The Feast had ended, but the palace of Nandigram did not sleep.
Moonlight washed over the marbled courtyards, turning the garlands of marigold into pale shadows. From the outer quarters drifted the faint sounds of villagers returning home, speaking Shaurya's name in tones of cautious hope. Merchants retreated to their guild lodges, weighing profits against pride. Even the nobles, after their reluctant acceptance, had slunk back to their villas with masked faces and restless hearts.
But within the palace walls, the night had only begun.
The Chamber of Closed Doors
At the heart of the Rajmahal was the Chamber of Veils—a round hall with walls draped in silks to soften every sound. Here the Queen-Mother often convened her ministers away from the eyes of courtiers.
Tonight, the chamber glowed by lamplight as twelve figures gathered around a low carved table.
The Queen-Mother sat at its head, her posture regal as ever, her expression unreadable. Around her, the council assembled:
Vishwesh Sharma, Prime Minister, silver-bearded, voice steady as granite.
Raghunath Bhandari, Finance Minister, gaunt, with ink-stained fingers, forever muttering of dwindling gold.
Commander Harshavardhan, broad-shouldered, the only one who had openly praised Shaurya.
Chitragupta Mishra, Spymaster, lean, eyes glittering like a snake in candlelight.
Lord Mahadevan, the noble who had been humiliated in the feast, his pride still bleeding.
Several other lords and ministers, each with their own shadowed agendas.
The room pulsed with tension. The air was heavy with unspoken words, until the Queen-Mother broke the silence.
"You all saw it," she said calmly. "The boy speaks like a king."
The First Fractures
Lord Mahadevan slammed his palm on the table. "He mocked me before the entire court! Do you expect me to bow to a child who treats nobles like peasants?"
Harshavardhan's laugh was sharp. "Perhaps you should not have spoken like a fool, then."
Mahadevan bristled. "You dare—!"
"Enough." The Queen-Mother's voice sliced through the quarrel. She leaned forward, her bangles chiming faintly. "Your pride was wounded, Mahadevan. But you are not the first lord to bleed in this hall, nor the last. Do not mistake your injury for the kingdom's."
Mahadevan's jaw clenched, but he fell silent.
It was Raghunath, the Finance Minister, who spoke next. His voice was weary, but edged with fear. "He promises seed and oxen, relief and rebuilding. Fine words, but our treasury is not bottomless. If he forces our hand, what shall we pay with—air?"
Vishwesh, ever the cautious balance, stroked his beard. "And yet the people cheer his name already. If he delivers even half his promises, the throne may tilt toward him."
"Or away from us," murmured Chitragupta, his lips curling into a smile that never reached his eyes.
The Spymaster's Web
The Spymaster leaned forward, his voice low and silken. "Do not mistake tonight's harmony for loyalty. The peasants are desperate—they will love whoever feeds them. The merchants are greedy—they will bow to whoever fattens their purses. And the nobles—" he glanced at Mahadevan—"they will smile while sharpening daggers."
His words drew uncomfortable silence.
"Then what do you propose?" asked the Queen-Mother, her gaze sharp.
Chitragupta spread his hands. "Test him again. Push him beyond speeches. Let him drown in tasks no man can juggle. If he survives, then we shall see whether he is ruler or just another loud youth."
Mahadevan growled. "And if he fails?"
Chitragupta's smile thinned. "Then the people will turn as quickly as they embraced him. And we… will still hold the reins."
The Queen-Mother's Design
All eyes turned to Rajmata Shantidevi. She sat with her chin resting lightly upon her hand, her eyes like still pools of water concealing unknown depths.
"You all cling to fear," she said softly. "But do you not see? The boy's strength is not his speeches. It is his calm. He does not rage when insulted. He does not stumble when challenged. He is dangerous because he does not play our game by our rules."
The ministers shifted uneasily.
"So we must change the game," she continued. "Tonight, he balanced farmers, merchants, and nobles. Tomorrow, we will burden him with all three at once."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "The Festival of Banners was but the beginning. The Great Redistribution—that will be his crucible."
Seeds of Treachery
As the council dispersed, whispers followed like snakes in tall grass.
Lord Mahadevan lingered near Chitragupta. "If the Queen-Mother believes he can endure, what then? Will we simply let him rise?"
Chitragupta's eyes glinted in the lamplight. "There are many kinds of poison, my lord. Some kill in an instant. Others take years. Let the boy climb. The higher he rises, the sweeter his fall."
Meanwhile, Raghunath muttered to Vishwesh, "Mark my words, Prime Minister. If we empty the coffers for his schemes, the people may cheer him, but they will curse us when debts choke the kingdom."
And in a quiet corner, Harshavardhan stood with arms folded, watching them all. He whispered to himself, unheard: "You fools. You plot against a tide you cannot stop."
Shaurya's Vigil
Far from the council chamber, in his guest quarters, Shaurya stood by the window. The moonlight silvered his face, his trident pendant gleaming faintly against his chest.
Beside him, Minister Ananta, the young advisor recently drawn to his side, spoke nervously. "My lord, tonight you swayed them. But do not mistake smiles for loyalty. The nobles are restless. The merchants are calculating. Even the Rajmata tests you still."
Shaurya did not answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the courtyard below, where villagers who had been invited still sang quietly, grateful for their feast.
Finally, he spoke. "I saw it in their eyes, Ananta. Hunger, not for bread alone, but for justice. If I feed them today, they will walk with me tomorrow. And if the nobles and merchants betray me, it will be their hunger, not mine, that destroys them."
Ananta bowed, half in awe, half in fear. "And the Queen-Mother?"
Shaurya's faint smile was unreadable. "Even the sharpest blade cannot cut the sky. Let her test me. Each trial only reveals the path more clearly."
Foreshadowing the Storm
That night, the palace seemed calm. The lamps dimmed, the silks swayed gently, the nightingales sang from the gardens.
But beneath the silks of the Chamber of Veils, plots thickened. In the merchant halls, ledgers were inked with hidden schemes. In noble villas, goblets clinked to whispers of treachery. And in the Queen-Mother's chamber, Shantidevi wrote letters sealed with her crest—letters bound for distant allies, perhaps enemies.
The Feast of Replenishment had not ended the war.
It had only moved it into shadows.
And as Shaurya stood beneath the moonlight, calm yet unyielding, a storm gathered around him—one that would soon test not his speeches, but his very survival as both ruler and man.
To be continued....