The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting hues of amber and lavender across the palace grounds. The entire kingdom was draped in vivid finery—garlands of marigold and roses hung from the palace gates, and the fragrance of burning sandalwood filled the air. The palace's marble steps shimmered with flower petals, creating a path of red and gold for the bride and groom.
The streets of the capital were alive with celebration, filled with the sounds of flutes, drums, and laughter. Nobles and merchants from neighboring kingdoms had arrived, their caravans stretching for miles. The people of the kingdom lined the streets, cheering and tossing petals of saffron into the air as the royal procession approached.
---
Jayvarma rode at the head of the procession, dressed in gleaming armor beneath his ceremonial robes, a symbol of his warrior's spirit. His chest plate of gold and steel reflected the evening light, and a crimson sash trailed over his shoulder. His broad frame and imposing stance made him appear every bit the gallant warrior.
As he rode into the palace courtyard, the crowd erupted into cheers, chanting his name. His stoic expression softened slightly when he caught sight of Sumitra, his bride-to-be, standing beneath the silk-draped canopy.
Sumitra wore a deep crimson saree adorned with golden embroidery, her hair coiled into intricate braids, glimmering with delicate pearls. Her eyes were lowered shyly, but the faintest of smiles tugged at her lips when she met Jayvarma's gaze.
Standing near the palace entrance, Virendra and Devasena watched the scene unfold.
"He looks ready for war, not marriage," Devasena whispered, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Virendra smirked faintly.
"That's because for him, it is one," he murmured dryly.
"Victory means surviving the wedding night."
Devasena giggled, clutching Virendra's arm, her eyes wide with delight.
---
The bride's family arrived shortly after, their procession smaller but no less grand. Leading the entourage was a young man with a haughty gait, dressed in rich indigo robes embroidered with silver. His boots were polished to a shine, and a small dagger rested on his belt—a symbol of nobility.
His chin was raised slightly too high, and his chest puffed out just a little too much, making it clear he was trying to project confidence. However, there was a slight tremor in his fingers that clutched the reins of his horse a little too tightly.
Virendra's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the young man dismount with an exaggerated flourish. His steps were firm, his grin wide, but his eyes kept darting nervously around the crowd.
"Ah! What a sight!" the man declared in a booming voice that cracked slightly at the end.
"I was expecting only a modest welcome, but this… this is beyond grand!"
Jayvarma's eyes widened slightly before he chuckled, striding forward.
"Kumar!" he called out, embracing the man.
"It's good to see you!"
The man—Kumar Varma, Sumitra's younger brother—let out an awkward but loud laugh, slapping Jayvarma's back with more force than necessary.
"Good? You should be honored!" Kumar declared, his voice overly grandiose.
"I rode through a band of… of thieves and marauders just to attend this wedding!"
Virendra, who had been observing quietly, caught the nervous glint in Kumar's eyes. His hands were sweaty despite the cool evening air, and he stood a little too close to Jayvarma, as though seeking protection.
As Kumar's eyes fell on Virendra, he paused for a moment, then quickly plastered on a wide grin.
"Ah! The famed Prince Virendra!" he declared, his voice a little too loud.
"Your exploits of valor have reached even my ears!"
Virendra, suppressing a smirk, inclined his head politely.
"Good things, I hope?" he asked with a faint glimmer of amusement.
Kumar puffed out his chest, stepping forward.
"Only the most heroic tales," he said grandly, offering his hand.
When Virendra clasped it, he noted the dampness of Kumar's palm. The man's grip was firm, almost desperately so, as though trying to compensate for his nervousness.
The boastful words and grand gestures were clearly a mask—a thin veil of bravado covering an underlying cowardice.
---
As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the wedding ceremony commenced. The palace's grand pavilion glimmered with the light of hundreds of oil lamps, their flames casting a soft, golden glow over the gathered guests.
The priest's voice rose in rhythmic chants, guiding Jayvarma and Sumitra through the sacred rites. The couple sat beside the sacred fire, their hands bound by a silken thread. The air was filled with the scent of camphor and incense.
As the final vows were spoken, Jayvarma turned to Sumitra, his eyes steady and unwavering.
"I vow to protect you," he said softly, his voice firm.
"In battle and in peace, in darkness and in light. You are my heart, my strength. Always."
Sumitra's eyes glistened faintly, her lips quivering with emotion as she spoke her vows in turn.
The crowd erupted into cheers as the ceremony concluded. Petals of saffron and rose rained from the balconies, and the nobles raised their goblets in celebration.
---
The palace grounds were soon filled with lavish feasting, music, and laughter. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted lamb, saffron rice, and exotic fruits.
Kumar Varma, now seated beside Virendra, was already several goblets of wine in. His voice grew louder with each sip, his boasts more exaggerated.
"You wouldn't believe it, Prince Virendra!" Kumar slurred, his eyes gleaming.
"Last summer, I fought five brigands single-handedly!"
He gestured wildly, nearly knocking over his goblet, which Virendra casually caught before it fell.
"Five, you say?" Virendra asked mildly, raising a brow.
"Or was it six?"
Kumar blinked rapidly, his face flushing slightly.
"Ah! Yes! Six, indeed! It's hard to recall when you face such mortal peril," he blurted, covering his slip with a laugh.
Jayvarma, watching nearby, smirked faintly.
"Five or six?" he teased.
"The last time you told that story, it was seven."
The table erupted with laughter, and Kumar, though momentarily flustered, quickly recovered with a sheepish grin, laughing along.
Despite his boastful words, there was a strange endearing quality to Kumar. His cowardice was apparent, but so was his genuine kindness—his laughter untainted by malice, his eyes still warm with affection for his family.
Virendra, watching the exchange, felt a small smirk tug at his lips.
Coward or not, Kumar was family now.
---
The first light of dawn bathed the palace courtyard in hues of pale gold and soft pink. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of dew-dampened earth. The palace grounds were still quiet, save for the clash of steel ringing through the training yard.
In the center of the yard, Virendra and Kumar Varma stood facing each other, their breaths labored, swords clashing in a steady rhythm.
---
Kumar Varma, dressed in fitted sparring attire, was already drenched in sweat. His hair clung to his forehead, and his chest heaved as he struggled to keep pace with Virendra.
His strikes were imprecise but forceful, driven more by desperation than skill.
"Too slow, Kumar," Virendra said, his voice steady but firm.
"You're swinging wide—again."
Kumar gritted his teeth, launching another wild overhead slash. Virendra sidestepped gracefully, his movements fluid, and flicked the flat of his blade against Kumar's ribs.
Kumar stumbled back, cursing under his breath, and rubbed his side.
"You hit me too hard, cousin!" he whined, scowling.
"We're supposed to be sparring, not trying to kill each other!"
Virendra smirked faintly, lowering his sword.
"If this is too hard, how will you fare against an actual enemy?"
Kumar's eyes narrowed, his lips curling in indignation.
"Don't mock me! I—" he swung again, this time with more focus.
To Virendra's mild surprise, Kumar's strike was faster and his form more stable. Virendra parried swiftly, but the force of the impact was stronger than before.
"Better," Virendra said coolly, but his eyes glimmered with approval.
"Again."
For the next hour, they trained relentlessly, blades clashing over and over. Though Kumar's form remained sloppy, his strikes gradually became more controlled, his reactions sharper. The fear in his eyes lessened slightly with each bout, though it never fully disappeared.
When they finally stepped back, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, Kumar collapsed onto the ground, sprawling dramatically.
"That's it! I'm done!" he groaned, pressing a hand to his chest.
"I'm dying! You'll have to tell my sister."
Virendra, still standing, shook his head with a faint smirk.
"You're not dying, you fool." He extended a hand.
"Get up. You lasted longer today. That's improvement."
Kumar blinked in genuine surprise, his expression caught somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.
"You… you think so?" he asked, his voice almost hopeful.
"I know so," Virendra replied, his grip firm as he hauled Kumar to his feet.
"You're faster, and your strikes are stronger."
Kumar's chest puffed out slightly, his shoulders straightening.
"Of course! I'm naturally talented, after all!" he declared, immediately slipping back into his bravado.
"You're just lucky you had me as a sparring partner."
Virendra chuckled softly, shaking his head. Despite Kumar's bluster, he felt a faint warmth of pride. Even if Kumar's cowardice remained, he was slowly becoming a better warrior—his swordplay sharper, his reflexes quicker.
---
As the sun rose higher, the royal family gathered in the gardens for a morning meal. The servants laid out a lavish spread beneath a pavilion adorned with silken drapes that billowed softly in the breeze.
Seated together were Jayvarma, Sumitra, Devasena, Kumar, Virendra, and their mother, the Queen. The atmosphere was relaxed, filled with light conversation and laughter.
Sumitra, still radiant from the wedding, sat beside Jayvarma, her smile gentle as she poured him a goblet of spiced wine. The two exchanged warm glances, their fingers brushing briefly.
Nearby, Kumar regaled Devasena with wild tales of his imagined adventures, gesturing flamboyantly as he spoke.
"There I was! Alone in the forest!" he declared, his arms flailing dramatically.
"Surrounded by a dozen brigands—no, two dozen!"
Devasena's eyes widened in feigned awe, though a mischievous glimmer betrayed her amusement.
"How did you escape, cousin?" she asked, voice dripping with mock innocence.
Kumar puffed out his chest, clearly missing her sarcasm.
"Ah! My cunning was too much for them!" he declared proudly.
"I… tricked them into believing I was a noble lord and was leading army so they fled!"
Jayvarma, overhearing, snorted into his wine, clearly struggling not to laugh.
"You? A noble lord with army?" he quipped.
"What did you do? Threaten them with your singing voice?"
The table erupted in laughter, and even Kumar, though momentarily flustered, grinned sheepishly.
---
Later that afternoon, Virendra walked with Sumitra through the royal gardens. The gravel path crunched softly beneath their feet as they strolled past rows of flowering jasmine and hibiscus.
Sumitra, with her calm grace, reminded him somewhat of his mother—steady and composed, yet quietly observant.
"You seem more at ease than I expected," Virendra noted, his eyes flicking toward her.
"Adjusting well to the palace?"
Sumitra's lips curved into a gentle smile, her eyes glimmering softly.
"The palace is… beautiful," she admitted, glancing toward the towering stone walls.
"But it's the people who make it feel like home."
She paused, her expression softening as she glanced toward the pavilion where Jayvarma sat with Devasena, their laughter carrying faintly on the breeze.
"Your family has been kinder than I ever imagined," she said softly.
"I was worried… I wouldn't belong."
Virendra's gaze softened.
"You're family now," he said simply.
"You belong as much as any of us."
Sumitra's eyes glimmered faintly with emotion, and she lowered her head briefly, clearly touched by his words.
---
That evening, Kumar approached Virendra in the sparring yard again. This time, however, there was no boasting in his voice, no exaggerated bravado.
"Can we spar again tomorrow?" Kumar asked, almost hesitantly.
Virendra arched a brow, surprised by the lack of theatrics.
"You're not tired of being tossed to the ground?" he teased lightly.
Kumar frowned slightly, shifting his weight.
"I just…" he paused, lowering his voice.
"I want to be better."
For once, his voice lacked its usual flair—there was no dramatized boast, no forced bravado.
Just quiet determination.
Virendra smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of genuine respect.
"We'll train as much as you want, cousin," he said, clapping Kumar's shoulder firmly.
And this time, Kumar's grin was genuine, without the mask of pretense.
---