The Royal Court of Kesari Samrajya rested nestled alongside the eastern wing of the King's Palace—its beauty a fire that never faded, regardless of the tempest. Cut from golden limestone and red sandstone, the colossal building stood tall like a gem on the hill, its domes shining under the morning sun, surrounded by silver banners that carried the emblem of the roaring lion. Peacock mosaics lined the broad marble steps that rose to the towering elephant-bone doors set with rubies. Even the air was redolent of sandalwood, scented oils, and still fear.
Within, the Royal Court flowered with splendor.
Vaulted ceilings rose above, painted with visions of mythic combat—spirits and kings dancing in fire and fury. Lotus-shaped chandeliers showered soft golden light upon polished obsidian floors. Ministers in silk and armor occupied the galleries, and nobles murmured from curtained balconies as the soft strains of veena music hummed behind silken partitions.
At the end of the great hall stood the twin thrones of Kesari. The first—a lion's mouth in obsidian and studded with lapis and amber—remained empty, waiting for its injured king. The second, slightly smaller, contained Queen Menka Shrey.
She stood erect and immobile, as if sculpted of silk and white marble. In a golden-fringed sari in deepest red, her face was sleek and exacting—beauty sharpened to the point of a knife's edge. Above her eyes glowed a serpentine bindi, emblem of her household. Standing a little to the side of, and beneath, the throne stage, Ranajit Shrey, her brother, Prime Minister, was an unobtrusive figure amidst his formal garb as silken draperies flowing through the rustling of air borne on fountains of fragrance.
The court whispered in awe as four men walked towards the foot of the throne. Each carried the unspoken burden of a thousand voices and the authority of kingdoms behind them. These were the Lords of the Great States—pillars of Kesari Samrajya.
Vishwajit Prastha, Lord of Indraprastha, walked at their head.
He stood as if hewn from the bole of a jungle tree—his height stretched impossibly tall, like a temple pillar to support the sky itself. Arms thicker than a grown man's thigh lay folded over his chest. His long black hair, bound in a silver clasp, flowed with a defiant rhythm, as if even the air bent to avoid disturbing him. His purple garments glistened like dusk, lined with silver flashes of lightning and gold inscriptions—icons of power and lineage.
He inclined his head low, his words booming but modulated.
"It will be the great privilege of Indraprastha to welcome the Ceremony of the Spirit, Your Majesty."
The court was quiet, the seriousness of the news falling like fog upon the crowd.
From the left, a softer voice replied.
Rajnayan Maharatna, Lord of Maharatna State, emerged with a dignity that appeared unscathed by the world. His skin shone like morning dew on jasmine. A silver-white kurta with golden flame designs embroidered on it hung loosely on his wiry frame, accompanied by a fine dhoti that sparkled like water in moonlight. His black locks framed his high cheekbones and curved brows, divided by a black headband with a diamond in its center, designed in the form of an opening lotus. He appeared less like a king and more like the sort of warrior the bards mourned.
"Indraprastha Naresh," he spoke softly, "if you need anything, Maharatna awaits you."
Their words were diplomacy, but also ritual. Because today, for the first time in five years, all four Great Lords and twelve State Ministers stood together under the same roof. Even the king's failing health couldn't delay the Spirit Ceremony—the ceremony in which selected children would stand before the holy fires and give their essence to the unknown.
A child between ten and fifteen years of age, born of any house or caste, might be blessed or rejected. The chosen ones would be made Spirit Warriors, their connection to the spirits kindling in them a divine flame. This time, the Ceremony had been summoned by Jwalana, the Fire Spirit King who guarded the Samrajya.
Only the Spirit King chose where the Ceremony would take place. And this time, he had chosen Indraprastha.
The high bronze braziers that ran the length of the court crackled faintly, as if repeating Jwalana's faraway presence.
Queen Menka nodded, her words steady.
"Then let it be inscribed. The Spirit Ceremony shall begin on the twenty-second day of High Sun, in the holy valley of Prastha. Let this word be carried throughout the sixteen states."
A rustling ran through the chamber like withered leaves in a gust.
Behind the Great Lords were twelve State Ministers—each lord of a smaller territory that owed allegiance to one of the Great Four. Only the King had the power to create or appoint a State Lord, and his silence had kept the thrones below the throne vacant. But not for much longer, the court murmured. Not when the Queen governed in his stead.
As the voice of Menka reverberated within the hall, Ranajit advanced with a pleased gesture.
"Let everyone hear that Kesari Samrajya remains undivided. The Ceremony of the Spirit will herald the dawn of a new era. And when the King himself gets back on his feet, he will understand what devotion his kingdom has given birth to in his absence."
But within the pause between sentences, Vishwajit's eyes rested upon him—unflinching.
As if he could sniff the decay through the scent.
"Let it be so," Queen Menka said at last, her own voice as level and unyielding as the tide. "See to the preparations."
With a mere gesture of her hand, the heralds of the court lifted their staves, clapping them on the ground three times. A muted chime rung out, marking the formal end of the council's public meeting.
The nobles were murmuring and bowing their departures, but the four Great Lords did not stir.
Queen Menka's eyes swept them one last time, then she stood and turned, leaving the throne dais by a rear arch covered in veils of saffron and black silk.
Ranajit hesitated a moment longer, then trailed after.
It was only when the queen and her brother had disappeared that Vishwajit spoke again, his words to Maharatna in a voice audible only to the other Great Lords.
"The Queen has learned to don the lion's mane beautifully. Too beautifully."
Maharatna gave no immediate response. His fingers followed the hem of his lotus-clasped sash. "The mane is only deadly when the lion is elsewhere."
A brief silence passed between them,
A flash of candlelight picked up the glint of gold on Dhairyaveer Mithra's collar as he moved forward. Broad and tall, but not with the menacing ferocity of Vishwajit, his presence was chill—like a sword wrapped in velvet. He did not bow or speak. His almond-shaped eyes, dark and deeply calculating, ranged between the two who had spoken, measuring their words in silence.
Then at last, he added, "When the lion is gone, the throne is not merely insecure. It invites the serpents below the floor."
Rasmika Bhujraj, the lone woman among them, laughed softly—a rippling sound like silk running over steel. Wearing deep peacock green robes with storm-light shimmering patterns, a heavy braid twisted down her back like a whip. Her forehead was marked with the sign of Bhujraj: a trident of black ink.
"Let us not talk in fangs and riddles," she told him, her voice sharp. "If you have charges, state them clearly. Otherwise, you will sound like palace poets with too much leisure and too little intent."
Vishwajit's smile was slow and unpleasant. "Some of us appreciate the value of plain speech. But others," his gaze shifted toward where the Queen had departed, "bend their swords in silks.
Rasmika moved towards him, unfazed. "And some shout because they know their power cannot go through court doors without being tested."
The chamber was largely cleared now—only guards stood close to the pillars, feigning not to hear.
Rajnayan Maharatna hesitated and raised his hand weakly. "Peace. The ceremony is settled. The children of the sixteen states will convene. The Fire King has declared his will. Let us not create a fire of our own under it."
Dhairyaveer looked at him, his face inscrutable. "And what if the Fire King was called, not called us?"
Rasmika frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Dhairyaveer replied softly, "that the Queen appears too sure. Too serene. As if she had anticipated Jwalana's choice before he said it."
There was a long silence after he spoke.
The atmosphere grew heavy—not with incense, but with suspicion.
Then Maharatna's soft voice sliced through it like a reed cutting through water. "Jwalana does not take orders from kings or queens. No matter how loud their whispers."
"Unless," Vishwajit grumbled, "someone's been talking loud where they shouldn't."
A horn blew in the outer yard, announcing the leave-taking of state processions.
It shattered the moment. Rasmika whirled first, robes billowing like storm-tide.
"We have what we have come for. Let Indraprastha make ready. And may Jwalana reward the deserving."
The four Lords whirled in tacit consensus, each already planning their next step.
Outside, the sun hit the golden dome of the court, and in its shadow, the lion slept on—injured, quiet, and not yet visible.