Darkness seeped into the stone passages of Mithra Palace as Dhairyaveer Mithra stepped forth from the Parivahan Mantra teleportation seal, supporting an unconscious Sneha Raj as if he carried a discarded parchment. His robes, spotless moments before, were now reeking crimson—his right arm still gone, bound roughly with spirit-forged bark to stop the blood. Each movement was strained. Each breath burned like swallowing blades.
The dungeon smelled of mold, rusted betrayal, and blood. He booted open the door to a cramped cell made of iron bars, its walls speckled with damp moss and old etchings of ancient curses that no one remembered any longer.
Heaving, Dhairyaveer dumped Sneha's body across the stone floor, the straw-covered slates. She rolled once, shackles clanking on cold earth.
He leaned against the doorway for a moment, blood dripping from his fingertips. "The Iron Hand of Samrajya." he murmured under his breath. "He's earned his name. War God indeed. If not for the Parivahan, I'd be fertilizing his garden right now."
A smirk tugged at the corner of his bloodied lips. "Still… leverage is leverage."
With that, he departed through a coiling concealed corridor behind a crumbling statue—one that took him directly into the center of the Mithra estate.
The concealed passage poured him out into the luxury of the Mithra Palace private wing, where red carpets softened his tread and golden sconces threw warmth over marble inlays. A silver-plated guard stood at the end of the hall waiting for him.
"My Lord," the guard added with a bow, "your son is born. The lady. she did not live."
Dhairyaveer remained silent, merely nodding. He strode with measured calm into the birth chamber—a huge room adorned in the Mithra clan's traditional dual colors: emerald green and steel gray. Velvet drapes rippled in the candlelight. The bed in the room's center was a mahogany monolith, drenched in dark blood under white sheets.
The dead woman's body remained motionless, midwives having washed and bandaged her with gentle hands. Dhairyaveer did not look at her.
He went to the cradle instead.
The baby inside blinked at him, dark and bottomless eyes. It did not make a noise. No cry. No wailing. Just stared.
"Kunal," Dhairyaveer spoke aloud, his voice far away. Then, in mind, 'Born of fire and darkness. Shall I show you the kindness of death now, before your pain starts?"
He stood there in silence for a very long time, gazing at the boy with unchanging eyes.
Two moons went by.
The cities of Kesari Samrajya murmured like reeds in tempest winds. Rumors were pollen, drifting on the wind, settling into every hearth and market.
The official line: The War God of the North had lost his mind, poisoned the King, and taken the First Prince hostage. Prime Minister Ranajit Shrey had saved Shaurya's life by a hair's breadth and was, temporarily at least, maintaining stability with the queen.
The reality: Shaurya Jaydev had disappeared.
Life went on in the center of Bhujraj, a neutral state hugging the northwest edges of Kesari Samrajya.
Within a raucous tavern painted ochre and blue, two men occupied the remotest table, shrouded in anonymity.
The first was bald, except for a tightly wound Marvadi turban that encased half his battered face. His weathered face carried the tan of mountain winds and war fronts. Across his chest, tied with reinforced cloth, slept a swaddled infant.
The second man had a loose kurta of wet-clay color and attempted too strenuously to slouch. A golden ring poked out of his collar.
"Why is Bhujraj entertaining these falsehoods?" the second man asked, voice taut with suppressed rage. "I thought they were impartial."
Shaurya Jaydev did not look up. He drank his tea with the calm of a monk.
"Naivety and neutrality are cousins," he grumbled. "Moreover, Ranajit was glorified as the man who ended Lou Yan's invasion plan. He's not a fool. He'll fix this narrative to stick."
The baby moved. Shaurya's hand involuntarily balanced him.
"They accused you of poisoning the king," Udai Kesari whispered. "They made you into a villain."
Shaurya's tone did not waver. "They had to. A coup demands simplicity. Villains and heroes. Complicated realities make poor banners."
Udai leaned in. "And your plan? Hide forever?"
Shaurya smiled faintly. "Not forever. Just long enough."
A shadow crossed by their table—a woman in merchant's robes, head held high. She nodded briefly at Shaurya before vanishing into the crowd.
"They know we're here," Udai said.
"I want them to," Shaurya said. "The one I came to see will send for us soon."
Udai blinked. "Who?"
Shaurya didn't reply.
Far in the distance, beyond the red granite walls of the capital of Kesari Samrajya, the Lion's Castle towered. The fortress stood like an ancient deity—tall and immovable, constructed from stones torn from the core of the earth and legends sculpted by generations.
Expansive courtyards greeted secret gardens. Spiral towers kissed clouds. Mosaics of the great Kesari line adorned vaulted domes within the great court. The throne room itself shone with understated grandeur—silver-lined columns, lion carvings on top of every pedestal, and a throne made of blackwood with golden veins.
Two ministers came out of the side court, robes fluttering.
"The coronation will occur soon," one whispered.
"If the king awakens," said the other. "Or if he dies. Either way, Mithil Kesari has been selected. The Queen and Prime Minister are managing everything until then."
Within the royal study—once the king's sanctum, now devoid of his aroma and quiet—Menka Shrey sat upon the throne-like chair next to the bookcase. The room, once pungent with old scrolls and sandalwood, now smelled of lavender oil and incense.
Her long black hair shimmered like obsidian, cascading past her shoulders. In her lap slept her seven-year-old son, Mithil Kesari, curled like a kitten. The boy had inherited the best of her—sharp cheekbones and a quiet intelligence. He clutched a golden lion toy.
"I knew it, sister," came Ranajit's voice, slithering from the doorway. "This chair was made for you."
Menka didn't look up. "Save your flatteries. Speak plainly."
Ranajit arrived, rustling silks that were like soft whispers. His skin was unlined, ageless, with still-water eyes. "No need to worry. When we find the War God, we'll persuade him to listen—or we'll break him. He won't resist the throne for long."
"I've heard Mithra has his daughter in custody," Menka said, smoothing Mithil's hair. "Use that.
Ranajit bowed. "Already in motion. Sleep well. The glory of Kesari shall not fade under our leadership."
Menka did not smile. She merely gazed into the dancing candle on the desk. "See to it."
Outside, storm clouds massed over the citadel, dark and heavy with foreboding.
In Bhujraj, dusk fell into the alley behind the tavern.
Shaurya stood in the shadows, readjusting the sleeping cloth that tied Rishi to his chest. Udai leaned beside him, eyes scanning the street.
"She'll call us soon," Shaurya said.
"Who?" Udai asked again.
A silhouette walked under the lantern light, eyes keen, her cloak a rippling river of indigo.
Shaurya didn't answer.
But he breathed a single name softly under his breath, as if a prayer:
"Rasmika."
And in the child's slumber, a leaf unfurled on a vine that wasn't there a moment ago.
The storm was far from over.