The great hall smelled of wax and old incense. Torches guttered along the stone pillars, throwing long, uneasy shadows. Ministers clustered in small knots beneath vaulted arches, their voices low and urgent. The air tasted of worry and of alliances held together with thin thread.
Satya stepped into that fevered quiet like a stone dropped into still water. Conversations faltered; heads turned. For a long, suspended heartbeat the hall seemed to hold its breath.
He walked to the throne with long, patient strides and sat. Ceremonial silk folded heavy and unfamiliar about his shoulders, but his eyes were steady. He scanned the assembly, cataloguing faces and measuring loyalties. What had looked like decoration a moment before revealed itself as evidence: the stiff bow of a steward; the restless footwork of a general; the faint ink stain on a scribe's sleeve.
An older minister — hawk-faced, silver at the temples, practiced in flattery — came forward. He spoke with the polished smoothness of a man who had soothed kings and storms alike.
"Long live Your Majesty," he intoned. "We are grateful for your recovery. After the attack, your condition—" He broke off, searching for the shape of concern.
Satya rose with the deliberate calm of someone who had learned restraint until it snapped. He crossed the floor and stood so near the minister that the man could feel the chill of his resolve.
"So," Satya said softly, then louder so every ear in the hall could hear, "what have you done about those attackers?"
The minister blinked, thrown. "We have no firm leads yet, sire. We are searching."
Satya's fingers closed on the man's collar as if it were a loose ribbon. In one fluid motion he hauled him forward and slammed him to the stone. A sick hush fell; the impact echoed off the pillars.
"You sit cushioned in this hall and tell me you are still searching?" Satya's voice was cold as steel. "The life of your king was on the line, and you sit here calm as a monk. Explain that to me."
The minister's practiced composure shattered. His voice trembled with a smallness the courtiers had never heard from him. Around the hall, mouths opened. For years Brihadratha had been remembered as gentle and pliant, a sovereign ministers could steer. Now there was a dangerous light in his eyes that unmade every assumption in the room.
Satya released him and stepped back. The minister scrambled up, more bruised in pride than body, rubbing his shoulder as if that might restore dignity.
"You will find them," Satya said, his tone level. "Or you will answer to me. Gather your men tonight. Send scouts to the river lane, the outer villages, the market quarter. I want names, routes, anything. If you fail—"
He left the threat unfinished, a blade hanging in silence.
Then, turning to the assembly, he made the proclamation that sharpened the room into attention.
"Tomorrow, before the people," he said, "I will address the realm. What has gone wrong in this country ends now. I will set it right."
Murmurs rose, some faces creased with fear, others with a cautious, surprising hope. Satya sank back on the throne, but he did not look like a man content to be sat upon. He looked like a man prepared to move the empire with him or break what refused to follow.
Outside, rain lashed the palace windows. Inside, under the court's charged hush, the first true crack in an old order widened.