Veer knew this would, the enemy would find every opportunity to throw him in the prison, so at the early morning he ordered his men to buy everything. Whether for double or triple the price, cut out their supply routes, the only thing that should be selling is my own drink. As Veer was dragged across the plaza, his body aching yet unbroken, he summoned a grin, shouting with fierce conviction, "Careful! You may silence my voice…"
"But soon, you'll thirst for what only I have!"
The crowd, swept up in a wave of murmurs, felt the weight of his words. Even as the guards struck him with brutality, as he crumpled to the dirt, the echo of water being ladled from his pot rang with a resonance that drowned out the soldiers' boots.
His heart raced at the thought of what tomorrow might bring, knowing that the market would soon be engulfed in chaos and uncertainty.
Meanwhile, in the seclusion of her private quarters, Princess Devyani sat with a heavy heart, staring intently at a sealed letter clasped tightly in her trembling hand—an urgent message surreptitiously delivered from Varnal by a trusted spice merchant who remained loyal to Veer.
But instead of the expected words, the letter contained a hand-drawn map etched onto the coarse paper, with one symbol meticulously circled in red: the Varnali council chamber.
Beneath the symbol, in a faint script that felt almost prophetic, read the ominous words: "The roots run deep. But the tree is hollow."
A chill coursed through her veins as despair settled in her heart. "He knew this would happen…" she murmured to herself, a sense of dread pinching at her insides as she contemplated the precarious situation unraveling before her.
That night was unlike any other in the bustling Kingdom of Sultan, marking the beginning of a strange and unsettling wave of change.
As moonlight bathed the narrow streets, market shelves that were typically brimming with vibrant produce, fragrant spices, and other essentials began to lie bare, suspiciously stripped of their bounty. Merchants, accustomed to flurries of activity and the chime of jingle coins, soon found their stalls filled with nothing but echoes of distress. Key goods once overflowing – the finest saffron, aromatic cinnamon, and rich sesame oil – had mysteriously vanished, purchased in bulk by an invisible hand.
The nobles, lounging in their opulent chambers, grew increasingly restless and agitated. Their favored teas, the ones infused with enslaving scents of jasmine and bergamot that they adored to sip leisurely, were nowhere to be found. The exquisite perfumes they drizzled upon themselves like liquid ambition had mysteriously evaporated into thin air. Their oils, those prized essences that affected sensation and allure, lay forgotten in the shadows of empty shelves, while even the rare grains they sought to showcase at lavish feasts slipped away as if swallowed by the earth itself.
The royal kitchens, once buzzing with the rhythmic clatter of pots and the tantalizing aroma of baked delicacies, found themselves hesitating. The saffron that colored their dishes like sunrises? Gone. The exquisite wine jars, vessels of celebration, had seemingly vanished from the cellar, leaving only desolation behind.
In the quiet corners of the kingdom, hushed murmurs began to surface among the common folk. They exchanged anxious glances and speculative whispers:
> "Why is everything missing? Is something amiss?"
"Who has the power to buy it all?"
Meanwhile, Veer, locked away in the dungeon's shadowy confines, imagined the calamity outside with a mixture of disdain and amusement. Left alone to ponder his fate, he was granted a meager meal of two chapattis and some unremarkable vegetables – a sorry feast for a man who once delighted in luxurious banquets.
The following day dawned with a palpable tension, where every interaction seemed tinged with foreboding. In the royal kitchen, a cook, renowned for his nimble fingers, accidentally dropped his wooden spoon and gaped at the empty spice jars that had once overflowed with fragrant treasures. A merchant's apprentice blinked vacantly at an empty storeroom, struggling to comprehend how his bustling world had come to this. Even the palace scribes, diligent record-keepers, discovered that their precious ink had thickened or dried, a silent protest against the scarcity enveloping them.
The attendants who carefully prepared the Queen's morning ritual found the cherished perfumed oil inexplicably absent, replaced only by thick disappointment. The royal physician, tasked with ensuring health, delivered grim news — essential herbs like tulsi, ashwagandha, saffron, and turmeric no longer graced their shelves.
A week had crawled by since Veer's arrest, and the heart of the kingdom beat a stuttering rhythm, as if struggling for breath. The private court of the Sultanate nobles was a cauldron of tension, the air thick with confusion. Perfumed ministers fanned themselves, their frustration evident as they exchanged heated words.
> "What do you mean there's no sesame oil left? How can we prepare for the Grand Feast?"
> "Even the royal bathhouse has resorted to palm oil? What's next, switching to sour milk?"
> "The masons haven't had lime paste in four days! Do they expect us to rebuild the palace with air?"
> "Where's the grain for the bread? Are we to starve in a land of plenty?"
With a resounding thud, a minister struck a palm on the stone table. "This chaos is not mere happenstance. No merchant moves with such precision unless directed from the shadows."
An older, quieter minister leaned in and whispered, "Unless someone had… convinced them. Months before. Silently. With glistening gold."
The room hushed, all heads turning toward one another with a shared realization.
> "The water-seller," someone murmured.
As the rumors of scarcity spread throughout the city, clandestine black market runners appeared overnight, quietly hawking goods that Veer's men had stashed away. But the prices? Outrageous, and painfully inflated. A pouch of cardamom, once affordable, now cost more than a sturdy horse, while silk threads had become rarer than gold itself. The only drink that offered any semblance of comfort in the oppressive heat was Shant Jal, none other than Veer's own concoction.
Remarkably, even though Veer remained confined to his cold stone cell, a strange phenomenon unfolded outside those forgotten walls. His drink began to flourish, spreading through every corner of the city. Vendors scrambled to replicate its enticing flavor, but none could achieve the magic woven into Veer's creation. Crowds lined up outside abandoned stalls, their eyes gleaming with hope, longing for the return of "Veer's men."