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The Calm Before the Trap
Three nights after the granary ashes had cooled, the city of Nandigram shimmered with lanterns. The Festival of Lights, an ancient celebration of victory over darkness, had arrived. Streets were lined with oil lamps, their flames dancing like stars brought to earth. Children ran with sparklers, merchants draped their stalls with garlands, and musicians filled the air with drums and flutes.
It was the perfect balm after days of fear.
For Shaurya, it was more than that. It was a chance to show the people that their faith in him was not misplaced—that life, even under the shadow of plots, would not be stolen from them.
From the palace balcony, he watched as the festival unfurled across the city like a sea of fireflies. Rajnandini stood beside him, dressed in crimson silk, her hair braided with jasmine. The glow of the lanterns reflected in her eyes.
"You gave them grain," she whispered, "and now they give you light."
Shaurya's lips curved in a rare smile. "It is not light they give me, Rajnandini. It is trust. And I will not let that flame die."
But even as he spoke, shadows moved beneath the brightness.
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The Hidden Plan
In a secluded chamber beneath the serpent faction's hidden temple, Lord Janardhan stood over a map of the city. A red circle marked the Festival Square, where Shaurya would make his ceremonial address.
"The prince basks in their love," Janardhan hissed. "Tonight, we turn that love into his chain."
The veiled leader beside him traced a finger along the map. Her voice was soft, almost amused.
"We have placed men in the crowd. When Shaurya speaks, one shall throw a dagger—not at him, but at the people. A child, perhaps, or a mother. He will act as he always does—he will shield them."
"And then?" Janardhan pressed.
"Then he will be accused of killing the assassin himself, before the people's eyes. He will stand with blood on his hands. The crowd will not care whose blood it was. They will remember only the prince's sword striking down one of their own."
Janardhan's lips curled. "A serpent does not strike the heart directly. It coils around it until it cannot beat."
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The Festival Square
The festival reached its height at midnight. Shaurya entered the square with no guards but hundreds of villagers around him. The crowd parted like a tide, cheers ringing as they raised their lamps in salute.
Children climbed onto their fathers' shoulders to glimpse him. Old women pressed forward, blessing him with tilak. Soldiers mixed among the people, their hands close to their hilts but their hearts warmed by the joy that pulsed through the square.
Shaurya raised his hands, and the crowd hushed as though the flames themselves leaned in to listen.
"Tonight," he began, his voice firm yet warm, "we do not celebrate a prince, or a palace, or even a crown. We celebrate you—the people who are the true light of this land."
A cheer erupted, but before it could fade, chaos struck.
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The Dagger in the Crowd
A man in a tattered cloak pushed forward. His hand darted beneath his robe. In an instant, steel flashed—
but not toward Shaurya.
The dagger arced toward a young boy standing in the front row.
The crowd screamed. Mothers clutched their children. Guards surged forward—but they were too far.
Shaurya's body moved before thought. His hand closed around his sword, silver flashing in the lanternlight. He lunged, blade slicing through the air.
Steel met flesh.
The assassin collapsed at Shaurya's feet, his dagger clattering harmlessly to the stones. Blood spread across the ground, and the crowd froze, their cheers curdled into silence.
The boy lived. But all eyes were fixed not on him—
but on the prince standing above a slain man, his sword red in the glow of a thousand lamps.
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The Twist
A cry rose from the crowd.
"He killed a man!"
Another voice followed, sharp and trembling. "The assassin had no dagger!"
Shaurya's eyes widened. He glanced at the fallen man—his hand empty. The dagger that had gleamed in the lamplight was gone.
Whispers spread like wildfire. "He struck down an unarmed villager… he spilled blood in the sacred square…"
The serpent faction's work was flawless. Somewhere in the chaos, the dagger had been stolen away, leaving only the body and Shaurya's crimson blade.
The crowd's love teetered on the edge of panic.
---
The Queen-Mother's Test
From her seat upon the festival dais, the Queen-Mother rose, her veil catching the lanternlight. Her voice rang out, calm but edged with steel.
"My son," she said, her tone slow, deliberate, "explain yourself before your people. Why does your sword drip with their blood?"
All eyes turned to Shaurya. His heart thundered—not with fear for himself, but for the trust he had sworn to protect.
He could see the serpent's design: to turn his shield into a blade in the people's eyes. If he faltered now, the bond he had fought for would shatter.
---
Shaurya's Dilemma
The boy he had saved tugged at his sleeve, tears streaming down his face. "He saved me! The man tried to kill me!"
But the crowd's roar swallowed the child's voice. Doubt, fear, betrayal—all coiled together.
Shaurya raised his sword high, blood gleaming red in the firelight. His gaze swept the square, not pleading, not defensive—commanding.
"My sword struck to protect life, not to take it," he declared, his voice cutting through the uproar. "If you believe otherwise—if you think this blade will ever be turned against you—then strike me down here and now!"
He tossed his sword to the stones at his feet, its clang echoing like thunder.
The square fell into stunned silence.
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The Final Scene
No one moved. Not a soldier, not a farmer, not even the serpent spies planted in the crowd. The lamps flickered, as though the flames themselves were waiting.
Then, slowly, a woman stepped forward—the boy's mother. She bent, picked up the sword, and held it out to Shaurya with trembling hands.
"This sword," she said, her voice carrying, "saved my child. And it will save us all."
A cheer erupted. One voice, then a hundred, then thousands:
"Shaurya! Shaurya! Shaurya!"
The serpent's trap had failed. But not without leaving scars. In the shadows of the square, the veiled leader watched with narrowed eyes.
"Not broken," she murmured, "but bent. Every test makes him stronger. We will need a sharper poison."
To be continued....