Sumedha inclined her head slightly, as if she was acknowledging not just her husband, but the entire assembly.
"Maharaj," she began, "we have a great amount of wealth lying idle in our treasury. Gold that sleeps is gold that dies. Why not make it breathe?"
Some ministers exchanged glances, already curious.
Sumedha continued without hesitation.
"Instead of keeping it unused, we can give it as loans to merchants who hold citizenship in our kingdom," she said. "At low interest rates."
The words made several ministers blink in surprise.
Loan?
From the treasury?
Sumedha's voice remained steady.
"The interest rate can depend on the tax they are already paying," she added. "The higher their tax contribution, the higher the loan limit they may receive. This will encourage honesty, reward loyalty, and increase trade without forcing us to squeeze common citizens."
Karna's brows lifted slightly. The idea was simple, yet clever.
Sumedha's eyes swept across the court, as if she was teaching them without sounding like she was teaching. "And Maharaj, it is time we move beyond our current trade habits. We have been importing grains from allies and exporting mostly seafood. Magadha is our biggest ally. They import most of our seafood and luxury goods, especially pearls, because they have no access to the ocean. But we must think beyond what Magadha lacks. Magadha is vast, and its demand is enormous. Their merchants are many. Their markets are always hungry."
The ministers leaned forward slightly now.
Sumedha spoke as if she could already see trade routes drawn on the air.
"We have forests. We can export high-quality sandalwood. Or better, we can export finished furniture. Crafted, carved, polished. Not raw wood, but value."
A few ministers nodded instinctively.
Sumedha continued, "We can sell iron ore. We can sell cotton."
Karna remained silent, but his eyes sharpened, listening closely.
"And for Mathura," Sumedha said, "apart from seafood, spices, and pearls, we can sell gemstones. The people of Mathura love jewelry with gemstones more than any other kingdom. Their nobles will pay gladly. We can also export cotton and silk there."
The court stayed quiet, but now it was not the silence of tension.
It was the silence of interest.
Sumedha then continued, her voice calm but unwavering.
"And for Kashi," she said, "their people use boats more than any kingdom. We can sell strong timber. We can also export sandalwood for their temples."
At that, several ministers murmured faintly, impressed despite themselves.
Sumedha's eyes returned to Karna.
"And when Maharaj visits Hastinapura soon," she said, "you have to form a treaty of friendship but not a military alliance so that we can trade with the Kuru. It is not just Kuru… there is also Panchala… If we can form treaties with Panchal and Kuru, we can become the middleman between the north and the south. We already have strong relations with two of the wealthiest kingdoms in the northern region. If we gain trade access to Kuru markets, we can import southern goods and export them northward through our ports."
Her lips curved slightly, not in pride, but in certainty.
"And vice versa," she added.
Then she said the final line, the one that truly shifted the court's mood.
"And Maharaj," Sumedha said, "let us delay the Sarvadevalaya project for three more years. By then, our wealth will increase naturally, and our current construction projects will also be completed."
For a moment, the court stayed frozen.
Then the ministers exchanged glances.
A delay?
Three years?
They should have been disappointed. Yet many of them felt relief settle into their bones like warm oil. No strain. No panic. No drought fear. No desperate need for taxes. No risk.
Karna did not speak immediately.
He sat quietly, his gaze lowered as if weighing her words in his palm like coins. He knew his strengths. Dharma, war, discipline, and justice. Those were his weapons.
But trade?
Finance?
The flow of wealth?
That was not his battlefield.
He had always relied on others when he stepped into this territory. And whenever Sumedha spoke, her words carried a strange pattern of foresight.
She had been the one who encouraged the girls' school in Kanipura.
She had been the one who advised him to turn women warriors into spies.
She had been the one who pushed for trade expansion when other ministers only thought of armies.
And time after time, her ideas had turned into results.
Even the ministers knew it.
That was why not a single one dared to argue.
Instead, one after another, they simply nodded in agreement, as if the decision had already been written by fate.
Karna finally raised his gaze.
His expression softened slightly.
Then he nodded.
"Alright," Karna said. "If everyone agrees, then we will proceed as Rani Sumedha has advised."
Sumedha bowed her head calmly and returned to her seat, as if she had merely stated something obvious.
Karna leaned forward slightly, his voice becoming firm again, returning to the rhythm of a ruler who had regained his path.
"Now," he said, "to the next objective…"
*
Hastinapura, Kuru Kingdom;
Far away from Kanipura's peaceful courts and quiet reforms, Hastinapura breathed in a different air.
The great palace of the Kurus stood like an ancient beast, unmoving, watching over the kingdom with stone eyes and gold-covered walls. The throne hall, circular and vast, carried the smell of incense and old power. Its pillars rose high like tree trunks carved by gods, and the ceiling above was painted with faded scenes of past victories.
The court was not full today.
No ministers argued over taxes.
No scholars debated philosophy.
No merchants waited with folded hands.
Only the true pillars of Hastinapura sat present, arranged on their raised platforms like pieces on a chessboard.
Mahamahim Bhishma sat with his usual stern stillness, his gaze sharp enough to cut even silence.
Vidura sat in his seat, calm and thoughtful, his eyes holding the quiet sadness of a man who had seen too much adharma grow inside royal blood.
Shakuni, the King of Gandhara, sat with a relaxed posture, almost casual, as if the court was merely a place to pass time. His smile was faint, but it never reached his eyes.
At the head of all of it sat Dhritarashtra, the blind king, his hands resting on the arms of the throne, his head slightly tilted as if he could hear the very heartbeat of Hastinapura.
The hall's massive doors opened.
The door guard's voice rang out, formal and loud.
"The son of Sage Bharadwaja… the disciple of Parashurama… the great Brahman-warrior… Guru Dronacharya arrives!"
The sound echoed across the hall like a proclamation of fate.
A moment later, Drona entered.
He walked with measured steps, his shoulders straight, his head held high. His white robes were simple, but the aura around him was not.
There was something about him that made even kings unconsciously sit straighter. He was not merely a teacher. He was a man forged by hunger, discipline, and ambition. His eyes were calm, but behind them lay a storm of pride that had never truly settled.
A few guards followed behind him, but they were only shadows beside his presence.
Drona reached the center of the hall and stopped.
He folded his hands and bowed slightly.
"Bharadwaja's son, Drona," he announced, voice firm and respectful, "greets the King of Hastinapura."
Dhritarashtra's lips curved into a smile. "Acharya," he said warmly, "from your voice alone, I can tell that the preparations have been completed."
Drona's face remained composed, but there was satisfaction in his eyes.
"Yes, Maharaj," he replied. "The arrangements are ready. My one hundred and five disciples… your one hundred and five princes… are prepared to display the results of their training to the people of Hastinapura."
Dhritarashtra's smile deepened. He slowly nodded, as if tasting the words like sweet fruit.
"I have been waiting for this day for the past decade," he said.
His hands tightened slightly on the armrest of the throne.
Then his voice grew heavier, filled with pride. "With Mahamahim Bhishma and a great warrior like you supporting Hastinapura like pillars, we have remained safe. And now, with one hundred and five more pillars supporting our roof, our people will rejoice."
He lifted his chin, as if the blind king could see the future painted before him.
"Hastinapura's future," he declared, "will only be bright."
Bhishma remained silent, but Vidura's eyes flickered slightly, as if he felt something uneasy beneath the king's confidence.
Shakuni, however, smiled.
And that smile grew wider as he stood up slowly, his silk robes shifting like snake skin.
"Maharaj," Shakuni said smoothly, "what you said is indeed true."
Dhritarashtra turned his head slightly toward Shakuni's voice.
"But…" Shakuni continued, drawing out the word like a man pulling a dagger slowly from its sheath, "I have a proposal."
Bhishma's eyes narrowed instantly.
Vidura's gaze sharpened, too.
Dhritarashtra seemed pleased.
"A proposal?" the king asked. "Speak, Shakuni."