The morning air was heavy with dew as a pale golden light crept over the walls of the Mauryan palace. The training courtyard, still soaked in night's chill, was silent except for the soft shuffle of footsteps and the rhythmic hiss of blades striking wood. In the center stood Rudura, his tiny body barely more than a child's shadow against the massive training dummies, yet his stance was steady—too steady for someone barely past his first year.
Malavatas, the royal Guru and sword master, stood nearby with folded arms and narrowed eyes. He had trained warriors, kings, and legends, but none had ever carried the intensity this infant did. There was no play in Rudura's eyes, only calculation.
This boy is not just learning—he is remembering, Malavatas thought.
Rudura lunged forward with a precise swing, the wooden blade slicing through the air with a whisper. He pivoted, turned, and struck again. Sweat dripped from his temple. Every move was a whisper of something greater—a memory not from this world, but the last.
When the training was over, Rudura dropped to one knee, panting softly. Malavatas stepped closer and handed him a cloth. Rudura didn't speak—he couldn't yet—but his eyes flicked to the Guru's face with a silent intensity.
"You wish to know something," Malavatas said, crouching beside him. "Speak with your hands then, Rudura. Let me see your mind."
Rudura turned and used his finger to draw in the sand. Slowly, deliberately, he etched the image of a river intersected with small boxes—representing trade ports and farmlands. Then he tapped one of the boxes, and pointed to himself.
The Guru's brows furrowed. "You saw this?"
Rudura nodded.
"And you want to know more... about trade?"
Another nod. The Guru exhaled sharply through his nose, both amused and bewildered. "Very well. But what you're touching is no child's curiosity. It is the heart of an empire."
They sat there for several minutes. Malavatas explained how trade routes once flowed from the Empire's heart to the farthest kingdoms of the west, how guilds once wielded power in the capital, and how—over the past few years—inefficiency, corruption, and war had drained the Empire's wealth.
"There was a time," the Guru said, "when merchants sang the names of Maurya as they passed gold and silk across the lands. Now, they whisper only in fear of taxes and bandits."
Rudura processed every word.
That afternoon, the palace was abuzz with soft chatter. Servants moved through the stone halls. Guards stood watch, their eyes ever-vigilant.
Rudura walked slowly through the corridor, his small feet pattering against the marble. From behind a pillar, he observed a group of courtiers murmuring in low tones.
"He's grown sharper," one said. "The boy watches everything."
"He's just a child," said another.
"That's what they said about his father."
Rudura kept his expression blank, but inside, his awareness flared. The palace had eyes, and now... it was watching him back.
Later that evening, he sat in the nursery, flipping through one of the old scrolls he'd managed to retrieve from his father's private room. He could not read every word—yet—but the diagrams and maps spoke volumes. One parchment showed the trade networks from ancient times. Another showed a plan for an irrigation system that had been abandoned.
He was absorbing all of it, burning the knowledge into memory.
But then he heard it.
A creak.
Soft. Measured.
Someone was just beyond the door.
He closed the scroll quickly and slipped it under the folds of his blanket. The door didn't open. No one entered. But he knew someone had stood there, watching.
Listening.
It was a warning.
That night, the torches in the palace dimmed. The moon hung pale and distant through the window above his cradle. Rudura lay silently, eyes open.
And then—he felt it.
The air grew heavier. Colder.
From the shadowed corner of the room, a figure emerged—the same mystical shadow that had guided him through the veil between life and death. It shifted like smoke, eyes glowing faintly from within the void.
"You plan with such hunger," the shadow murmured. "But even the hungriest kings are still prey when they are children."
Rudura didn't move. He only stared.
"You have touched the roots of power," it continued, voice low and heavy. "Trade. Agriculture. Army. You see the broken cogs of this machine. But there is always a price for change."
It stepped closer. The cradle seemed to tremble under the pressure.
"There are others who feel your presence, Rudura Maurya. Others who wonder how a one-year-old knows so much. You are not safe, not anymore."
Rudura's heart beat faster. Not from fear—but from resolve.
He sat up slowly, defiantly.
"I know," he whispered in his thoughts. "That's why I must move faster."
The shadow laughed, a sound like dry leaves caught in wind. "You think you are the only one making moves?"
With that, it vanished. The flames of the torch flickered violently—and then calmed.
In the early hours before dawn, Rudura sneaked again into his father's room. He climbed upon the edge of a wooden chest and retrieved a folded map. On it, he traced the borders of the empire, his small fingers following every road, every trade route, every name.
He didn't need to speak to understand what needed to be done.
He would reorganize the system. He would rebuild the trade. He would restore the pride of the Maurya.
And he would start by earning the trust of Malavatas.
Just one person. One ally.
The empire could wait—but the seeds needed to be planted now.
He tucked the map under his mattress and climbed back into his cradle. Outside, the sky began to lighten.
Tomorrow, the fire would begin.