The first rays of the sun spilled over the horizon like molten gold, bathing the city of Vaishali in warm light. From the highest towers to the narrowest lanes, everything shimmered—rooftops, banners, stone paths polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. It was a city that looked as if it had learned how to smile.
Vaishali, the capital of the kingdom of Vraj, stood at the peak of its glory.
Merchants lifted wooden shutters from their shops as laughter drifted through the streets. The scent of fresh bread and sweet herbs mixed with the cool morning air. Vendors arranged fruits in neat piles, their colors bright enough to catch the eye from a distance. Housewives leaned from open windows, exchanging greetings and gossip, while children darted between carts and stalls, their bare feet slapping against the stone roads.
Peace lived here. Prosperity thrived here.
Or so it seemed.
A little away from the crowded markets, the rhythm of the city changed.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The ground trembled under the synchronized march of soldiers. Spears struck the earth in unison, producing a sound that was firm, disciplined, and unforgiving. These were not the noises of celebration, but of order—of strength that had guarded the kingdom through generations.
At the front of the marching regiment walked a young man whose steps matched the rhythm perfectly, as if the beat had been carved into his soul. He was forged in decipline to protect this Kingdom.
Commander Agastya.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a quiet confidence that did not demand attention, yet drew it naturally. His armor caught the sunlight, but his eyes remained focused ahead—sharp, calm, and observant. Though young, he was already one of the Twelve Commanders of Vraj, a title earned not through birth, but through undeniable skill.
He raised his hand.
"Halt."
The regiment stopped instantly. Spears struck the ground one final time, echoing like a closing drumbeat.
"At ease," Agastya commanded."
The soldiers relaxed, though their discipline remained intact. They bowed their heads toward him, respect evident in their movements.
"Today's training is complete," he said. "Return to your posts."
As the soldiers dispersed, a firm hand landed on Agastya's shoulder.
"Well done," a deep voice said, warm and approving.
Agastya turned and smiled. "Uncle."
The man standing behind him was Commander Varuna, one of the Twelve—and among the most powerful. His presence was commanding even without armor. Time had streaked his hair with silver, but his posture was straight, his gaze sharp. This was the man who had adopted Agastya fifteen years ago, when the boy was only seven. The man who had trained him. The man who had shaped him into a weapon worthy of the kingdom.
"You lead them well," Varuna continued, his hand still resting on Agastya's shoulder. "The soldiers trust you."
Agastya nodded. "They trust the discipline you taught me."
Varuna smiled, but his eyes lingered on the marching soldiers longer than necessary. There was something in that gaze—something calculating.
"Discipline," Varuna repeated softly. "Is what keeps kingdoms alive."
He leaned closer. "You should prepare yourself. There will be an announcement today."
Agastya's brows furrowed. "An announcement?"
"The Contest of Commanders," Varuna said. "The hierarchy of the Twelve will be rearranged. Strength, strategy, leadership—everything will be tested."
Agastya straightened. Such contests were rare. Dangerous. Careers were built—and destroyed—within them.
"Opportunity favors the capable," Varuna added, finally removing his hand. "And you are very capable."
Agastya felt pride rise in his chest. He did not notice the faint tightening of Varuna's fingers before they withdrew, nor the quiet hunger that flickered behind the older man's eyes.
"I will do my best,"Agastya said.
Varuna smiled again. "I expect nothing less."
Leaving the outpost, Agastya walked toward the heart of the city. The noise of the regiment faded, replaced by the lively sounds of Vaishali awakening fully to the day.
"Commander Agastya!"
A group of children ran toward him, their faces lighting up as if they had seen a hero from a storybook. One of them tugged at his cloak.
"Did you defeat a hundred warriors yesterday?" a boy asked, eyes wide.
Agastya laughed. "Only in your imagination."
The children giggled, surrounding him until a shopkeeper scolded them gently and shooed them away. Agastya waved as they ran off, already inventing new tales about him.
A few steps ahead, an elderly woman struggled to lift a heavy basket of goods. Without hesitation, Agastya stepped forward.
"Allow me," he said.
She looked up, startled, then smiled when she recognized him. "You are too kind, Commander."
He lifted the basket easily and placed it on her cart. "Take care," he said.
"And may the gods protect you," she replied, pressing her palms together.
As Agastya continued walking, he felt a quiet warmth settle in his chest. This was the Vaishali he loved—not the stone walls or banners, but the people. Their trust. Their peace.
Ahead, the fortress rose above the city like an unyielding sentinel. Its gates stood open, guarded by soldiers who straightened at Agastya's approach. A few exchanged teasing glances, smirking.
"Careful," one muttered. "Soon you might outrank us all."
Agastya smiled but said nothing as he entered the inner grounds.
The lawn was vast and immaculately kept, fountains glistening in the sunlight. That was when he saw him.
Commander Siddhartha stood near the colonnade, arms crossed, his expression carved from disdain. Older than Agastya, sharper in tongue, Siddhartha had never hidden his resentment. Especially not toward a commander whose origins were unknown.
Agastya slowed, intending to pass without acknowledgment.
"Still walking like you own the place," Siddhartha said loudly. "Must be nice, being favored."
Agastya stopped.
"I have duties to attend," he replied calmly.
Siddhartha stepped closer, his smile thin. "Of course you do. After all, when one doesn't know where he comes from, ambition becomes… necessary."
Agastya's jaw tightened.
"The contest will be interesting," Siddhartha continued. "Rumors say not everyone who enters will remain… visible afterward."
Agastya turned fully now. His eyes met Siddhartha's, steady and unafraid.
"If someone disappears," Agastya said quietly, "it won't be because they were afraid."
Siddhartha scoffed, but Agastya was already walking away.
As the bell of the court rang across the fortress, calling the commanders to gather, Agastya lifted his gaze toward the towering halls ahead.
The city behind him laughed and lived, unaware of the currents shifting beneath its golden surface.
Agastya smiled.
And this time, the smile carried fire.