The ashes of Marukanda's pyres still clung to Shaurya's robes when he walked into the great Darbar Hall of Vishragarh.
Golden pillars lined the chamber, each carved with the deeds of Ashval's ancestors—kings slaying demons, queens holding fortresses against a hundred thousand foes, and celestial beasts bowing before human rulers.
The scent of incense mixed with sandalwood drifted in the air, masking the faint tang of old blood embedded in the stones. Vishragarh's throne, set atop a seven-step dais, gleamed under the light of enchanted chandeliers that burned without oil.
Upon it sat King Rudrapratap Ashval, draped in robes of deep crimson and wearing the Ashval crown—three prongs of gold symbolizing Dharma, Veerata, and Rajya. His sharp eyes regarded Shaurya with something between pride and calculation.
At his side stood Princess Arundhati, clad in ceremonial armor over a silk sari, her presence commanding yet unsettling in its watchfulness.
The Royal Recognition
Rudrapratap: "Shaurya of Vishragarh, today you stand not as guest, but as Mitra Raja. You fought for my people when others hesitated. You paid in blood. The Ashval throne will answer your call for aid when the drums of war sound."
The hall murmured in approval—save for a few ministers whose narrowed eyes betrayed unease.
Shaurya: "And in return, the Forest Kingdom will honor Ashval as its first ally. Our roads will carry your caravans. Our ports will welcome your ships. And should the Mirror Cult return, my armies will march without hesitation."
The Diplomatic Web
After the ceremony, they moved to the Council Chamber, a smaller but heavily warded hall where only the highest ministers and guests could enter. This was where Ashval's true politics played out.
Three ministers stood out:
Vishnupad Sen, Minister of Finance—a thin, hawk-nosed man whose voice was as sharp as his calculations.
Devendra Suryavansh, Minister of War—broad-shouldered, with the scars of thirty campaigns.
Pramila Devi, Minister of Foreign Affairs—a poised woman in her late forties, her smile always hiding three meanings.
Pramila unrolled a map etched on enchanted silk, showing the Seven Realms of the Western Continent. She tapped the golden soil-colored territory to Ashval's south: Nandigram.
Pramila: "Nandigram sends word of friendship. But it is not a gift without cost. They request a joint trade charter in salt, bronze, and warhorses—and… a marriage alliance."
Arundhati's gaze shifted instantly to Shaurya.
Shaurya: "Marriage alliances are bonds, but also chains. Who is their proposal for?"
Pramila's lips curved faintly.
Pramila: "Their princess. Rajnandini of Nandigram."
The name hung in the air like a poised arrow.
Rudrapratap watched Shaurya closely, gauging every flicker of his expression.
A Shadow in the Garden
Later that night, Shaurya walked alone in the palace gardens—where gold-leafed ashoka trees swayed under moonlight. He knew alliances were the bricks of empires, but this one smelled too… convenient.
A voice emerged from behind the hedges.
It was Lavanya, his diplomat-healer.
Lavanya: "I spoke to the Nandigram envoy. Their king is not as solid as their walls. Too many factions at court. Rajnandini is said to be… difficult to read. Some call her the jewel of the realm, others—its most dangerous blade."
Shaurya: "So they send her to bind us. Or to break us from within."
Lavanya met his gaze seriously.
Lavanya: "In golden soil, weeds grow fastest."
The Secret Offer
Two days later, Shaurya received a message—slipped under his door without a seal.
"Meet me in the East Wing at midnight. Come alone. —R."
At the appointed hour, in the flickering light of a single oil lamp, Shaurya found her.
Princess Rajnandini herself—dark hair cascading over a crimson sari embroidered with peacock feathers, eyes deep as storm clouds.
Rajnandini: "You do not know me, yet they wish to chain us together. I will tell you this—Nandigram's throne is rotting. I want no part of it. But if you agree to this marriage, we could… cleanse the weeds together. You gain my realm, I gain my freedom."
Shaurya: "And if I refuse?"
Her lips curled—not in threat, but in challenge.
Rajnandini: "Then pray the next one they send to you carries only a garland and not a dagger."
Shaurya left with the weight of her words pressing against his thoughts.
Somewhere deep in the palace, a shadow moved—watching, waiting.
To Be Continued….