The hall of Nandigram's royal court still shimmered with the last light of the sunset filtering through the stained glass windows. Shaurya stood tall at the center of the vast chamber, the ceremonial Banner Spear still in his grip. The Rite of Banners had ended mere moments ago, yet the silence that followed was heavier than any battle's smoke.
Around him, the nobles were like a restless sea — silks rustled, gold chains swayed, whispers spilled into the air like venomous threads. Their jeweled eyes darted between Shaurya and the high dais where the Queen-Mother sat, her expression unreadable.
Then came the sound — tap, tap, tap — the silver staff of the royal announcer striking the marble floor.
"The Rite… is concluded," he declared, his voice echoing. "Victory… to Lord Shaurya, Guest of the Throne."
A wave of reaction rippled outward. Some nobles clapped politely, their rings glinting in the torchlight. Others merely folded their arms, their lips tight with disapproval. The faction lines within Nandigram's court were already sharpening, and Shaurya knew it.
The Queen-Mother Speaks
From her throne carved in sandalwood and inlaid with lapis lazuli, the Queen-Mother leaned forward. Her crown — a circlet of emeralds shaped like curling peacock feathers — caught the light, scattering green fire across the polished floor.
"Lord Shaurya," she began, her tone honeyed yet sharp at the edges, "Nandigram welcomes the strength and composure you have shown. It is rare to see one stand against such… seasoned opposition and keep both honor and dignity intact."
Her words were praise, but her gaze was a measuring weight.
Shaurya bowed slightly, every movement deliberate.
"Your Majesty is gracious. But the true strength lies not in victory over a challenger, but in honoring the traditions of the land that grants one its hospitality."
A faint curve of the Queen-Mother's lips suggested she noted his restraint.
The Sharks Circle
As the Queen-Mother gestured for the court to resume its activity, the nobles moved in like predators scenting blood.
A heavyset lord in embroidered violet robes approached first. His beard was braided with pearls, and the faint scent of sandal oil surrounded him.
"A fine display, my lord," he said, clasping his hands. "One wonders if the same skill can be brought to… matters of trade. The southern caravans suffer delays — perhaps a man of your… resolve could see them through?"
It was bait. Shaurya recognized the attempt to bind him to a specific faction's economic squabbles.
"Trade flows best," Shaurya replied smoothly, "when the river is not stirred by too many hands. I would be honored to observe before I act — lest I disturb what is already in balance."
The lord's smile tightened. Another would-be patron thwarted.
A Public Thorn
From the opposite side of the chamber, a younger noble stepped forward — lean, sharp-faced, and wearing a deep crimson sash that marked him as Lord Varun Sen, cousin to one of Shaurya's defeated opponents in the Rite.
Varun's voice carried clearly, meant for every ear in the court.
"It is well and good to win a contest of banners, but the people will wish to see if their guest can match deeds to symbols. Will you, Lord Shaurya, take the Oath of Provision before this court?"
Gasps fluttered across the hall. The Oath of Provision was an open challenge — a pledge to secure a sudden, large quantity of resources for the city within a short time, often used to trap ambitious nobles. Failure would mean public humiliation.
The Queen-Mother's fingers tapped once on the armrest of her throne, but she did not intervene. She was watching.
Shaurya turned to face Varun, his expression calm as still water.
"If provision is needed, it will be met," he said evenly. "But oaths bind the hand — wisdom binds the will. Let the court first hear what resources are truly required, lest I pledge to a shadow."
The crowd murmured approval at his refusal to step blindly into the trap. Varun's smirk faltered.
The Queen-Mother's Final Probe
The Queen-Mother rose, her movements fluid, her peacock-feather robe trailing behind her. She descended from the dais, each step deliberate. The court parted before her like reeds before a boat.
She stood before Shaurya, studying him from close enough that he could see the faint lines of age and the sharper lines of power in her face.
"You answer with care, Lord Shaurya," she said softly, for his ears alone. "But care without commitment is a coin without weight. Tonight, you dine at my table. We will see whether you can spend your words as well as your will."
Then, louder, for the court:
"The feast begins at moonrise. Let us honor our guest… and perhaps learn from him."
Ominous Arrival
The nobles began to disperse toward the banquet hall, but before Shaurya could move, a palace messenger burst through the side doors — breathless, kneeling instantly.
"Your Majesty… word from the western frontier. The banners of Ashval… have been sighted."
A ripple of unease passed through the court. Shaurya noted the Queen-Mother's gaze shift — for the first time, her poise cracked, if only for a heartbeat.
"Prepare my council," she ordered, voice firm once more. "And see that our guest is informed."
Shaurya inclined his head. He knew then that whatever the Rite of Banners had been, it was only the prelude. Something larger — something that would shake not just Nandigram but the entire region — had begun to move.
To be continued....