The valley of Kiranti lay cloaked in darkness before dawn on November 11th, 239 AB, the air thick with the scent of coming snow. Prince Yalamber sprinted through the palace halls, his heart pounding like a war drum, the scout's words The king has been assassinated cutting through him like a blade. His boots echoed on the stone floor, torchlight flickering across walls carved with ancient mountain kings. The word Betrayer, etched into the shrine months ago, burned in his mind, a haunting echo of his father's warnings. He burst into the courtroom, and his world shattered.
King Balambha's body lay lifeless on the red carpet, his head severed, blood pooling like a dark river across the woven threads. The air reeked of iron and death, the torchlight casting cruel shadows on the king's pale face, his gray eyes empty. Yalamber froze, his breath catching in his throat, his legs buckling. He collapsed to his knees, a raw cry tearing from his chest, the first time he'd wept so fiercely. His body trembled, his hands shaking as he crawled to his father's side, the cold stone biting his knees. He grabbed Balambha's lifeless hand, its weight heavier than any sword, the calloused fingers still warm with fading life. Tears streamed down his face, blurring the blood-stained carpet, his sobs echoing in the silent chamber. Memories flooded him Balambha teaching him to wield a spear, his voice steady during late-night talks of courage, his smile under the valley's stars. Yalamber's chest heaved, his breath ragged, as if the mountains themselves mourned with him.
The Nobles, General Sangpo, Elder Pahang, Bhavik, and Nabin stood in a solemn circle, their eyes glistening with tears, but none dared approach. Sangpo's scarred face was stoic, his fists clenched, holding back his own grief. Elder Pahang leaned on his staff, his head bowed, his white beard trembling. Lhakar stood by a pillar, his face hard, his hand gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles whitened, as if rage and sorrow battled within him. Nabin stood too still, his usual calm smile gone, his eyes darting to the shadows, his silence louder than the sobs. The crowd grew still, their breaths held, as Yalamber's cries filled the stone chamber, a sound that cut deeper than any war cry.
Outside, the sky roared, a sudden storm breaking over Kiranti. Rain fell in heavy sheets, soaking the cliffs and valleys, lightning cracking like the heavens' fury. Thunder echoed through the Himalayan peaks, as if the mountain spirits themselves mourned their fallen king. The storm was as fierce as the legendary tempests of 209 AB, when Balambha began his campaign and 224 AB, when it ended in blood and division, the skies weeping for the lives lost. Villagers huddled under awnings, whispering that the spirits grieved, their chants rising faintly through the rain, simple Nepali songs to guide the king's soul to the peaks.
Hours earlier, in the dead of night, King Balambha sat on his throne, his gray eyes sharp despite the late hour. Pemba, the diplomat, and Thulung, a wiry Khungri Clan warrior with a scarred face, approached, their steps silent on the red carpet. Balambha's voice was low, heavy with betrayal. "Pemba, I didn't expect this from you."
Pemba laughed, a cold, mocking sound that echoed in the empty courtroom. "There are many things you didn't expect, my king. Twenty years ago, you saved my life in the northern passes. I'm grateful, but you made a mistake I'll be the reason for your death tonight."
Balambha's eyes blazed, but his voice stayed steady, a warrior's calm. "Death? You think I fear it? I've fought my whole life, Pemba through wars, betrayals, storms. If today is my end, it's a necessary evil. It will light a fire in my son, make him the king I couldn't be."
Pemba's smile widened, his eyes gleaming like a predator's. "Your son, yes a wise boy. And the reason for the chaos you caused fifteen years ago."
Balambha's face hardened, anger flaring in his chest. "How do you know about that? Who told you?" His voice rose, shaking the stillness.
Pemba leaned closer, his laughter sharp. "Who told me? No one needed to. I was the reason for it. You think the kingdom stayed silent after your actions ?"
Balambha's breath caught, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What did you say? You caused it?" He surged from the throne, rage in his eyes, his fist raised. "I saved your life, Pemba!" As he charged, Thulung moved like a shadow, his sword flashing in the torchlight. The blade sliced Balambha's neck, blood spraying across the carpet, staining the throne. The king staggered, his eyes wide, his final breath a gasp as he fell, his body crumpling to the floor.
Thulung smirked, wiping his sword with a cloth, his scarred face cold. "This is the outcome of your work."
Pemba nodded, his voice calm, almost regretful. "Let's get out of here. We need to tell the king." They slipped into the night, leaving the throne room silent but for the drip of blood.
Yalamber's tears slowed, his throat raw, his voice a broken whisper. "Traitor." The word was lost in the storm's roar, unheard by the nobles. He clutched his father's hand tighter, blood staining his fingers, his chest heaving with each sob. He saw Balambha's face in his mind laughing by a campfire, teaching him to read the stars, warning him of the traitor within. "Traitor," he whispered again, his voice hardening, the grief turning to fire. He stood, his eyes blazing with hatred and pain, his body trembling but unbowed. "Who is the traitor?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the courtroom, sharp as a spear, cutting through the storm's din. The nobles froze, their faces pale, seeing a new side of the prince raw, angry, a king in the making.
Bhavik, his tutor, stepped forward, his weathered face lined with sorrow, his hands trembling. "Prince, it's Pemba and Thulung of the Khungri Clan. A guard saw them enter the courtroom last night, claiming a secret meeting with the king. They told him to leave, and now… this."
Yalamber's fists clenched, his face a mask of rage, his tears still wet on his cheeks. "How do you know?" he demanded, his voice shaking with fury, his eyes boring into Bhavik's.
Bhavik's voice wavered, his eyes fixed on the blood-stained carpet. "The guard overheard them, Prince. They were here late, acting strange, whispering of plans. They sent him away, said it was the king's orders. And now your father lies dead." His words hung heavy, the storm's thunder punctuating the silence.
Lhakar's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp as he stepped forward. "Pemba and Thulung? They've been too quiet, always slipping away. They're with the Chyarung now, I'd wager." He glared at Nabin, whose calm had vanished, his hands twitching nervously. "What about you, Nabin? You're always watching, never speaking."
Nabin shook his head, his voice steady but strained. "Accuse me if you must, Lhakar, but I'm here, grieving with you. Find proof before you point fingers." The tension was a blade's edge, the storm outside roaring louder, lightning flashing through the high windows, illuminating the blood on the floor.
Yalamber's mind spun, his heart a storm of grief and rage. Pemba and Thulung traitors who'd struck his father down.
The nobles dispersed as the rain pounded the palace, leaving Yalamber alone with his father's body. He knelt again, his tears mixing with the water leaking through the roof, his fingers tracing Balambha's hand. "You fought for this land," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'll find them, Father. I'll make them pay." His grief hardened into resolve, a fire kindled by loss, just as Balambha had foreseen.
Outside, villagers gathered under the storm, lighting yak butter lamps that flickered against the rain. Their simple Nepali chants rose, mournful songs to guide the king's soul to the peaks, their voices blending with the wind. Yalamber stood among them, his cloak soaked, his heart heavy but unyielding. The storm raged, but he faced it, his voice steady. "For Father. For Kiranti."