The Ceremony of the Harvest Moon
The great bells of Nandigram's palace-temple tolled, their bronze voices ringing across marble courtyards and lotus ponds. It was the Festival of the Harvest Moon, a ceremony older than dynasties, when the rulers of Nandigram gave thanks to the gods for prosperity and offered the Chalice of Abundance — a silver goblet filled with sacred soma, drunk before all by the reigning sovereign as a pledge to guard the people's wealth.
The nobles loved this day. For them, it was spectacle: music of veenas and mridangas, dancers swirling like flames, incense rising in fragrant pillars. For the people, it was reassurance — the sight of their king or queen standing beneath the moon's light, drinking the Chalice without fear.
And this year, for the first time, it was Shaurya who would raise the goblet.
The Court Assembles
The great hall was a river of silk and jewels. Nobles lined the aisles, their turbans and saris a parade of colors, their eyes glittering sharper than their gems. Merchants filled the back rows, whispering calculations behind their smiles. Priests moved in solemn rhythm, bearing trays of flowers, fire, and sandalwood.
On the high dais sat the Queen-Mother, her ivory staff gleaming, her expression serene yet watchful.
At her right, Shaurya stood in royal attire — not ostentatious but commanding: a deep indigo robe embroidered with golden lotuses, his hair tied back with a circlet of silver.
His face was calm. His eyes, steady.
If the nobles hoped to see him nervous, they were disappointed.
The Poisoned Gift
As drums rolled, the Chalice of Abundance was brought forth. A silver goblet studded with pearls, carried on a velvet cushion by the High Priest himself.
But tonight, the goblet had been touched.
In the shadowed kitchens hours earlier, a trembling servant had been ordered to "season the chalice" with a drop of clear liquid that left no scent. Behind him, cloaked figures — agents of Lord Mahadevan — had watched to ensure obedience.
"Just a sip," they had whispered. "Enough to weaken him, not kill. The people must see their king falter, choke, collapse. Then the Queen-Mother will doubt. The nobles will rise. And his aura will be broken forever."
Now, under the temple's torchlight, the goblet gleamed as if innocent.
The First Toast
The High Priest lifted the goblet.
"Behold, the Chalice of Abundance, vessel of the gods' blessing. Let him who rules us drink, and may his reign nourish as the rains and shine as the moon!"
He offered it to Shaurya.
Every noble leaned forward, hungry for a stumble. Some even smiled, anticipating the spectacle of this foreign-blooded ruler gasping before the crowd.
But Shaurya did not move at once.
He studied the goblet as if it were a puzzle. Then, with slow grace, he accepted it. His fingers curled around the silver. His gaze swept the hall — over Mahadevan, who smirked faintly; over Seth Govinddas, whose rings clicked nervously; over the Queen-Mother, whose eyes narrowed just so.
Then Shaurya spoke.
"In Ashval, from where my soul has come, we honor not only the gods but the people themselves. To drink alone is hollow. For what is abundance if not shared?"
A Twist of Calm
Before anyone could stop him, Shaurya raised the Chalice — and instead of drinking, he turned to the rows of farmers and villagers who had been allowed into the outer court for the ceremony.
"Let this Chalice be blessed not by my lips first," he said, voice calm but carrying, "but by those who till the soil, whose sweat is the true abundance of the land."
The hall froze. Nobles shifted uncomfortably. Priests blinked.
Shaurya descended the dais, every step measured, every gaze following him. He walked to the outer rows — to Raghunath himself, the farmer whose fields had burned but whose spirit had not.
"Drink," Shaurya said, offering the Chalice.
The man shook, terrified. "M-Maharaj, I… I cannot…"
"You can," Shaurya said gently. "For this kingdom is yours as much as mine."
Raghunath touched the goblet to his lips and sipped. The poison — carefully measured — would have been enough to make Shaurya collapse before hundreds. But on a farmer hardened by toil, it took time. A faint dizziness, a moment's pallor. He blinked, shook his head, then straightened.
No collapse. No spectacle.
The hall gasped.
Shaurya took the Chalice back and raised it high. "See how the gods favor the humble! Abundance flows where honesty dwells. And so it shall in my reign."
Then, without hesitation, he drank deeply himself.
The Nobles' Panic
Whispers thundered through the court. Mahadevan's smirk curdled. Govinddas's rings clinked faster.
The Queen-Mother's eyes narrowed in sharp interest.
The poison was there — Shaurya knew it. Adhipatya had whispered to him the moment his hand touched the silver: [Foreign Substance Detected: Ingestion Hazard. Temporary Resistance Engaged.]
But by giving it first to the farmer, he had not only robbed the nobles of their theater — he had turned their weapon into a symbol of unity.
And he had shown the crowd, subtly but unmistakably, that he did not fear death.
The Queen-Mother's Judgment
When Shaurya returned the Chalice, the Queen-Mother's voice rang like a temple bell.
"Well spoken, Maharaj. To share abundance before partaking yourself — that is a ruler's wisdom."
Her eyes flicked briefly to Mahadevan, whose face was taut with suppressed rage.
"Let the court remember this day. Shaurya does not falter before poison, nor does he hoard what belongs to the people. In him flows not only royal blood — but the strength of the land itself."
The hall erupted in cheers. Peasants wept. Merchants bowed. Even priests looked at Shaurya with newfound reverence.
The nobles' plot had failed — and worse, had strengthened him.
The Aftermath
Later, in his private chamber, Shaurya stood by the window, gazing at the moonlit gardens.
Ananta entered quietly. "Maharaj… that was poison, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Shaurya replied simply.
"And you knew?"
Shaurya's faint smile returned. "Adhipatya told me. But even without it, their malice reeks too strongly to be hidden. They will try again, Ananta. Each time, more desperately."
"Then why risk it?" Ananta's voice trembled with both admiration and fear.
Shaurya's gaze remained on the moon.
"Because power is not only the strength to strike back. It is the calm to let enemies reveal themselves, the wisdom to turn their daggers into my crown. They play games of poison. I play the game of empires."
His words fell like quiet thunder, rippling through the silence.
And in the shadows outside, a figure cloaked in crimson listened — a hidden ally, watching, weighing, preparing to step forward when the time was right.
To be continued....