The morning sun poured over Kuntala's rolling hills, its golden light slowly washing over the stone walls of the palace. Dew still clung to the grass, glistening like silver threads, while the faint hum of morning prayers drifted from the temple courtyards. Smoke from the village hearths curled into the cool air, carrying the scent of charred wood and boiling grains.
But inside the grand palace, where the scent of jasmine and clove incense lingered in the corridors, a different kind of heat filled the air—the heat of ambition and politics.
---
In the military wing, the clatter of steel against steel echoed through the stone corridors. The sparring yard was alive with the sound of grunting soldiers, their boots scuffing against the gravel as they thrust and parried with wooden spears. Sunlight glinted off sweat-slicked skin, and the sharp bark of the drill sergeant rang out above the din.
At the edge of the training yard, Virendra stood with his arms crossed, observing the session with a steady, impassive gaze. Though only six years old, his presence commanded the same attention as the seasoned officers around him.
Beside him stood Jayvarma, now ten. Though his stature had grown broader, he still fought with youthful aggression. His brow was slick with sweat, his breathing hard as he practiced with a long wooden staff. The prince swung it in heavy arcs, driving back a palace guard in a sparring match. His strikes were powerful but wild and predictable—his blows too eager.
"Again," Jayvarma growled as the guard disarmed him, sending the staff clattering against the stone floor.
The boy retrieved his weapon and lunged again, fury flashing in his eyes. But his movements were unbalanced—his grip too tight, his steps too forceful. Raw power without precision.
Virendra's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Stop," he called out.
The guards lowered their weapons at once. Jayvarma turned to his younger brother, his chest heaving, brows furrowed with frustration.
"Why did you stop the fight?" he snapped.
Virendra's voice was calm and measured, but his eyes were sharp.
"You're swinging like a blacksmith beating iron," he said coolly. "The stronger you strike, the wider your openings."
Jayvarma frowned, still seething.
Without another word, Virendra stepped into the sparring circle. The soldiers nearby stiffened, exchanging wary glances—the prince's combat lessons were becoming legendary. Despite his young age, his techniques were ruthless and unorthodox, a blend of cunning and brutality that few could counter.
He plucked a wooden staff from the rack, his hands steady.
"Come at me," he said evenly.
Jayvarma's eyes narrowed.
He rushed forward, swinging his staff in a wide, forceful arc.
But Virendra did not parry.
Instead, he sidestepped swiftly, allowing the blow to miss him by a hair's breadth. In the same fluid motion, he slammed the butt of his staff into Jayvarma's ribs, sending his older brother staggering.
Before Jayvarma could recover, Virendra's staff lashed out again, sweeping his legs out from under him. The older prince hit the gravel hard, coughing sharply.
The soldiers watching remained silent, their eyes wide.
"Too slow," Virendra murmured, offering his brother a hand. His voice was steady, his expression unreadable.
Jayvarma, though still breathless, gripped Virendra's hand and pulled himself up. His eyes, though filled with frustration, held a glimmer of grudging respect.
"Again," Jayvarma muttered, rolling his shoulders.
Virendra's lips twitched faintly.
The sparring resumed.
And this time, Jayvarma's strikes became smarter, his movements more deliberate. The boy was learning.
---
Later that day, Virendra stood in the royal court, his hands clasped behind his back as he listened in silence. The grand hall was filled with ministers and noblemen, their robes heavy with brocade and silk, their voices rich with practiced formality.
Rani Yashodhara sat upon the throne, draped in a shimmering emerald sari, her expression serene but commanding. To her right sat Jayvarma, still flushed from the morning sparring, but composed.
And beside them sat Virendra.
Small, still, and silent—but watching everything.
Minister Paravasu, a tall man with sharp features and an oily smile, addressed the court. His voice was smooth, almost rehearsed, as he presented the new trade tariffs he proposed for the year. He spoke of increased levies on iron and grain—cleverly framed as a necessary measure to bolster the kingdom's military coffers.
But Virendra's eyes narrowed slightly as the man spoke.
He observed the small shift in Paravasu's stance, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth when he mentioned iron tariffs. It was a subtle tell, but Virendra felt it—a faint prickle of deception that stirred in his chest.
When the ministers began to vote, Virendra suddenly spoke.
"Mother," he said softly, his voice clear but composed. "It would be wise to review Minister Paravasu's ledgers before finalizing the tariffs."
A ripple of surprise passed through the court.
The ministers glanced at each other, uncertain of the young prince's interjection.
Paravasu's eyes narrowed, but he quickly masked his irritation with a thin smile. "Of course, my prince," he said smoothly, though his voice was strained.
But it was too late.
The moment Virendra spoke, the queen's eyes sharpened. She trusted his instincts.
Within days, the palace treasury unearthed evidence of Paravasu's corruption. The minister had been funneling bribes from the iron guilds, ensuring that the new tariffs would cripple smaller merchants while benefiting his allies.
He was stripped of his title and banished from the royal court.
In the shadows, Virendra's influence grew stronger.
The ministers now eyed him with wary caution.
And the soldiers who once dismissed him as a boy now watched him with reverence.
---
That evening, Virendra left the palace, slipping into the marketplace with only a single guard trailing discreetly behind him. The sun hung low, painting the stone walls in hues of amber and gold.
He walked slowly, his eyes drinking in the sights—the merchants haggling over prices, the farmers unloading sacks of grain, the blacksmiths wiping soot from their faces.
But it was the children that caught his attention.
Near a shaded alcove, a group of urchins with dirty faces crouched by a broken fountain, tossing stones into the stagnant water. Their clothes were tattered, their bellies hollow with hunger.
Virendra walked toward them.
The children stiffened. Their eyes were wary—they were used to nobles looking down on them.
Without a word, Virendra knelt, pulling a small pouch of silver coins from his tunic. He handed it to the oldest boy, whose eyes widened in shock.
"For food," Virendra said softly.
The boy's lip quivered, but he nodded quickly.
He fell to his knees, bowing low.
"Thank you, my prince," he whispered.
The other children followed, their voices trembling with gratitude.
As Virendra stood, his eyes were calm, but the briefest flicker of sadness crossed them.
He turned away quickly, his hands tightening into fists.
And as he walked back toward the palace, the whispers of his name began to spread through the streets—the prince who walked among the people, the boy with serpent eyes who gave silver to the poor.
The boy who moved like a shadow—and who was slowly becoming the most powerful man in Kuntala.
---