The council chamber of Nandigram was a place of measured voices and hidden knives. Its circular hall was lit by high braziers, their flames casting long shadows over the marble floor. In the center, the great table of blackwood gleamed, polished to a mirror finish. On it rested an intricate map of the kingdom, its borders marked by tiny silver banners.
Shaurya entered with the calm stride of a man who knew every eye would weigh him. The courtiers turned as one, murmurs swelling before dying into a tense hush. At the far end, seated upon a high-backed chair inlaid with ivory, was the Queen-Mother, Rajmata Devi. Her gaze was sharp enough to slice through the pleasantries already gathering in the air.
"Prince Shaurya," she said, her voice warm in tone but edged with authority, "you honor us with your presence."
He bowed slightly, not too low, not too proud. "The honor is mine, Rajmata. You sent word that the council's session was… urgent."
Her painted lips curved faintly. "Indeed. The Festival of Banners has concluded, and with it, the balance of favor among the nobility shifts. Some banners rise. Others… falter."
The courtiers shifted in their seats. Shaurya could see the unspoken calculations passing between them. Each family here had tested its mettle during the festival's contests, each victory or loss reshaping the delicate power web in this hall.
Rajmata gestured toward the map. "It is time, I think, for bold hands to steady the realm. But boldness must be tempered by loyalty. Would you agree, Prince?"
Shaurya approached the table, studying the silver banners. Some were planted firmly in the kingdom's heartlands; others clung to its borders, precarious. His voice was even. "Loyalty is tested when boldness brings risk. The two must move together, or both fall."
A murmur of approval rippled through the younger ministers, while older, more cautious voices remained silent. Rajmata's eyes never left him.
"Then perhaps," she said, "you would not object to a… demonstration. The council faces a decision: the governorship of the Eastern Marches is vacant. It is a post that commands both border defense and trade routes. A tempting jewel. I propose that you take it—temporarily."
The words dropped like a stone in still water. Several ministers stiffened. Shaurya understood why. The Eastern Marches were both a gift and a trap—rich in opportunity, but fraught with danger from raiders, rival lords, and political saboteurs.
"And if I refuse?" he asked mildly.
Rajmata's smile deepened. "Then someone else will claim it. Perhaps someone less… committed to the unity of the realm."
The silence stretched. This was no mere offer; it was a challenge in silk wrappings.
Shaurya took his seat. "Then I accept. But understand, Rajmata—if I am to command the Marches, I will not do so as a figurehead. I will have full authority."
The older ministers exchanged uneasy glances. Rajmata inclined her head, as though she had expected no less.
"So be it. Let the record show that Prince Shaurya assumes the governorship. The festival's games are over, but the real contests," she said, her gaze lingering on him, "are just beginning."
From the corner of his eye, Shaurya saw a faint, almost imperceptible nod from one of the lesser nobles—a man he had not yet spoken to, but whose quiet presence at court had begun to intrigue him. A potential ally… or spy.
As the council adjourned, Shaurya felt the weight of the room's eyes follow him out. This gambit of the Queen-Mother's was far from over. In fact, it had just drawn its first blood.
To be continued....