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The Morning of the Festival
The sun rose reluctantly over Nandigram, veiled in the haze of lingering monsoon clouds. From the palace balconies, the view stretched across the sprawling city—white stone towers rising among bustling bazaars, narrow lanes curling like veins into the heart of the capital, and the great lotus-shaped plaza where the Festival of Grain was to be held.
The Queen-Mother's decree had spread like wildfire the night before: the royal granaries would be opened, food distributed, and the people invited to feast in celebration of unity.
It was a masterstroke—or a trap. To the people, it meant relief after weeks of rumors about shortages. To the nobles, it meant an unexpected gamble that would reveal their loyalty. To Shaurya, it was a chance to expose the serpent in the grass.
Within the palace, preparations moved feverishly. Long lines of servants carried baskets of rice, sacks of wheat, and barrels of jaggery. Priests chanted blessings as cooks began preparing sweets, fritters, and steaming pots of lentil stew.
And at the center of it all stood Shaurya, robes of deep blue trimmed with silver, his expression calm, his eyes sharp. Around him, ministers bustled nervously—Minister Devadatta with his scrolls, Minister Bhaskar grumbling about costs, and a half-dozen lesser scribes trying to keep pace.
"My lord," Devadatta whispered, bowing low, "already the plazas are filling. The nobles arrive with their entourages, and the merchants too. But…" He glanced around before lowering his voice further. "Whispers say the serpent faction will act today."
Shaurya looked out toward the city below, unflinching. "Then let them act. A serpent that bares its fangs in daylight loses its venom."
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The Lotus Plaza
By midday, the Lotus Plaza thrummed with life. Colored awnings stretched over the market stalls, musicians struck their drums in jubilant rhythm, and incense curled into the humid air. The Queen-Mother herself had taken a high seat beneath a canopy, veiled but radiant, with Princess Rajnandini beside her.
The nobles occupied rows of carved chairs near the dais, their banners displayed proudly. Some smiled, pretending generosity; others frowned, wary of what the day might bring.
But the true heart of the festival lay in the crowds—thousands of villagers, farmers, artisans, and merchants, all pressing toward the granary wagons where food was being distributed. Children laughed, clutching sweet cakes. Mothers wept with relief as they carried sacks of rice. Old men lifted their hands in blessings.
"Long live Nandigram! Long live the throne!" they cried.
The Queen-Mother allowed herself a faint smile. This was what rulership meant: to bind people not only by sword, but by bread.
And yet, she stole a glance at Shaurya, standing tall beside the altar of Agni in the plaza's center. His gaze swept the scene with the precision of a hawk, as though he sought not adoration, but weakness.
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The First Stirring
It began subtly.
Near one of the grain wagons, a brawl erupted. A group of rough-clad men shoved villagers aside, seizing sacks and overturning baskets. Cries rang out. "Thieves! Stop them!"
But the men did not run. Instead, they shouted loudly, voices carrying across the plaza:
"The palace lies! There is not enough grain for all!"
"The nobles hoard while the people starve!"
Their cries spread panic. Faces turned uncertain, joy souring into suspicion.
Several nobles smirked behind jeweled veils. Among them, Lord Janardhan, emblem of the crimson serpent, whispered to his neighbor, "See how quickly faith crumbles. All it takes is doubt."
The Queen-Mother stiffened, about to order guards forward. But Shaurya raised his hand.
"No steel," he said evenly. "Not yet."
Instead, he stepped onto the altar steps. His voice, calm but resonant, carried above the chaos.
"People of Nandigram—hear me."
The crowd quieted, drawn by the sheer gravity of his tone. Even the rioters paused, uncertain.
Shaurya's hand pointed toward the wagons. "If there is not enough, then let me stand among you. Let me take the last share, if share there be. Who dares say the throne has lied?"
Murmurs rose. Villagers glanced at each other, then back at the overflowing wagons where more grain was still being unloaded. The false cry had been pierced.
The rioters hesitated—but then one sneered. "Words cannot fill empty stomachs!" He hurled a clay pot at the altar.
In a fluid motion, Shaurya caught it midair. The pot cracked, spilling only dust. Shaurya turned it in his hand, lifted it for all to see.
"Empty," he said. "Like the words of liars."
The crowd erupted—first in laughter, then in cheers. The tide turned. The rioters, exposed, tried to flee, but were seized not by guards, but by villagers themselves, dragged forward to the dais in shame.
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The Second Trap
The serpent faction did not relent.
As the festival continued, another scheme unfolded—this time at the feast tables. Gold coins, freshly minted, began to appear among the dishes, slipped into bowls of rice and platters of sweets.
Merchants shouted in alarm. "The food is cursed! Poisoned with false gold!"
Panic surged again. Nobles leaned back, some sneering, some pale.
But Shaurya strode forward. He took one of the coins, examined it briefly, then pressed it into the hot surface of a griddle where sweets were being fried. The coin melted, its shine fading to reveal dull lead.
"Not gold," Shaurya declared. "Lead painted with deceit. Do you see? The serpent does not strike with poison alone—it strikes with lies."
He cast the melted lump onto the stones. "Eat, and fear not. Truth is the throne's shield."
The merchants bowed, the crowd roared approval, and nobles exchanged uneasy glances. The conspirators had been foiled a second time.
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The Queen-Mother's Test
As the sun dipped low, the final rite of the festival began. The Queen-Mother rose, her voice ringing clear:
"By tradition, the Festival of Grain ends with the Offering of Abundance—a pledge of resources by the nobles, to strengthen the kingdom. Today, let us see whose loyalty shines brightest."
A ripple of tension spread. This was the true trap: nobles would be forced to declare how much wealth or grain they offered. Too little, and they appeared disloyal. Too much, and they weakened themselves.
Lord Vikrant stepped first, chest puffed. "My house pledges fifty carts of barley!" he declared, to murmurs of approval.
Lady Gauri followed. "My caravans shall bring ten chests of spice to the palace stores."
One by one, nobles pledged, each weighing risk and gain.
At last, Lord Janardhan rose. His serpent banner fluttered faintly in the humid breeze.
"My house pledges nothing," he said coldly. "For we believe the throne should not beg from its children."
Gasps tore the plaza. The Queen-Mother's eyes blazed behind her veil. Rajnandini's hand flew to her dagger.
But Shaurya's voice came calm as still water. "Then your loyalty is worth nothing, Lord Janardhan. And nothing is all the people shall remember of you."
The crowd murmured agreement. Farmers spat. Merchants sneered. Janardhan's jaw tightened, his gambit crumbling beneath the weight of public scorn.
Shaurya turned, facing the people. "As for Ashval—my house pledges ten thousand measures of grain, carried by our harvesters, delivered within a fortnight."
A stunned silence fell. Even Bhaskar, the treasurer, gaped.
Shaurya continued, unshaken. "For grain is not hoarded, but grown. And Ashval's fields grow rich."
The cheer that followed shook the plaza. "Ashval! Ashval! Shaurya!"
The Queen-Mother's veil shifted, and though her face remained hidden, a flicker of triumph gleamed in her eyes.
---
The Serpent Retreats
By nightfall, the festival ended in triumph. Villagers returned home laden with food, singing Shaurya's name. Merchants spread word of his brilliance. Nobles who had pledged too little found themselves shamed; those who pledged more rallied behind Shaurya's rising star.
But in the shadowed alleys, cloaked figures hissed in frustration.
"The boy turns every trap against us."
"He makes the people his shield."
"He cannot be allowed to rise further."
A voice, low and venomous, silenced them. "Then we strike not at his strength—but at his heart. Find what he cannot sacrifice."
The serpent's coil tightened once more.
To be continued....