The skies above Nandigram darkened with heavy clouds, the monsoon winds rushing through the palace gardens, carrying with them the scent of wet earth and blooming champa. For most of the kingdom, the coming of the monsoon meant relief — rivers swelling, fields reborn, cattle fattening on fresh grass.
But within the walls of the marble palace, the rains were not merely a season. They were a symbol.
And symbols could be weapons.
---
The City Awakens
For days before the festival, Nandigram awoke with frenzy. Flags of indigo, saffron, and emerald were hung from balconies and towers. Merchants from distant coasts arrived with wagons of silk, jars of rare spices, and carved idols of gods to be blessed in the rains.
The streets thundered with the beats of dhols as performers rehearsed their dances, children ran barefoot in the mud chasing paper boats, and priests prepared sacred altars at every river crossing.
The Festival of Monsoons was meant to celebrate abundance — a time when the palace threw open its granaries and wealth flowed down to the people. But this year, whispers of betrayal swirled like unseen lightning.
In the bazaars, some shouted Shaurya's name as if he were already a protector of Nandigram; others muttered that his presence had angered the gods.
---
Inside the Palace
Within the palace, the preparations were even grander. The Queen-Mother had ordered a grand pavilion built in the lotus courtyard, its silken canopy stitched with pearls and gold thread. The banners of every noble house were to be raised there on the day of the festival — a display of loyalty to the throne.
But Shaurya knew the banners would be more than cloth. They would be signals. Some would bow to Padmavati's crown. Others… perhaps not.
The ministers gathered daily, arguing over seating, rituals, the distribution of offerings. Each detail mattered, for in Nandigram, where one sat or whom one faced across the banquet could decide the future of alliances.
Shaurya observed silently in these meetings, speaking only when necessary. He did not miss the nervous glances between certain lords, the way notes were passed through attendants, or the sudden silence when his gaze swept across them.
---
The Queen-Mother's Challenge
One evening, as the rain lashed the palace windows, Shaurya stood in the Queen-Mother's private chamber. She gazed out at the drenched gardens, her jeweled veil reflecting candlelight.
"Shaurya," she said softly, her voice carrying both weariness and sharpness. "You see them, don't you? The cracks in my court."
"I see more than cracks," he replied calmly. "I see roots. A serpent coils not above the earth but below. Vashisht's allies will not simply show their faces unless forced."
She turned to him, eyes narrowing. "And you think the festival will force them?"
"Yes," Shaurya said. "They will strike where the kingdom is most open, when banners rise and all eyes turn to the throne. But it will also be their undoing."
Padmavati studied him for a long moment. "You speak as if you already know the outcome."
"I do not know," Shaurya admitted. "But I intend to shape it."
For the first time, the Queen-Mother let out a dry laugh. "You are either fearless, or a fool. I pray to the gods it is the first."
---
The Nobles Scheme
Elsewhere in the palace, the serpent faction stirred.
Behind closed doors, Lord Janardhan and two other southern nobles met in a chamber lit only by oil lamps. The letter Shaurya had intercepted had been but one of many; their network stretched deeper than most suspected.
"The Queen-Mother falters," Janardhan hissed, slamming a palm on the table. "She clings to this outsider, this Shaurya, as if he were her savior. He has bewitched her, and if we do not act, he will carve his own throne here!"
Another noble sneered. "Then at the Festival we strike. When the banners rise, ours will fall. That is the sign. The serpent will show its fangs."
"And the gods?" the third murmured nervously. "To profane the Festival—"
"The gods will forgive power," Janardhan spat. "But they will not forgive weakness. Remember that."
They sealed their pact in silence, unaware that a shadow moved just outside the chamber — a servant who slipped away into the night with the words burning in his mind.
---
Shaurya Among the People
While nobles schemed, Shaurya chose a different battlefield. He walked the streets of Nandigram, cloaked in plain garb, Harivansh at his side.
They passed vendors shouting over steaming pots of pakoras, children splashing in the rains, and farmers bowing at shrines for plentiful harvests. Everywhere, whispers followed.
"That's him… the dark-eyed lord…"
"They say he faced Samrat in single combat…"
"Or perhaps he brings the serpent with him…"
Harivansh frowned. "My lord, the people's tongues cut both ways. Today they cheer you. Tomorrow, should the serpent whisper louder, they may turn."
Shaurya's eyes remained calm, fixed on the horizon.
"Then I will give them reason to choose truth over fear. The serpent thrives on shadows. We will light a fire so bright, it has nowhere left to hide."
---
The Night Before
On the eve of the festival, the palace was alive with feverish energy. Musicians rehearsed late into the night, courtiers polished their jewels, priests fasted and prepared sacred water.
In his chambers, Shaurya stood alone before the great window, the rains battering the marble terrace outside. He closed his eyes, feeling the storm's pulse in his chest.
The System of Adhipatya stirred within him, a faint shimmer of golden script across his vision:
[Notification: Political Intrigue Detected]
[Quest Triggered: The Festival of Monsoons — Preserve Order, Expose Betrayal, Secure Allegiance]
He exhaled slowly. So it had come to this. Not a battlefield of blades, but of banners and words.
Yet Shaurya knew — sometimes such battles cut deeper than any sword.
---
The Cliffhanger
At dawn, as the first light of the monsoon day broke through the storm clouds, horns sounded from the palace towers.
The Festival of Monsoons had begun.
Servants unfurled the banners of every noble house, silks rippling in the wet wind. One by one, the nobles filed into the pavilion — their faces polished, their words honeyed, but their eyes sharp as daggers.
Shaurya entered last, his presence drawing every gaze. Calm, steady, unreadable.
And there, across the pavilion, he saw Lord Janardhan's lips curve into a smile — a serpent's smile, waiting for its strike.
The game had begun.
To be continued....