The battlefield was dense with iron and smoke. In a bruise-colored dawn, Shaurya Jaydev strode through the dead of the Xuanlong Dynasty,
Sun-seared skin with delicate lattice scars, thin slash through his right eyebrow, black rakta-steel armor clashing like chained thunder. Every plate of the scale was inscribed with twisting runes, but what caught every eye was the tattered red sash tied at his left shoulder—constructed from the banner of the first city he had ever captured, worn as a promise never to relent.
In one mailed fist he held Vijranta, a storm-steel sabre whose fuller glowed pale violet, as if lightning lay within the blade. In the other, he drew the General Luo Yan's severed head, lacquer helm broken, braid still dripping. Kesari troops, grime-streaked and trembling, gave a ragged cry. The five-year war was over, but Shaurya felt only the stillness that follows a thunderclap.
Peace, he thought, is just the interlude between swords.
Ten days later, the Hall of a Hundred Pillars was afire with lamplight. At its far end stood the Lion-Throne—dark silver carved in a snarling face, gold veins glowing with every flame. Maharajadhiraja Suryapratap Kesari, a tall, silver-streaked beard adorning his chin, sat enthroned upon it, his eyes like the obsidian of his kingdom. His own attire, dignified but not showy, was a dark umber silk angarakha and a gray‑sided velvet cloak held together by a single ruby pin. Unusual in him was the thin, sun‑shaped scar on the left side of his cheek—acquired in his first duel and never concealed.
Shaurya knelt, stray moon‑white hairs escaping his topknot. Ministers talked of the "War‑God," but he caught only the faintest whiff of sandalwood oil drifting from the throne.
"Kesari Samrajya remains unbroken," Suryapratap declared, voice echoing off marble. "In seven nights we hold a Banquet of Repose to honor our shield and sabre—Field‑Marshal Shaurya Jaydev."
Applause boomed. Shaurya bowed lower, battle senses on edge. Suvarnagar's banquets were less feast than chessboard.
That evening, Shaurya retreated from the torch-lit boulevards to the new palace bestowed upon him—a spacious terraced palace of pale sandstone overlooking moon-glittered Lake Aranyani. Lanterns dangled from silver beams constructed of teak; fountains whispered over lotus ponds. Too much refinement for a man who had slept under frayed campaign tents.
Within, silent attendants led him to a private room. There, upon a low rosewood couch, lay his single child.
Sneha Raj slept softly spent, black hair scattered over a linen pillow. Beside her was nestled a swaddled baby—tight fists curled like lotus flowers. Lamplight marked the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Rishi.
Arun Raj, Sneha's husband, sat at the bedside still attired in the simple white kurta of a village physician. He rose, dipping his head deferentially to the general rather than curtsying.
"Father-in-law," he spoke softly. "They said you'd come back. I kept them awake as long as I could."
Shaurya's battle-hardened face softened. He removed his gauntlets, putting them down carefully on a lacquered box. The reddish gem of Vijranta's hilt sparkled in his eyes before he set aside the weapon.
He knelt, trembling fingers after all those years, and rubbed a thumb over the downy fluff of his grandson's hair. The child stirred but did not cry.
"A name smelted of hope," Arun breathed. "Rishi: the seeker."
Sneha, half asleep, opened her eyes and tried to smile. "Father… is the war really over?"
Shaurya looked at his daughter—the last bright shard of a life the battlefield had not devoured—and gritted out a soft reply. "The battle is finished," he said to her. But wars have long shadows, he did not add.
Beyond the palace windows, the musicians began tuning lutes for some distant noble's midnight party. Shaurya felt every twang of string like the point of an omen's arrow.
In seven nights, the Banquet of Rest would celebrate an end to the shedding of blood. But already the stench of intrigue seeped behind marble doors. Politics—of this, he had little taste, but the sword of politics was bound to cut deeper than any sabre.
Sneha drifted off to sleep once more. Shaurya leaned forward over the sleeping baby. In a low voice he swore a soldier's vow:
"May the spirits guard you from war, little seeker. And if they cannot—make you stronger than any who resist you."
Far above the palace, beyond the sight in the velvet sky, storm-clouds were massing—dark, still, waiting.
Silver candelabras lined the palace arcade with a rivulet of light. Shaurya Jaydev, not quite brushed against a new black silk kurta that failed to cover the cold lines of armor underneath, descended the marble bridge towards the Banquet of Rest. The air was scented with jasmine and lacquer, but his soldier's senses relished storm‑metal in the wind.
Inside the Great Pavilion, there were a thousand braziers dancing against frescoes of Kesari victories. Musicians played veenas in slow, reverent chords as silk-clad courtiers moved like luminous fish through coral pillars. Maharajadhiraja Suryapratap Kesari sat on the distant dais on his lion-throne, still dressed in subdued umber robes, sun-shaped scar on his cheek glittering off wandering firelight. To his right reclined the first prince, Udai, laughing with captains; two chairs to his left, the second prince—silent, close pale—nervously drank from a jade cup.
Leaning against the throne was Prime Minister Ranajit Shrey: gaunt, immaculate, a black-pearl turban and an calculated smile that never quite touched his eyes. His signet—two entwined cobras—caught the light whenever he held up a hand to point to servants.
Shaurya sat amongst the great generals, but his attention strayed from goblets of jewels to the timid tango of servants. Plates of wine made their rounds, led by Ranajit's subtle head-nods. One decanter—smoky crystal with wispy blue sediment—was reserved for the king alone.
Drums roared halfway through the banquet, and dancers whirled like flames. Ranajit stepped forward, bowing low.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice silk, "let our humble vintage honor your reign."
A page poured the blue-veined wine into the king's chalice. Shaurya's stomach twisted. A whisper awakened at the back of his skull—faint, electric, like distant thunder.
Spirit, he thought.
His Parental Spirit—a presence he felt few times except in mortal peril—shuddered through his nerves. Images flashed: Suryapratap's lips blueing, Udai's lifeblood gathering on mosaic tile, foreign flags accused of the crime. Shaurya's hand tightened on the table edge, nails grating teak.
He rose.
The hall grew silent; even drums stumbled.
"My liege," Shaurya bellowed, voice unbroken though laced with iron, "let me drink with you. Victory is sweeter shared."
Ranajit's eyes quivered—an almost imperceptible tremor.
Suryapratap smiled. "Come, War‑God. Let us drink."
A servant stepped forward with a twin cup for Shaurya, but Ranajit intercepted, reaching over to take it off the tray. "A finer cask for the hero," he said too smoothly, trading cups.
Shaurya's temper flared—blue lightning on the edge of sight. He accepted, his eyes on the minister. "Then let us drink together, Prime Minister, in celebration of peace."
Ranajit hesitated a heartbeat, then raised his cup. Nobles nearby caught an undercurrent but did not dare breathe.
Shaurya brought the chalice to lips—waited—watched Ranajit. The minister took a small sip; Shaurya replicated the motion but had only air pass across tongue.
Across the dais from him, the king drank fully.
His hand started shaking in an instant.
A wave of silence rolled across; the king's cup went crashing, was shattered. Suryapratap's eyes widened, pupils blooming black, muscles going taut. Courtiers shrieked.
Before the chaos broke out, Shaurya slammed his gauntleted fist on the long table. The report shattered like a cannon.
"Seal the doors!" he roared.
Soldiers snapped to attention; bronze gates slammed shut. The first prince hurried to his father's side, but Ranajit was there first, feigning alarm, fingers already checking the monarch's pulse.
Shaurya intervened—predator-smooth—obstructing. "He needs air," the minister declared.
"He needs answers," Shaurya growled, grabbing a silk napkin and cleaning the king's mouth. Blue tinged the cloth—same as the wine.
Ranajit recoiled, mask crooked. "Xuanlong betrayal—"
"No," Shaurya growled, voice harsh. "Their venoms are jade-green. This color occurs only in Zephyra—but you already knew that."
Gaze turned to the second prince—Ranajit's nephew—now perspiring, fingers white-knuckled around his untouched cup.
Recognition spread like fire through dry grass.
Shaurya's sabre whispered from its scabbard. "Prime Minister Ranajit Shrey," he said, "you stand accused of high treason: conspiracy against and attempted regicide on the heir apparent."
Ranajit's refined smile at last broke into desperation. "You think politics are decided by sword, old soldier?" He flicked his fingers; hidden blades sparkled from two bodyguards masquerading as dancers.
Shaurya stepped between murderer and throne, sabre a blur. Steel clanged once, twice—both of them fell before their swords finished extending.
The hall burst into chaos. Nobles cowered; soldiers stormed. Ranajit dashed for the side corridor—into the line of Shaurya's outstretched arm. The general's hand came down on the minister's collar, dragging him from the floor as a sparrow snatches a crumb.
Shaurya's voice cut through the din. "The war is won," he said to them, "but you would bury us in civil blood."
Ranajit spat, searing eyes. "Better civil blood than a stagnant throne!"
Footsteps crashed against each other—guards of the crown moving in.
Shaurya shoved the minister into their hands. "Bind him. Treat the king—scour Zephyra texts for an antidote; their poison stuns before it kills."
While palace physicians rushed to his side, Shaurya's soul quieted—but for a heartbeat. In its dying breath he felt more turmoil: assassins still chasing the first prince, conspirators in shadowed passages.
The war has merely come inside, he thought, holding Vijranta tighter.
And in the darkness outside the city, thunder growled in the distance—foretelling that peace would need a fiercer sword than war ever had.
To be continued…