The golden throne room of Indhravam, heart of the Barath Empire, was built to echo the voice of truth. Its domed ceilings bore paintings of gods waging righteous war, of sages handing scrolls to kings. Light filtered through stained glass windows, bathing the polished floor in reds and blues. But truth had long since stopped speaking in these halls.
Maharaja Dharmadeva sat motionless upon the Peacock Throne, carved from sandalwood and inlaid with lapis and ivory. The throne still glittered—but the king did not. His once-commanding presence had faded into the folds of his silk robes. The weight of his crown seemed too heavy for a head bowed by silence.
To his right, a boy of sixteen stood straight and tall—Yuvraj Aryananda, the crown prince. His chin was high, but his brow furrowed with frustration. He looked like a soldier kept from battle, forced instead to sit through another day of watching rot fester in the name of protocol.
Across the marble floor, the ministers lined up like painted statues—robes vibrant, voices sharper than steel.
"Your Majesty," came the silken tone of Mahamantri Bhargava, a man whose paunch and smile both curved like crescent moons. "The grain taxes from the southern provinces are late. We must enforce our collection. Delays set a poor precedent."
"Perhaps," Aryananda interrupted, "it is not the farmers who are delaying—but the merchants who steal from them."
Bhargava's smile thinned. "The Yuvraj forgets that without the merchants, our war coffers would run dry."
"And without the farmers," Aryananda snapped, "the kingdom would starve."
A silence fell, taut as a drawn bow. Ministers exchanged glances. Some smirked. Others frowned.
Dharmadeva raised a single hand. The silence deepened.
He spoke, his voice little more than breath. "Send word to the southern satraps. Order a fair audit."
Bhargava bowed. "Of course, Maharaja."
Aryananda's fists clenched at his sides. He wanted to do more than speak. He wanted to ride to the villages himself, talk to the people, see their wounds, stop the bleeding. But his words always disappeared into velvet walls.
Later, in the private garden, Aryananda paced beneath a neem tree. The koi pond reflected the early afternoon sun, but he barely noticed. He stopped only when Rajguru Trikal, the royal seer, stepped silently beside him.
"You speak like a warrior," Trikal said. "But you walk the halls of vipers. Be careful where you bare your teeth."
Aryananda didn't answer right away. He watched a leaf fall into the pond. "I'm not afraid of them."
"No. You're afraid of becoming them."
That made Aryananda pause.
Trikal's voice softened. "Your father bears a heavy sorrow. One you do not understand. Not yet."
"I understand enough," Aryananda said. "He lets them bleed this kingdom dry. He sees it, but he does nothing."
"He sees more than you know."
Aryananda turned. "Tell me then. Tell me what sorrow he carries that would make a lion become a ghost."
Trikal studied the boy's face for a long moment. "Some truths," he said, "do not belong to princes. Not until they're ready."
Not until they're ready. The words followed Aryananda long after the old seer left.
That night, in the king's chamber, Maharaja Dharmadeva stood alone by the balcony. Below him, Indhravam shimmered under torchlight. The towers of the palace cast long shadows. A cool breeze carried the scent of ash and lotus from the city's eastern lake.
He held a copper amulet in his hand.
It was small, unadorned, worn at the edges. Inside it, wrapped in silk, was a lock of hair—taken thirteen years ago from a child who never cried.
A child now lost to legend. A son the world never knew.
"You will return," Dharmadeva whispered to the night. "And when you do, I pray the kingdom you see is still worth saving."
He closed his hand around the amulet and let his eyes fall shut.
Below the marble floors, beneath the wealth and rot, Barath waited. Broken. Bleeding.
And above it all, the gods watched.
But they said nothing.