Taking deliberate steps across the cold stone floor, Veer felt the eyes of every courtier upon him, now cemented in disbelief.
He turned his focus to the very ministers who had once ridiculed his existence just weeks prior.
> "If I am to serve this kingdom, it will be on my terms. I want influence," he declared, each word dripping with intent.
> "First, no taxes on any of my products, ever," he asserted, voice steady.
> "Secondly, I choose my selling locations, including those right at the palace gates."
Gasps rippled through the assembly, disbelief painting their faces.
> "Furthermore, I demand open trade routes to Malwa, unobstructed."
The shock only deepened, echoes of murmurs swirling in the air.
> "And finally, I wish for a royal endorsement, signed by your own hand, declaring Shant Jal the official beverage of Varnal."
The Sultan's eyes narrowed, incredulity sprawled across his features.
> "You dare to ask for me to kneel?" he interrogated, his voice strained.
Veer's reply was calm, almost serene. "No, Your Majesty. Just drink."
With a fluid motion, he stepped forth, and a loyal servant, the last vestige of companionship in his corner, revealed a silk-wrapped jug. Carefully, Veer poured a cup of the revered Shant Jal, steam curling enticingly from its copper rim. The captivating aroma enveloped the court, intoxicating — rose, sandalwood, mint, honey, and something indefinable and alluring…
He extended the cup toward the Sultan with a steady hand, his gaze unwavering. The Sultan stalled, racked with uncertainty, before finally accepting the offering.
He raised the cup to his lips and drank.
Silence descended, heavy and profound, wrapping around the room like a tightly wound band. Then, a deep breath escaped the Sultan — a release, akin to that sweet relief found after a fever breaks.
As he leaned back into the cushions of his throne, eyes fluttering closed, the tension in his limbs faded.
> "You win," he murmured, weariness threading his voice.
> "Not just yet, my Sultan," Veer replied, a gleam of triumph flickering in his eyes. "But soon."
As Veer strode out of the court, unshackled and unharmed, his terms accepted without further contest, the guards didn't escort him; instead, they found themselves trailing him, intrigued.
Servants bowed their heads respectfully, and ministers, once bastions of authority, averted their gazes, humiliated by their underestimation of the water seller.
From a shadowed balcony above, a figure observed the scene unfold with a faint smile, a woman clad in an exquisite black veil. She was enigmatic yet familiar, the one who had once whispered the brutal realities of war into Veer's ear.
Now, she murmured quietly to herself, a spark of amusement lighting her expression:
> "So this is how wars are won."
Royal Court — Three Days After Veer's Release**
In the opulent heart of the royal court, a private audience chamber stood apart from the usual hustle and bustle, where courtiers exchanged whispered schemes and guards stood watch with purpose. This day, however, it was just Veer, the Sultan, a single diligent scribe, and the intoxicating aroma of sandalwood incense wafting softly through the air, casting a calming aura over the tense proceedings. The chamber, draped in rich tapestries and adorned with intricate carvings, was a world unto itself — a space where the weight of history and the pulse of power intertwined.
Sunlight, warm and golden, streamed through the delicate jali windows, creating a mosaic of light and shadow on the polished blackwood table. Spread before them was a long scroll of parchment, its surfaces already penned with the pivotal details of a preliminary agreement. The arrangement spoke of trade expansion, fortified routes for merchant caravans, and the full endorsement of Shant Jal, the exquisite royal beverage of Varnal, as the drink of choice for both commoners and nobles alike.
But Veer's gaze was not drawn to the impressive scroll and its lavish declarations. Instead, his intense eyes were fixed on the Sultan, whose regal posture emanated both authority and contemplation. However, the expression on Veer's face was anything but jubilant — there were no smiles here, only the resolute calm of a man who understood the stakes involved.
With a calm intensity, Veer spoke, his voice low but firm, filling the space with a weighty insistence, "I need one more clause. One that cannot be broken by swords or by sons."
The Sultan leaned back in his ornate chair, his brow furrowing deeply as he absorbed Veer's words. A hint of incredulity flickered in his dark eyes.
"What more do you want?" he replied, his tone laced with both bewilderment and the tinge of impatience. "You already walk free, your rivals now bow before you, and your drink flows in every cup across this kingdom."
Veer's response was resolute and sharp. "A drink can be poisoned, Sultan. A merchant can be hanged in a moment of betrayal. And a mere whisper can unravel a legacy built over generations."
The Sultan's jaw tightened at Veer's pointed insights, his expression darkening.
Veer pressed forward, his determination igniting the air around him. "I want protection. Permanent. Not just for today but for decades to come."
He stepped closer, placing a sealed scroll directly before the king — an unwavering declaration wrought by the most skilled scribes of Malwa, each word meticulously chosen for its importance.
"You, and every descendant of your bloodline, shall never wage war, raise arms, or conspire against me, my descendants, my merchants, or the lands of Malwa," he declared, every syllable ringing with gravitas. "Nor shall you permit foreign powers to invoke your name in hostility toward us."
He paused, letting the profound weight of his words settle in the air. "In return, your kingdom shall drink deeply from the cup of peace. And reap the rewards of prosperity."
Silence enveloped the room, a stillness laden with the gravity of this monumental moment. The king, visibly taken aback, continued to stare at Veer, processing the implications of such a demand.
"That's more than a trade pact," the Sultan murmured, realization dawning upon him. "That's… a binding oath."
Veer met his gaze steadily. "Call it whatever you wish," he replied, a subtle smile creeping onto his lips, "but it will certainly outlive both of us."