The high council chamber of Nandigram had never been this quiet.
Not even in the dark days of the famine, not even during the siege of the northern walls.
This was the kind of silence that had weight — pressing into the stone walls, creeping into the lungs of every man and woman seated around the great circular table.
Shaurya stood at the head of that table, hands resting lightly on the carved arm of the central chair — his chair. Calm, unblinking, and almost impossibly still. He didn't need to raise his voice to command the room; the air itself seemed to bend around his presence.
To his left sat Prime Minister Harivansh, his face pale but composed. To Shaurya's right, General Vikram's jaw was tight, his knuckles white where they gripped the table. And beyond them, the array of ministers, scribes, and regional governors, all with expressions that ranged from suspicion to quiet dread.
A heavy scroll lay unfurled on the polished wood. A list of trade routes, revised tariffs, and defense obligations — on the surface, nothing unusual. But everyone here knew it was more than that.
It was the document that could decide whether Nandigram remained whole… or fractured into power-hungry pieces.
"Before we proceed," Shaurya's voice cut through the quiet like a clean blade, "we must decide whether loyalty to the throne is merely a tradition… or a living truth."
The ministers exchanged wary glances. It was not the kind of question one could answer without revealing one's alliances.
From the far end of the table, Minister Rajdeep — a man known for his silken words and dangerous patience — leaned forward. "Your Majesty," he said smoothly, "loyalty is not in question. What is… in discussion… is whether our methods should evolve to meet the new times."
Shaurya's eyes fixed on him, steady and unreadable. "Evolve," he repeated. "A word often used to disguise decay."
The air thickened. Several ministers looked down, unwilling to be caught in the invisible crossfire.
It was at this moment that Harivansh cleared his throat. "If I may, Sire," he began cautiously, "the matter of the Western Alliance must also be addressed. The Queen Mother's correspondence—"
Shaurya raised a hand. Harivansh fell silent at once.
"We will address the Western Alliance," Shaurya said evenly. "But first… the question of the banners."
The banners. The ancient symbols of the great houses of Nandigram — carried into battle, flown over fortresses, passed down through generations. Whoever controlled them held the right to command their respective regions in times of crisis.
Shaurya's gaze swept the table. "Several of these banners," he said, "are no longer in the hands of their rightful bearers."
It was not an accusation. It was a verdict.
The chamber stirred. Minister Rajdeep's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. "And what do you propose, Your Majesty?" he asked, voice calm but coiled.
Shaurya straightened. "A restoration. One way or another."
No one missed the weight in his tone. It was not a request.
The discussion that followed was careful, clipped, and edged with unspoken threats. Some ministers argued for negotiation. Others, for decisive seizure of the banners by force. Shaurya listened to every word, responding only when necessary — never rushing, never showing strain.
But while the political dance continued, Shaurya's mind was elsewhere.
There was a presence in the chamber.
Not physically seen, but felt.
Like a shadow just outside the ring of torchlight.
At one point, when Rajdeep pressed for an immediate vote, Shaurya's eyes flickered — not to the minister, but to a robed figure standing quietly behind the scribe's bench. Their hood was drawn low, their hands folded, their stillness almost unnatural.
The figure had been there since the start of the meeting, unremarked upon by the others.
But Shaurya knew.
This was no ordinary attendant.
Hours passed before the council adjourned. The ministers filed out, their faces tight with thought. Harivansh lingered, speaking in a low voice to Shaurya, who listened but gave no outward sign of concern.
When at last the chamber emptied, only Shaurya and the hooded figure remained.
"You kept your distance," Shaurya said quietly.
The figure's voice was low, but clear. "You told me to remain unseen until the moment mattered."
"And now?" Shaurya asked.
The hood lifted slightly. A pair of eyes, dark as onyx and sharp as glass, met his.
"Now," the figure said, "it matters."
The chamber door swung open.
General Vikram strode in, his face grim. "Sire, we've received a message. It bears the seal of the Iron Court."
Shaurya took the sealed letter, his expression unreadable.
But as he broke the wax and scanned the contents, his fingers paused for the briefest second.
When he looked up, his eyes had the faintest glint — a sign only the hooded figure would notice.
"It begins," Shaurya said.
[Cliffhanger]
The hooded figure stepped forward. "Do you want me to prepare the others?"
Shaurya turned, the torchlight catching the faintest trace of a smile.
"No," he said softly. "I want you to prepare her."
To be continued....