble as golden light filtered through jali-patterned windows.

  The ministers remained behind, hushed, processing the gravity of what had just been decided.

  Rakhtaveer left the room immediately, with a smirk on all the faces, with a sense of pride.

  But Adityan waited.

  He did not speak until the others were gone. Then, with measured steps, he followed.

  The corridor outside was quiet—just the two of them now. No guards. No whispers. Only the faint sound of a peacock's cry in the gardens beyond.

  Rajratna paused near a pillar carved with stories of old wars, as if those forgotten kings might offer clarity.

  Adityan’s voice broke the stillness.

  "Maharaj."

  The king turned slightly, not surprised. His eyes were tired, distant, as though still watching his son's face in that council room.

  Adityan stepped closer. His voice was low—weighty.

  "The dagger… it has returned."

  Rajratna stiffened.

  He faced him fully now. "You’re certain?"

  Adityan nodded. His jaw tightened. "Delivered in silence. Same blade. Same crest. It was found today in the hunt before your arrival. I made sure that there are no witnesses. But it was meant to be seen… by You…"

  The king’s eyes narrowed, mind already racing.

  "Someone’s talking?" he asked, almost to himself.

  A long silence hung between them.

  Finally, Rajratna exhaled. The breath of a man who’d carried too many secrets for too long.

  "Then we act. Quietly. In shadow."

  A beat. Then—"No armor. No banners. We go as ghosts."

  Their eyes met, an unspoken oath passing between them.

  As the king turned to leave once more, his cloak trailing like dusk behind him, the stone walls seemed to tighten, as if even the palace sensed the return of something buried.

  And so, the night awaited them—not with rest, but with riddles and blood.

  As the sun sank behind the palace walls, the whispers of the kingdom grew louder, carrying tales of ambition, betrayal, and a looming war that none could escape. The winds of fate had shifted, and the weight of a crown, a kingdom, and a secret older than the land itself now pressed upon the shoulders of a young prince, eager to prove himself. The storm was coming, not from the enemy at the gates, but from the very heart of NakshtraKulam, where shadows whispered, and old debts demanded payment. No one would remain unchanged.

  Not one would remain safe.

  [End of Chapter 1]