The battlefield reeked of iron and smoke. Under a bruise‑colored dawn, Shaurya Jaydev strode among the fallen of the Xuanlong Dynasty,Sun‑bronzed skin with subtle lattice scars, a thin slash through his right eyebrow, black rakta‑steel armor clinking like chained thunder. Each scale plate was etched with spiraling runes, but what drew every eye was the ragged red sash knotted at his left shoulder—woven from the banner of the first city he had ever conquered, worn as a promise never to grow soft.
In one mailed hand he held Vijranta, a storm‑steel sabre whose fuller glimmered faint violet, as if lightning slept inside the blade. In the other, he dragged the severed head of General Luo Yan, lacquer helm cracked, braid still dripping. Kesari soldiers, dirt‑streaked and trembling, raised a ragged cheer. The five‑year war was over, but Shaurya felt only the hush that follows a thunderclap.
Peace, he thought, is just the pause between swords.
Ten days later, the Hall of a Hundred Pillars blazed with lamplight. At its far end rose the Lion‑Throne—dark silver carved into a roaring visage, gold veins catching every flame. Seated upon it was Maharajadhiraja Suryapratap Kesari, a tall monarch with obsidian eyes and a neatly trimmed beard shot through with silver. His garments, solemn rather than gaudy, were a deep umber silk angarakha and a slate‑gray velvet cloak pinned by a single ruby. What set him apart was the thin, sun‑shaped scar on his left cheek—earned in his first duel, never concealed.
Shaurya knelt, stray moon‑white strands of hair slipping from his topknot. Ministers whispered about the "War‑God," but he noticed only the faint scent of sandalwood oil drifting from the throne.
"Kesari Samrajya stands unbroken," Suryapratap declared, voice ringing off marble. "In seven nights we hold a Banquet of Repose to honor our shield and sabre—Field‑Marshal Shaurya Jaydev."
Applause thundered. Shaurya bowed lower, battle instincts prickling. Suvarnagar's banquets were less feast than chessboard.
That evening, Shaurya retreated across the torch‑lit boulevards to the palace newly gifted him—a sprawling terraced manor of pale sandstone overlooking the moon‑glittered Lake Aranyani. Silver lanterns swung from teak beams; fountains whispered over lotus pools. Too much elegance for a man who'd slept under tattered campaign tents.
Within, silent attendants guided him to a quiet chamber. There, upon a low rosewood bed, lay his only child.
Sneha Raj slept in gentle exhaustion, dark hair spilled across a linen pillow. Cradled at her side was a swaddled newborn—tiny fists curled like lotus buds. The lamplight revealed the faint rise and fall of his chest. Rishi.
At the bedside sat Arun Raj, Sneha's husband, still wearing the simple cotton kurta of a village healer. He rose, greeting the general with a respectful nod rather than a courtly bow.
"Father‑in‑law," he said softly. "They told me you had returned. I kept them awake as long as I dared."
Shaurya's battle‑hardened face softened. He removed his gauntlets, placing them soundlessly on a lacquered chest. The ruby gleam of Vijranta's hilt reflected in his eyes before he set the weapon aside.
He knelt, fingers trembling for the first time in years, and brushed a thumb over the downy hair of his grandson. The child stirred but did not cry.
"A name forged of hope," Arun murmured. "Rishi: the seeker."
Sneha, half‑awake, opened her eyes and managed a smile. "Father… the war is truly over?"
Shaurya looked at his daughter—the last bright piece of a life the battlefield had not burned away—and forced a gentle answer. "The fighting is done," he said. But wars have long shadows, he did not add.
Outside, the palace musicians began tuning lutes for some distant noble's midnight revel. Shaurya felt every pluck of string like an arrow of omen.
In seven nights, the Banquet of Repose would celebrate the end of bloodshed. Yet the scent of intrigue already seeped beneath marble doors. Politics—he had little taste for it, but the blade of statecraft could cut deeper than any sabre.
As Sneha drifted back to sleep, Shaurya bowed his head over the sleeping infant. Quietly he made a soldier's vow:
"May the spirits keep you from war, little seeker. And if they cannot—may they make you mightier than any who stand against you."
High above the palace, unseen in the velvet sky, storm‑clouds gathered—dark, silent, waiting.
Silver lanterns turned the palace arcade into a river of light. Shaurya Jaydev, newly brushed into a dark silk kurta that could not hide the hard lines of armor beneath, crossed the marble bridge toward the Banquet of Repose. The air smelled of jasmine and lacquer, yet his soldier's senses tasted storm‑metal on the wind.
Inside the Grand Pavilion, a thousand braziers danced against murals of Kesari victories. Musicians plucked veenas in slow, reverent chords while silk‑robed courtiers moved like bright fish among coral pillars. At the far dais sat Maharajadhiraja Suryapratap Kesari on his lion‑throne, still in muted umber robes, the sun‑shaped scar on his cheek catching stray firelight. To his right lounged the first prince, Udai, laughing with captains; two seats beyond, the second prince—quiet, almost pallid—sipped nervously from a jade cup.
Hovering near the throne was Prime Minister Ranajit Shrey: slim, immaculate, a black‑pearl turban and a measured smile that never reached his eyes. His signet—two entwined cobras—glinted whenever he lifted a hand to direct servants.
Shaurya took his place among the honored generals, yet his attention slid from jeweled goblets to the subtle choreography of servants. Trays of wine circulated, steered by Ranajit's discreet nods. One decanter—smoky crystal laced with faint blue sediment—was reserved for the king alone.
At the banquet's midpoint, drums thundered and dancers spiraled like living flames. Ranajit stepped forward, bowing low.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice silk, "may our humble vintage honor your reign."
A page poured the blue‑veined wine into the king's chalice. Shaurya's stomach tightened. A whisper stirred at the back of his skull—faint, electric, like distant thunder.
Spirit, he thought.
His Parental Spirit—a presence he seldom felt except in mortal peril—rippled through his nerves. Images flashed: Suryapratap's lips darkening, Udai's lifeblood pooling on mosaic tile, foreign banners blamed for the deed. Shaurya's hand tightened on the table edge, nails scoring teak.
He rose.
The hall stilled; even drums faltered.
"My liege," Shaurya called, voice calm yet carrying iron, "allow me to toast with you. Victory tastes sweeter shared."
Ranajit's eyes flickered—an almost invisible tremor.
Suryapratap smiled. "Come, War‑God. Let us drink."
A servant brought a twin chalice for Shaurya, but Ranajit intercepted, plucking it from the tray. "A rarer cask for the hero," he said too smoothly, swapping cups.
Shaurya's spirit flared—blue lightning at the edge of sight. He accepted, eyes locked on the minister. "Then let us drink together, Prime Minister, in honor of peace."
Ranajit hesitated a heartbeat, then raised his cup. Around them, nobles sensed a subcurrent but dared not breathe.
Shaurya lifted the chalice to his lips—waited—watching Ranajit. The minister took a shallow sip; Shaurya mirrored the motion but let only air touch his tongue.
Across the dais, the king drank deeply.
Instantly his hand trembled.
A hush rippled; the king's cup fell, shattering. Suryapratap's eyes widened, pupils blooming black, muscles locking. Courtiers screamed.
Before chaos unfurled, Shaurya slammed his gauntleted fist on the long table. The sound cracked like a cannon.
"Seal the doors!" he roared.
Soldiers snapped to attention; bronze gates thundered shut. The first prince leapt to his father's side, but Ranajit was there faster, feigning concern, fingers already seeking the monarch's pulse.
Shaurya moved—predator‑smooth—interposing himself. "He needs air," the minister insisted.
"He needs answers," Shaurya growled, yanking a silk napkin and wiping the king's mouth. A faint blue residue smeared the cloth—same hue as the wine.
Ranajit recoiled, mask slipping. "Xuanlong treachery—"
"No," Shaurya said, voice low. "Their poisons are jade‑green. This shade is mined only in Zephyra—but you already knew that."
Eyes whipped toward the second prince—Ranajit's nephew—now sweating, fingers white‑knuckled around his untouched cup.
Realization spread like fire through dry grass.
Shaurya's sabre cleared its sheath with a hiss of storm‑steel. "Prime Minister Ranajit Shrey," he announced, "you stand accused of high treason: attempted regicide and conspiracy against the heir apparent."
Ranajit's poised smile finally cracked into desperation. "You think politics are won by sword, old soldier?" He flicked his fingers; hidden blades flashed from two bodyguards cloaked as dancers.
Shaurya stepped between assassins and throne, sabre a blur. Steel rang once, twice—both attackers crumpled before their blades finished extending.
The hall erupted in panic. Nobles cowered; soldiers surged. Ranajit darted toward a side passage—straight into the path of Shaurya's outstretched arm. The general's hand closed on the minister's collar, hauling him off the floor as easily as a sparrow.
Shaurya's voice cut through the din. "The war is over," he said, "but you would drown us in civil blood."
Ranajit spat, eyes burning. "Better civil blood than a stagnant throne!"
Clanging footsteps echoed—royal guards converging.
Shaurya shoved the minister into their custody. "Bind him. Tend the king—find an antidote in Zephyra texts; their poisons numb before they kill."
As palace physicians rushed forward, Shaurya's spirit quieted—but only for a breath. In its fading whisper he sensed more turbulence: assassins still hunting the first prince, conspirators in shadowed corridors.
The battlefield has merely shifted indoors, he thought, tightening his grip on Vijranta.
And somewhere beyond the banquet hall, thunder rolled across the night sky—promising that peace would demand a fiercer blade than war ever had.
To be continued…