The sun rose in a regal blaze over the golden spires of Nandigram. From afar, the capital seemed less like a city and more like a jeweled crown upon the green brow of the land — its high walls shimmering with inlaid quartz and sapphire, its gates flanked by guardian statues of lions in battle stance, each the size of an elephant.
The road into the city was carpeted with fresh marigold petals, laid that morning by servants who worked with silent efficiency. The air was a mixture of sandalwood smoke, jasmine, and the faint tang of river breeze from the Yamdara River that curled lazily around the palace.
Arrival at the Palace Gates
Shaurya's party passed beneath the Gate of Nine Triumphs — a colossal archway engraved with the victories of Nandigram's kings, each scene depicted in beaten gold and silver. Drums rolled in steady rhythm as a welcoming guard of Rajputana lancers stepped forward, their polished spears catching the sunlight like tongues of fire.
"By decree of Her Majesty the Queen-Mother, the Son of Destruction is welcomed to the Court of Nandigram," the herald's voice rang, clear and formal.
Shaurya, riding his black stallion Kaalraaj, dismounted with a calm precision that drew approving glances from the assembled nobles. His armor — dark steel lined with crimson and gold — contrasted sharply against the brighter silks and jewels of the court. Beside him, Minister Devkant whispered, "Remember, my lord… in this palace, words are blades sharper than swords."
The Hall of the Moon Lotus
They were led into the heart of the palace, where the Hall of the Moon Lotus spread out like a living painting. The floor was a single slab of polished white marble, its surface etched with a lotus design whose petals were filled with crushed mother-of-pearl. Columns of black granite rose to the vaulted ceiling, where golden chandeliers hung, each crafted to resemble a blooming lotus dripping crystal dew.
On the dais at the far end sat the Queen-Mother, Maharani Shobhana Devi. Her hair was streaked with silver but woven into an intricate braid crowned with a small emerald tiara. Her sari — woven in royal peacock silk — shimmered between deep blue and green, and her eyes… they were the calculating eyes of someone who had seen empires rise and fall.
The Customs of Greeting
As tradition demanded, Shaurya removed his sword, holding it horizontally in both hands, and placed it upon the Velvet Cushion of Peace carried by a temple priest.
He then folded his hands and bowed at the waist — not deeply, but enough to signal respect without submission.
The Queen-Mother's voice, soft yet commanding, broke the silence.
"In Nandigram, a warrior's worth is not weighed by the battles he has fought, but by the battles he chooses to avoid. Tell me, Prince Shaurya… which is harder: to conquer a fortress, or to conquer one's own anger?"
The First Test
The courtiers leaned in — this was her probing test.
Many young rulers had stumbled here, eager to boast of strength, not wisdom.
Shaurya's reply came unhurried, his gaze steady.
"A fortress falls when its walls are broken. Anger destroys without touching a single stone. To master anger is to hold the key to all fortresses."
A faint smile tugged at the Queen-Mother's lips — just enough to suggest approval, but not enough to reveal her full thoughts. She gestured to a servant, and a silver tray was brought forward, bearing a chalice of saffron-milk.
"Then drink, young emperor-to-be. And know this: every man who enters this court must pass three gates — the Gate of Words, the Gate of Wealth, and the Gate of Will. You have crossed the first… barely."
Shaurya accepted the chalice, his fingers brushing the cool silver, the unspoken challenge lingering in the perfumed air.
And thus began his dance with Nandigram's politics — where every smile hid a dagger, and every gift was a test.
To be continued....