The sky above the Mauryan palace was the clearest it had been in weeks. No clouds, no haze — just an endless sweep of pale blue, like a fresh canvas waiting for the day to paint itself across it. The early sunlight spilled into the training courtyard, warm and golden, making the stone tiles glow faintly.
Rudura stepped into the center of the courtyard, the familiar crunch of his sandals against the packed earth grounding him. There was no mud today, no slick patches to watch for. The ground was dry, solid. The air smelled faintly of polished steel from the weapon racks nearby, mixed with the earthy scent of the courtyard's perimeter trees.
He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his wooden practice sword. It was a blade he'd been using for months — the grip smoothed in some places from constant handling, still rough in others where splinters threatened to catch on skin. It had a certain comfort to it, like an old friend who had been through enough mornings like this to know the routine.
Today's goal was simple — repetition until the movements became muscle memory. He wanted every dodge, every strike, every recovery step to be as natural as breathing. If his body could move like that now, in its small, growing form, it would be unstoppable when he was older and stronger.
Malavatas, standing off to the side, arms folded, was watching him closely. His eyes were sharp as always, following every small shift in Rudura's stance. He didn't speak yet, letting the young prince fall into rhythm first.
Rudura positioned himself — right foot forward, knees bent, shoulders loose.
Swish. The sword cut forward in a clean arc.Clack. His stance shifted into a guarded position.Thud. His lead foot reset on the dry earth.
Again.
Swish—clack—thud.
The wooden blade whistled faintly as it moved through the air. Every motion came with the soft scuff of his sandals against the ground and the creak of his joints adjusting to keep balance. His breath fell into a steady rhythm: inhale on the guard, exhale on the strike.
But no matter how precise his body tried to be, his thoughts were drifting.
Yesterday's visit to his father's library — Emperor Chandragupta Maurya's personal library — kept replaying in his mind. The room had been quiet, filled with the faint scent of ancient paper and polished wood. And there, tucked on a lower shelf, was the book. Black cover. Golden letters.
échecs humains.
He didn't know the meaning of the words, but the moment his eyes landed on them, he had felt it — an unshakable weight in his chest, a sense that this book was not just any book. He hadn't opened it. Instead, he had placed it back carefully on a lower shelf, making sure he could find it again.
But the thought of it hadn't left him since.
Swish—clack—thud.
Every time the blade sliced the air, the image of the golden letters flashed in his mind.
Malavatas noticed. He always did. His voice cut through the courtyard air.
"Your guard is dropping on the left," he said.
Rudura straightened instantly. "Yes, Guru."
The drill continued, but his focus didn't.
The decision had already been made in his mind before training started. Today, he was going to ask.
Swish—clang—swish. The movements flowed automatically now, almost without conscious thought. His feet shifted in perfect measure, the dry earth crunching softly under each pivot.
Finally, after one more strike, Rudura lowered his blade slightly and looked at Malavatas.
"Guru," he began, voice steady but measured, "I need to ask you something."
Malavatas raised an eyebrow. "Speak."
Rudura's fingers tightened on the hilt. "Yesterday, I was in my father's library. I saw a book — black cover, golden letters. It said échecs humains."
The air seemed to still for a moment. The faint rustle of the banners on the palace wall slowed. Even the distant sound of a blacksmith's hammer from the workshops beyond the courtyard seemed to fade.
Malavatas's eyes didn't change much, but Rudura caught it — a brief narrowing, like someone trying to hide recognition.
"You saw it?" Malavatas asked at last. His voice was calm, but heavier now.
"Yes," Rudura said. "I didn't touch it. I left it on a lower shelf so I could find it again."
There was a long pause. Malavatas took a slow step forward, boots pressing into the earth with a faint crunch.
"That book," he said finally, "is not for you to read. Not yet."
Rudura frowned slightly. "Why?"
Malavatas looked him directly in the eyes. "Because what's inside it is not meant for unprepared hands. Knowledge can be a weapon, Rudura — sharper than any sword. But like any weapon, it can wound the one who wields it. Once you know what it holds, you can never go back."
The words were deliberate, measured. But they only deepened Rudura's curiosity.
"I will tell you about it," Malavatas continued, "but only if you pass the end-year training test with perfect grades."
Rudura blinked. "Perfect grades?"
"Yes. Not good. Not impressive. Perfect. Every strike, every tactic, every exercise — flawless. And until then, you are not to touch that book. You are not to open it. You are not even to look for it. Understand?"
Rudura hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "I understand."
Malavatas didn't speak for a moment, as if weighing his student's response. Then he stepped back. "Good. Now, back to drills."
Rudura returned to position.
Swish—clang—thud.Swish—clang—thud.
But this time, each strike carried more weight. The end-year training test was not a small matter. It wasn't a competition open to anyone. It was his personal trial, designed specifically for the prince of the Mauryan Empire.
It would push him in every way — strength, endurance, swordsmanship, strategy, discipline. The test would demand not just skill, but mastery.
And now, the stakes had doubled.
If he passed with perfect grades, Malavatas would reveal the truth about the mysterious book. But it would also fulfill another promise — one made months ago, between him and his parents.
The promise that if he excelled in the end-year training test, they would give him permission to travel to the Roman Empire.
Two goals. One path.
If he achieved perfection, he would hit two birds with one stone.
The wooden blade in his hand suddenly felt different. He could feel the faint texture of the grip pressing into his palm, hear the slight whistle it made as it cut the air. Every motion mattered now. Every drop of sweat mattered.
He straightened his stance, inhaled deeply, and began again.
Swish—clack—thud.Swish—clack—thud.
This time, there was no drifting thought. No wandering mind. Just the sound of the blade, the firmness of the ground beneath him, and the clear, unshakable target that lay ahead.
(Continued In Chapter 22)