The battlefield was still etched in the minds of every witness when Shaurya finally returned to Nandigram's palace. Though the clash had ended with no deathblow, the world whispered of it already—the boy from nowhere who had stood against Samrat and forced him to kneel in spirit if not in body. The story spread faster than the smoke of the burning siege towers, carried by terrified prisoners, awed allies, and even the trembling tongues of Samrat's retreating soldiers.
But if the battlefield had been thunder, the palace now promised lightning.
The Return
Shaurya's procession entered through the grand eastern gates of Nandigram. Trumpets blared, though uneasily—the notes carried triumph, but also tension. The common folk lined the streets, showering petals, chanting his name. Yet in the courtyards beyond, where nobles stood in silken rows, their eyes glimmered not with petals but with calculation.
The court of Nandigram had always been a nest of serpents, and today the snakes were restless.
Inside the Maharang Sabha, the great audience hall of Nandigram, every pillar blazed with lamps, every mosaic on the walls told stories of past rulers. A carpet of crimson stretched like a river of power toward the gilded throne, where the Queen-Mother, Rajmata Shantidevi, reclined with her signature serenity.
She looked every bit the sovereign matriarch: clad in a sari woven with threads of moonlight, her bangles chiming with every motion. Yet her eyes—sharp, hawk-like—betrayed nothing of warmth.
At her side stood her ministers:
Vishwesh Sharma, the Prime Minister, old yet cunning, his silver beard braided with jewels of office.
Raghunath Bhandari, the Finance Minister, round of belly, his ink-stained fingers twitching with the habit of counting invisible coins.
Chitragupta Mishra, the Spymaster, robed in plain cloth, face unreadable, his presence like smoke that seeped everywhere.
Commander Harshavardhan, the general of Nandigram's forces, broad as a fortress wall, still bearing fresh scars from the siege.
Each watched Shaurya differently—curiosity, suspicion, calculation, even awe.
The First Test
Shaurya entered, neither humbled by victory nor swollen with pride. His steps were steady, his trident held respectfully low but never abandoned. Every motion of his was deliberate, measured, like a sovereign who already knew he belonged within these gilded walls.
The court stirred with whispers as he bowed his head slightly toward the Queen-Mother.
"Rajmata," he said simply, his voice calm but carrying.
The Queen-Mother leaned forward, her lips curving in a faint smile. "You return victorious, though the lion you fought still breathes. Tell me, Shaurya—did you win, or did you merely delay defeat?"
The question struck like a blade wrapped in silk.
The nobles murmured. Some smirked, expecting Shaurya to falter. Others leaned closer, hungry to see how the storm-born youth would answer.
Shaurya's eyes did not flicker. "Victory is not measured in corpses, Rajmata. It is measured in will. And Samrat's will broke before mine. That is why he withdrew."
The court rippled with reactions—gasps, nods, murmurs of approval, and frowns of unease.
The Queen-Mother's eyes narrowed just slightly, but her smile never wavered. "Bold words, child of no throne. And yet… you stand in mine."
The Debate of Nobles
Before Shaurya could reply, Prime Minister Vishwesh raised his voice, stroking his silver beard. "Rajmata, if I may. This young man has proven valor, yes, but valor is a coin that shines brightest before it tarnishes. What guarantees do we have that he is not merely a passing firework—brilliant today, ash tomorrow?"
Finance Minister Raghunath snorted, his bangles jingling as he waved his pudgy hand. "Passing firework? Hah! I say he is a comet—bright enough to burn the coffers of Nandigram! He fights like a king, but does he rule like one? Will he fill our treasuries, or empty them with his grand dreams?"
Commander Harshavardhan slammed his gauntleted fist against his chestplate. "Dreams? The boy fought Samrat with his own hands. Had he not stood, half of you pampered peacocks would be ash beneath Samrat's fire-lion. I say we owe him not doubt, but fealty!"
The court erupted, factions forming like cracks in ice. Some nobles clamored for Shaurya to be given rank, others sneered, demanding he be kept in check. The din swelled until it seemed the pillars themselves would crack.
Through it all, Shaurya stood silently, his calm an anchor amidst the storm. He let them rage, watching, listening, learning. Only when the Queen-Mother raised her hand and the hall fell silent did his gaze return to hers.
The Queen-Mother's Gambit
Rajmata Shantidevi's smile returned, delicate as a blade hidden in silk.
"Enough." Her voice carried no volume, yet it silenced all. "The boy has fought, yes. He has spoken, yes. But ruling is not merely sword or tongue—it is judgment."
Her gaze lingered on Shaurya. "So let us test him. Not in war, but in the art of thrones."
A ripple of anticipation ran through the nobles. Tests in court were rarely fair—they were traps dressed as honor.
The Queen-Mother clapped her hands once. Servants rushed forward, carrying a series of scrolls and ledgers. She gestured toward them.
"These," she said, "are records of our harvest, our trade routes, our debts, our reserves. Nandigram bleeds from the siege, and every noble here demands a different course. Tell me, Shaurya—how will you heal our coffers? How will you feed our people? Speak, and let the court weigh your answer."
A murmur spread. This was no small test—this was the Gate of Wealth, disguised in politics.
Shaurya's Answer
Shaurya stepped forward, his trident gently resting on the marble floor. He did not rush to the scrolls, nor did he leaf through ledgers like a desperate clerk. Instead, he spoke calmly, his words weaving clarity into the tangled air.
"First, restore the land. Farmers bled for Nandigram as much as soldiers. Waive their levies this season, grant them seed and oxen from the palace stores. Hunger makes rebels faster than foreign swords."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the nobles.
"Second, repair the arteries of trade. Roads broken by siege must be cleared. Send word to the merchant guilds that safe passage shall be guaranteed. Levy not gold but grain at first—let food flow where coin cannot."
Now even Finance Minister Raghunath was blinking, calculating rapidly in his head.
"And third," Shaurya said, voice steady, "summon not tribute but allegiance. Call the smaller villages to the court, grant them audience. Let them feel part of Nandigram's body, not merely its burden. An empire is built not only on stone walls, but on the trust of its people."
Silence followed, heavy and charged.
Then the murmurs began again—this time, more favorable. Even those who had scorned him leaned to their neighbors, nodding despite themselves.
The Queen-Mother's smile did not falter, though her fingers drummed once on the arm of her throne.
The Political Trap Tightens
Prime Minister Vishwesh cleared his throat. "Wise words indeed. But words are air—what binds them is cost. Rajmata, shall we grant him authority to enact these proposals?"
The question was deliberate, forcing the Queen-Mother's hand. If she denied him, she risked looking fearful of the boy's ideas. If she agreed, she handed him influence.
The Queen-Mother's eyes glittered as they fixed on Shaurya. "Very well. Let the boy have his chance. He shall oversee the Feast of Replenishment—a banquet where nobles, merchants, and villagers alike are invited. If he can balance all their demands at once, let his words be proven."
The court gasped. It was a deadly test—pleasing nobles and peasants in the same hall was like juggling vipers.
Shaurya bowed slightly, unshaken. "I accept."
The Queen-Mother's smile sharpened. "Then let the game begin."
The Curtain Falls
As the court dispersed, ministers whispering and nobles scheming, Shaurya remained calm, his eyes thoughtful. He had faced Samrat's sword and survived. Now he faced a battlefield more treacherous than any warfront—the battlefield of court politics.
And in the shadows of the hall, Spymaster Chitragupta watched him with unreadable eyes, murmuring under his breath:
"The storm does not break… it roots itself deeper."
The stage was set. Nandigram's court had seen Shaurya's strength of arms. Now, they would see if he could wield the strength of thrones.
To be continued....