The evening sun of Surya-dhvaj Maharajyam bled gold across the ramparts of Rajagiri, the hill-fortress of Prince Devraj Varma, eldest son of the Chakravarthy. Below him stretched his dominion—Varmpura, the first and eldest of the seven realms of the empire, a land of endless rice plains and sandalwood forests. Peacocks cried in the courtyards as the last drums of the day temple thundered across the valley.
Devraj stood by the balcony of his marble pavilion, hands clasped behind his back. His armor was laid aside; his royal robes of indigo and gold swayed gently in the monsoon wind. He was a man of forty, broad-shouldered, bearded, his eyes bearing the calm patience of one who had fought wars and learned to fear peace more.
Behind him, laughter echoed—his children's laughter.
His daughter Vaidehi, sixteen, sword in hand, sparring with her younger brother Aaryan, who was barely twelve. The boy swung with enthusiasm and missed, tripping over his own feet, while Vaidehi chuckled and tapped his shoulder with her wooden blade.
"Too slow," she teased.
"Too tall," he snapped back, getting up again.
Devraj turned, smiling faintly. "If only you two could guard me from courtly politics as well as you play at sword and stick," he said, his tone warm but heavy.
"Politics?" Aaryan asked. "That sounds boring."
"It's far deadlier than any sword, my son," Devraj said quietly, turning again toward the dying sun.
At that moment, a conch horn sounded at the palace gate.
A servant hurried in, bowing low. "Maharaj, a messenger of the Mahāsabhā has arrived. He seeks audience, urgent and private."
Devraj's brow furrowed. "The Mahāsabhā?"
The servant nodded. "A senior member, Maharaj. He bears the seal of the Chakravarthy himself."
The prince sighed, motioned for his sword-belt to be brought, and dismissed the children. "Go on, Vaidehi, take your brother. Train him not to lose his footing—he'll need that skill more than he knows."
Moments later, Devraj sat in the Hall of Echoes—a chamber of stone columns carved with scenes of his ancestors' conquests. The air was thick with incense, the low hum of the evening aarti still faint in the distance.
The messenger entered—a lean, silver-haired man wrapped in white silks, the golden thread of the Mahāsabhā visible on his shoulder. His name was Rishyasena, one of the council's oldest scholars, known for advising kings and cutting down princes with nothing but words.
He bowed low. "Prince Devraj Varma, Yuvraj of Varmpura and heir of the Seven Realms. May the blessings of Surya be upon you."
Devraj inclined his head. "Rise, Rishyasena. You don't ride all the way from Mahendrapur to offer blessings. Speak your mind."
The old man's eyes flickered, cautious. "Then I shall. The winds from the capital carry troubling whispers, my lord."
Devraj folded his arms. "Whispers? Of what kind?"
"The kind that travel faster than truth," Rishyasena said grimly. "His Imperial Majesty, the Chakravarthy, grows weaker by the day. The court physicians say the fever will not break. And so the Sabha trembles. Already the vassal princes have begun sending gifts and spies to the capital."
Devraj's face hardened, though his voice remained steady. "He is not dead yet."
"Not yet," Rishyasena admitted. "But you know how the empire moves—when the tiger limps, the jackals circle."
A silence hung between them.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the eastern hills. The monsoon was coming, and with it—change.
Rishyasena leaned closer. "There are rumors, my lord. That the throne may not go to you."
Devraj turned his gaze sharply toward him. "By what law or dharma?"
The old man hesitated. "None that are written. But there are those who whisper your father has... concerns. That perhaps the empire should not fall to a warrior who seeks peace. That others—your brothers, your sisters' husbands—have made stronger claims in secret."
Devraj said nothing for a long while. His jaw tightened. The candlelight flickered on the engraved blade of his sword—his father's old blade, Vajra-Sena, gifted to him after the conquest of the southern isles.
At last, he said, "Let the whispers come. A throne is not claimed by the loudest tongue, Rishyasena. It is claimed by the strongest hand."
The old scholar nodded slowly, watching him with wary eyes. "Perhaps. But remember, Prince Devraj—the Mahāsabhā chooses sides not in battlefields, but in silence. When the Chakravarthy's flame fades, those silences will decide the next dawn."
He turned to leave but paused at the doorway. "You were always your father's pride, Devraj. But pride, like fire, can burn the house it warms."
Devraj stood still as the man departed, the sound of his sandals fading into the marble corridors. Outside, rain began to fall—softly at first, then in torrents—drumming upon the palace roofs like war drums.
In that downpour, Devraj whispered to himself:
"So it begins."