Nandigram glowed that night.
Lanterns swayed from wooden poles, their flames casting golden light on freshly washed streets. Flower garlands arched over the palace gates, and the air was thick with incense and the scent of roasted grain. The Feast of Replenishment had come — a tradition as old as the city itself, when the harvest was shared not just among nobles but with villagers, merchants, and travelers alike.
Yet beneath the music and color, unease pulsed.
The court of Nandigram had only just survived whispers of rebellion, betrayal, and the storm over Lakshya's mark. The feast, meant as a time of renewal, was now a stage. Every smile carried a hidden blade. Every toast, a test.
---
Inside the great hall, tables stretched like rivers of food — fruits stacked into pyramids, golden rice steaming in brass vessels, spiced meats laid out on platters of silver. At the center, upon a dais carved with images of gods and serpents, sat King Samudra, his crown of beaten copper catching the torchlight. His eyes, however, were not on the feast but on the guests.
At his right stood Lakshya.
Clad in simple but finely woven robes, his presence drew whispers from every corner. The mark on his palm had been bound beneath bandages, but no cloth could hide the aura around him — the way silence seemed to gather in his wake.
The herald's voice rang: "The Feast of Replenishment begins! May all debts be forgotten, and all bonds renewed."
The crowd cheered. But their eyes darted — to Lakshya, to the nobles, to the merchants. Forgotten debts did not vanish so easily.
---
A noble approached first. Tall, hawk-nosed, dressed in silks dyed the color of crushed pomegranate. "Young Lakshya," he said smoothly, his smile thin. "The land itself seems to stir in your presence. Tell me — does your… blessing extend to crops as well as to blades?"
Soft laughter rippled among his peers. It was a trap — a question that tested Lakshya's humility and power alike.
Lakshya's eyes did not waver. "If the land thrives, it is because its people give it breath," he said calmly. "My role is not to command it but to protect those who till it."
The noble's smile flickered. The villagers nearby nodded with approval. One strike averted.
---
Next came the merchants. Their leader, a broad man with rings glittering on each finger, raised a cup. "A toast! To the youth who carries more rumors than coins in his purse!" His tone was jovial, but the barb beneath it was sharp. "Tell us, Lakshya — what can one so young offer a city of trade?"
Lakshya lifted his own cup, steady. "Dreams," he said. "And the will to make them real. Wealth fades, but a dream — that grows. I offer you a future worth more than coin."
The merchants exchanged glances. Some scoffed, but others frowned in thought. A second test, answered.
---
But the hardest trial came not from nobles or merchants. It came from the villagers themselves.
An old woman rose from the common tables, her back bent but her voice clear. "Young master," she said, bowing only slightly. "We've heard tales — of oaths, of shadows, of marks not of men. Tell me plain: are you one of us still? Or are you something else?"
The hall stilled. All eyes turned to him. Even King Samudra leaned forward.
Lakshya inhaled slowly. This was the moment — the line that would decide whether he stood among them or above them.
"I was born a man," he said, voice steady, carrying across the hall. "I will live as one. Whatever marks I bear, whatever trials come — my heart will remain with you. I do not stand above you. I walk beside you."
For a heartbeat, silence hung.
Then the old woman nodded once. "Good." She sat, and the hall erupted in applause.
---
The music resumed. Dancers swirled, drums beat, and food was shared. But beneath the revelry, a new current flowed. Lakshya had passed the unspoken tests of the feast.
Nobles whispered among themselves — some grudgingly impressed, others calculating how to use or oppose him. Merchants weighed his words as though already measuring investments. And the villagers… they began to look at him not as an outsider, but as someone who might carry their hopes.
Yet in the farthest corner of the hall, shrouded in the shadow of a banyan branch that crept through the carved ceiling, a figure watched with unmoving eyes. Ash clung faintly to its cloak.
The Watchers had followed him even here.
---
Later that night, as the feast wound down, King Samudra drew Lakshya aside.
"You spoke well," the king said, though his tone was cautious. "Too well, perhaps. The court will not forget tonight — neither your words, nor the way the people cheered them."
Lakshya met his gaze. "Should I have spoken less truth?"
The king's lips thinned, as though torn between approval and unease. At last, he said, "Truth is fire. Warmth to some, destruction to others. Tread carefully."
Lakshya bowed slightly. "Then let it burn where it must."
And as he walked out beneath the lanterns of Nandigram, he felt the mark on his palm pulse again, faintly in rhythm with the drums of the feast.
But deep in his chest, he knew — the real tests had only begun.
To be continued....