The valley of Kiranti lay heavy with grief on November 14th, 239 AB, the sky gray and heavy, as if the mountains mourned in silence. King Balambha (184 AB–239 AB) was laid to rest in a high meadow above the palace, where the cliffs touched the clouds. Villagers and nobles gathered, their faces etched with sorrow, their eyes red from sleepless tears. A pyre of cedar and pine stood ready, draped with white prayer flags fluttering in the chill wind, each knot tied with whispered chants to guide the king's soul to the eternal peaks. Yalamber stood at the pyre's edge, his cloak damp with mist, his hands trembling as he placed a yak butter lamp among the branches, its flame flickering like a fading hope. Priests chanted low Nepali hymns, their voices weaving through the fog, calling the mountain spirits to honor Balambha, the warrior king who fought through the wars of 209 to 224 AB, a time of blood and division that scarred the land. As the flames rose, consuming the king's body, Yalamber's heart twisted, his father's face stern yet warm burning in his mind. Smoke curled toward the heavens, and the valley wept.
Grief cloaked Kiranti like a heavy fog. Villages stood silent, their markets empty, the air missing the hum of barter and chatter. Children huddled close to their mothers, their eyes wide with questions no one could answer, while elders burned juniper incense at small altars, their prayers soft and mournful. As per ancient custom, the kingdom fasted for three days, a solemn farewell to the late king. Families sat in darkened homes, their plates untouched, their voices hushed as they offered silent prayers to the spirits. Women wove prayer shawls, their fingers steady despite their tears, while men carved wooden totems for the peaks, each act a tribute to Balambha's reign. Yalamber joined the fast, his stomach hollow, his grief heavier than any hunger, his thoughts dark with the memory of his father's blood-soaked body on the courtroom floor.
Far from Kiranti, in a hidden camp nestled in the Black Ridge's shadows, Dorje, leader of the Chyarung, raised a horn of fermented mare's milk, his laugh booming through the firelit night. Eulge, the burly Wada Clan chief, grinned beside him, his axe propped against a rock, glinting in the flames. Enma, the sharp-eyed female strategist, poured more drink, her smile sly and calculating, her braid swaying as she leaned forward. Pemba, the diplomat, and Thulung, the scarred Khungri warrior, sat close, their faces smug with triumph. "To Balambha's end!" Dorje toasted, his voice thick with scorn. "The old king is gone, and Kiranti is ours for the taking." Enma's eyes gleamed, her voice low. "Their prince is a boy, untested. The throne will fall like dry leaves." Pemba nodded, his expression cold. "We've broken their heart. The rest is ours." Thulung sharpened his knife, his smirk sharp as its edge. "Victory is already won." They clinked horns, their laughter echoing over the ridge, blind to the distant thunder rolling closer a sign of something vast and unexpected stirring in the shadows, a force they could not yet see. The wind howled, carrying a warning they ignored.
Days passed, and Kiranti's royal courtroom stood in chaos, its stone walls cold, its banners sagging like broken spirits. Without a king, the nobles argued, their voices sharp with fear and doubt. Who would lead against the Chyarung-Eulge-Wada alliance? Who could hold the clans together? Yalamber sat at the council table, his face colder than the November frost, his eyes distant, as if his heart had turned to stone. General Sangpo, Elder Pahang, Bhavik, and Nabin watched him, their silence heavy with uncertainty, the air thick with unspoken questions.
Bhavik broke the quiet, his voice rough with grief and anger. "That Pemba we gave him life, and he betrayed us." His hands clenched, his weathered face tight with the sting of betrayal.
Lhakar leaned forward, his sword clinking against his belt, his eyes narrow with suspicion. "What do you mean?" His voice was sharp, his patience worn thin, his hand resting on his hilt as if ready to act.
Bhavik's gaze fell to the table, his voice low and heavy. "Twenty years ago, our soldiers found Pemba near Sunauli Fort in the west, half-dead, bloodied by wounds from some far western kingdom's soldiers a land of vast steppes, they say, where horsemen rule. He claimed he didn't remember why they hunted him, only that he fled. He was wise, with a vision for peace, so we took him in. Who could've expected he was plotting against us all along?"
Sangpo's fists tightened, his scarred face grim. "We nursed a traitor, and he struck at our heart." Nabin sat silent, his eyes flickering to Yalamber, his calm mask hiding thoughts no one could pierce. Lhakar's glare lingered on Nabin, his suspicion sharp but unspoken, a tension carried from months past.
Yalamber listened, his face unreadable, his heart colder since his father's death. The Betrayer carving, Bhavik's accusation of Pemba and Thulung it fueled a growing fire within him, but he said nothing, his silence a wall. He stood, his voice flat and final. "Enough. The meeting's over." The nobles hesitated, their eyes lingering on the young prince, then left, their footsteps echoing in the hollow chamber.
That evening, Bhavik found Yalamber in his room, the prince standing by a window, staring at the snow-dusted peaks, his breath fogging the glass. The room was dim, lit by a single yak butter lamp, its flame casting shadows on the stone walls carved with faded runes. "Prince," Bhavik said, his voice gentle but firm, "the tension is high, the burden heavier than these mountains. Morale is breaking. In one week, it's your eighteenth birthday. You'll be crowned king, carrying the weight your father bore his whole life. You must be strong, ready for the obstacles not silent."
Yalamber turned, his eyes cold, his voice steady but laced with a new edge, sharp as ice. "I finally understand."
Bhavik's brow furrowed, his hands clasped tightly, his voice cautious. "What did you understand, Prince?"
Yalamber's gaze hardened, his face a mask of resolve, his voice low and chilling. "I finally understand what this world is about, teacher. It's larger than I ever imagined. I was a fool my whole life, thinking I knew everything war, loyalty, honor trapped in a cage of my own mind, believing I could grasp it all. I was a small boy, dreaming of wisdom, but now I see the truth." He paused, his eyes burning with a fire Bhavik had never seen, a cold, unyielding flame. "Revenge, pain, suffering, betrayal that's what everyone endures. That's what I endure, what you endure. So I'll make them suffer Pemba, Thulung, all who took my father."
Bhavik's eyes widened, his breath catching at the change in Yalamber. The prince's face was a storm of hatred and vengeance, his voice cold as the peaks outside, his words a vow etched in blood. The lamp flickered, casting his shadow long and dark, a king forged in grief and fire, ready to burn those who betrayed him.