Initially, his first customers approached slowly, their faces a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Whispers began to swirl around him:
"A Malwan merchant?"
"He's lost his mind."
"Or he possesses knowledge we lack."
But with the first hesitant sip, their caution transformed into mild curiosity, eventually blossoming into genuine wonder.
By evening, the modest stall had turned into a hub of activity, drawing in a diverse tapestry of patrons. Farmers seeking respite from a long day, soldiers with parched throats, messengers carrying heavy tidings, and even ministers' wives hidden beneath elegant veils—all were drawn to the one precious thing their weary bodies suddenly craved: relief.
"Where did you learn this?" a merchant inquired, eyes wide with intrigue.
"I learned from listening to wise old women, kind trees that whispered in the wind, and thirsty travelers who shared their stories."
"What do you call this elixir?" asked a soldier, already enchanted by the taste.
"I call it Shant Jal. Water of Calm," Veer replied, a twinkle of pride in his eye.
In merely a single day, his reputation began to spread like wildfire, drawing the attention of those who moved in higher circles. By sunset, two figures observed him from a shaded terrace overlooking the marketplace. Clad in royal robes that screamed authority and adorned with rings that signaled wealth, they were envoys of the Sultan's court. One busily scribbled notes on a scroll, while the other watched Veer with a mixture of intrigue and wariness.
"He smiles too easily for a foreigner," one remarked.
"And he knows how to speak without revealing anything of consequence," replied the other, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Do you think he's a spy?" the first envoy pondered aloud.
"No. Worse. He's a storyteller," came the reply, a note of concern creeping into the voice.
"Should we arrest him?" the first man suggested.
The other shook his head decisively. "No. Let him serve his drink. Allow the crowd to gather around him. And when the time is ripe… we'll squeeze him for the information we need."
That night, as the city sank into a hush and the last remnants of customers dispersed, Veer found himself atop the rooftop of his inn, reflecting on the day's events under a sky sprinkled with stars.
He whispered to himself, the words laden with determination: "Now the roots begin to grow."
Unfolding a crumpled piece of parchment, he revealed a meticulously drawn map of the marketplace — including key spots such as the court district, the temple quarter, and vital messenger routes. Each area bore his careful annotations:
Guard rotation schedules gleaned from eavesdropping exhausted soldiers.
Court gossip harvested from tipsy patrons during lively tavern exchanges.
And prominently circled with careful strokes was the location of the Varnali palace's water reserves.
A sly smile crept onto Veer's face as he traced his finger across the map. "They think I'm just here to sell water…"
He dipped his finger into the last few drops of his drink, the taste still lingering, and circled the area marked on his map. "But I'm about to drown their lies in it."
Just beyond the horizon, the sky darkened, thick clouds swirling ominously, and a faint rumble of thunder echoed over the hills, heralding the brewing storm — a fitting backdrop for the unfolding story of a boy with grand ambitions, poised at the brink of a daring plan.
The Next Day**
The sun rose brightly over the bustling market square, casting a warm glow that danced across Veer's stall, which was as vibrant and lively as ever. Laughter floated through the air, blending harmoniously with the gentle clinking of cups. The captivating aroma of his now-renowned Shant Jal—affectionately known as the "Water of Calm"—enveloped everyone, drawing customers closer like moths to a flame.
Yet, beneath the surface, something felt strangely amiss.
The smiles that usually filled the faces of the townsfolk appeared to have dimmed, replaced by a cloud of hushed whispers and furtive glances exchanged among patrons. A sense of unease loomed, thickening the air with tension. Veer's keen eye caught sight of two shadowy figures standing starkly still on the rooftop across the square, their presence unnervingly static.
With a sense of foreboding, Veer shifted his attention back to serving an elderly farmer who had come to enjoy his delightful concoction.
And then he saw it.
A procession of ten armed guards nimbly navigated their way through the crowd, moving toward his stall like silent arrows finding their target. At the forefront of this imposing group was a figure cloaked in dark robes, adorned with a conspicuous gold-plated sash that caught the light ominously.
"Veer of Malwa," the minister's voice boomed, each word crashing upon the gathered crowd like rolling thunder, "by order of the Council of Sultan, you are under arrest for high treason and espionage!"
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, cups trembling precariously in their hands. A worried mother instinctively pulled her child close, shielding them from the unfolding chaos.
Veer felt the tightness in his jaw but maintained a calm demeanor, a steady smile playing on his lips even amidst the storm brewing around him.
"You must be mistaking me for someone important," he quipped lightly, searching the minister's face for any hint of jest.
"We are," growled a guard, his face set in a menacing scowl.
Before he could react further, they lunged forward, seizing him with rough hands. Veer chose not to resist. Not here, in front of his loyal patrons. He allowed them to drag him away, binding his arms tightly behind his back and striking him across the face for effect, a blow meant to display their power over him.
Stepping forward, the minister leaned closer, a smirk playing on his lips. "You charmed your way into our hearts, Veer. Sold peace in a cup. But behind every sweet taste lies poison, doesn't it?"
"If you tasted poison," Veer retorted, tasting blood in his mouth and spitting defiantly, "perhaps it was already in your system."
A punch to the ribs followed, stealing the breath from his lungs.
The air turned frigid as he was thrown into the dark, dank dungeon beneath the Varnali palace, where the very walls seemed to have absorbed the screams of the long-suffering souls who had come before him. He was unceremoniously flung into a narrow stone cell, devoid of comfort; no torch flickered to illuminate his surroundings, no cot provided a reprieve, only a thin slit in the stone offered a breath of fresh air and a sliver of moonlight that barely brushed the floor.
His hands, bound by rough rope, ached like never before. His bloodied face throbbed painfully, and his tunic lay in tatters, a testament to his ordeal.
For a moment, he allowed himself to sink into the eerie silence that engulfed him. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he conjured memories of the temple, of the enchanting voice of the princess, and the warm laughter of the loyal customers who frequented his stall.
"This is how it begins," he whispered to himself, the words barely rising above a breath.
Not with the clash of swords, he realized, but rather with the suffocating silence that could swallow hope whole.
"They think it's over. That I've been buried," he continued, resting his weary head against the cold, unforgiving wall.
But even in this dark hour, a smile crept across his lips, defiant in its nature. "They just planted the seed."