TEJGARH: BETWEEN GUILT AND DUTY
The king's chamber in Tejgarh felt darker than the deepest hour of midnight, even as the first weak rays of dawn tried to pierce the heavy curtains. Prince Agni sat not on the ornate throne at the room's center, but on the cold stone floor by the large arched window. He had been there all night, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them as if trying to hold his very soul together.
His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, were fixed on the distant horizon where the jagged silhouette of the Anilgarh mountains cut into the pale sky. His mother's last words—"Tejgarh is yours now to hold. Hold it well… and hold yourself too"—echoed endlessly in his mind. They did not feel like a blessing or a passing of responsibility. They felt like a curse, the final, unbearable weight placed upon him before she left. A sob tried to wrench itself from his throat, but it came out as a dry, painful heave. He was cried out. His tears had burned away in the internal inferno, leaving behind only the scorched earth of his spirit—a landscape of dry, burning pain that smoldered in his chest.
The silence in the room was thick and accusing. It was broken by a soft, hesitant knock on the heavy wooden door.
"Enter," Agni said, his voice a rough scrape. He did not turn.
The door opened slowly, and Grand Minister Viprachit entered. The old man looked older than his years, his usual dignified posture bowed by grief and worry. Deep lines of concern were etched around his eyes and mouth. In his gaze was a complex mix of pity for the broken boy and a stern, unwavering duty to the crumbling kingdom.
Minister Viprachit (Voice soft, yet firm): "My Prince. The sun has risen. It is time."
Agni gave no response, his stare unwavering.
Viprachit took a cautious step further into the room, the rich fabrics of his robe whispering against the floor. "Prince Agnivrat, you must gather yourself. How long will you remain a prisoner in this chamber? The kingdom outside these walls is trembling. It needs its prince. The people are leaderless, afraid. They need to see you. They need to hear your voice, to know that the sun of Tejgarh has not been extinguished forever."
Agni (Voice trembling, still looking away): "No, Uncle… I cannot. I am… unworthy of that light. Let it stay dark."
Viprachit moved closer, his tone becoming more insistent. "This is not the time for the luxury of guilt, my boy! Look at me!" When Agni didn't move, the minister's voice softened again, laced with the pain of a man who had also lost his king. "Have faith in the divine. Things will mend. The strength your father instilled in you, the wisdom he poured into you—it still lives within your veins. It is your inheritance, and your duty to use it."
At the mention of his father, Agni flinched as if struck. He finally turned his head. His eyes, when they met Viprachit's, were pools of such raw, scorching agony that the old minister almost recoiled.
Agni (Voice sharp with pain): "Inheritance? Duty? Uncle, the only inheritance my hands carry is ash! The only duty I have proven capable of is destruction! The fire I command… it doesn't protect. It consumes. It consumed my father. It broke my mother's heart. It has burned every bridge I ever had. You… you take the reins. You run the kingdom. I am not fit to lead a stray dog, let alone a kingdom of thousands."
Viprachit (Folding his hands in a desperate plea): "But Prince… the people ask for you. They know it was a tragic accident of war. They do not blame"
Agni (Cutting him off, his voice hardening into a cold, final edge): "Enough, Minister Viprachit. Leave me. That is not a request."
The authority in that broken voice, so reminiscent of King Tejendra's, was undeniable. The pain behind it was impenetrable. Viprachit saw the wall he could not scale. His shoulders sagged in defeat. He bowed deeply, a gesture of respect to the office, if not to the shattered boy within it, and silently retreated from the chamber.
The heavy silence descended once more, thicker than before. Agni rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window pane, closing his eyes. He wished the numbness would return, but all he felt was the relentless, burning shame.
Another knock came, less formal, more hesitant.
"What?" Agni snapped, not moving.
The door pushed open. A young guard dipped his head. "Prince… your friend… he has come. He asks to see you."
A flicker of something—confusion, then a faint, painful warmth—crossed Agni's deadened heart. "Akshay?"
"Yes,my Prince. Shall I send him away?"
For a long moment,Agni was silent. The thought of facing anyone, even his childhood friend from the neighboring kingdom of Vasantgarh, was exhausting. But the thought of another hour alone with his ghosts was worse. "No. Let him in."
Akshay entered a moment later. His clothes were travel-stained, dust from the long road clinging to his boots. Fatigue shadowed his face, but his eyes, the moment they found Agni, filled with a profound, empathetic worry. He took in the scene—the prince curled on the floor, the untouched food tray from the previous night, the air of utter desolation.
Akshay (His voice gentle but urgent): "Agni. By the gods, look at you."
Agni finally pushed himself up from the floor, his movements stiff. He turned to face his friend, and Akshay could see the full devastation. The vibrant, fiery prince was gone. In his place stood a gaunt shadow, his eyes holding a haunted darkness.
Akshay: "How long will you do this to yourself? Lock yourself away in this tomb? Your people are gathering in the square right now, whispering, fearing what comes next. Tejgarh needs its prince to stand up. You have to hold yourself together, for them."
The word "hold" triggered something. A violent tremor ran through Agni. "I CAN'T!" he erupted, the shout tearing from his raw throat. He took a step forward, his hands clenching into fists. "Don't you understand, Akshay? I am guilty! I have forfeited any right to lead, to even live! These hands…" He stared at his open palms as if they were foreign, monstrous objects. "These hands took my father's life! They broke my mother's spirit! What authority can they possibly hold? What peace can they possibly bring?"
His voice cracked, the anger dissolving into helpless anguish. He sank onto the edge of his disheveled bed, burying his face in his hands.
Akshay moved swiftly. He knelt before his friend, his voice firm, cutting through the haze of grief. "No! Listen to me. It was a war. A chaotic, hellish nightmare. That arrow… it was a tragic twist of fate, a horrible accident. It was not your fault. What was destined to happen, happened. Who can fight destiny?"
As he spoke, Akshay's own eyes grew damp. He had lost mentors in border skirmishes; he understood the ragged edge of grief, though not of this magnitude. He didn't offer empty platitudes. Instead, he sat beside Agni on the bed and pulled him into a firm, wordless embrace. It was the hug of their boyhood, when scraped knees or lost sparring matches were the worst tragedies. It held all the comfort words could never convey.
Akshay (Speaking softly into his friend's shoulder): "Agni… you have to get up. You must. We understand the pain of losing a father. But your kingdom… it is an orphan now too. And it is looking to you. You must stand. You must shoulder the legacy your father left you. He believed in you. We all do."
Agni (Muffled, hiccuping sobs): "I can't… I'm so afraid, Akshay. I'm terrified that if I pick up the reins, if I let that power flow through me again… my fire will escape. It will burn someone else. It will burn everything I touch. I am not a leader. I am a walking catastrophe."
There was a long pause. Akshay pulled back, holding Agni by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Then if you truly believe you cannot rule," Akshay said, his voice serious, "you must formally appoint a regent. Choose a council of ministers, a worthy steward, to guide Tejgarh until you find your footing. But what you cannot do is let guilt murder you slowly within these four walls. That helps no one—not your father's memory, not your people, and certainly not you."
The practicality of the statement cut through the fog of Agni's despair. It offered a path that wasn't the throne, but wasn't total abdication either. It was a compromise with his broken self. He was silent for a long time, the only sound his ragged breathing slowly calming.
Finally, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Agni (Voice timid, childlike): "I… I will speak with the council. We can… discuss a regency." He looked up at Akshay, his eyes pleading. "But… will you stay? For a few days? I… I cannot be alone with my thoughts. They are like demons."
A small, sad smile touched Akshay's lips. He squeezed Agni's shoulder. "Of course. What are friends for, if not to stand watch during the long nights? I'm not going anywhere."
A wave of immense, weary relief washed over Agni. For the first time in days, he felt the crushing weight lighten by a fraction. He was not alone. But with that relief came the courage to voice the question that had been eating at him since he awoke in the medical tent, the question more painful than any physical wound.
Agni (Looking down at his hands, his voice dropping to a whisper): "Akshay… there's something I need to ask you."
"Ask me anything."
Agni took a shuddering breath. His lips trembled as he forced out the name. "Him… Neer… How… how is he?"
The air in the room seemed to grow colder, heavier. Akshay sighed, the sadness in his expression deepening. He had hoped this question wouldn't come so soon.
Akshay: "Neer… Yes. I went to Anilgarh before coming here. I saw him." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He is… in a deep, dark place of mourning, my friend. He has also lost his father. His laughter, that playful light he always carried… it's gone. Snuffed out. It's as if a different person stands in his place. I have never seen him so… broken."
Agni squeezed his eyes shut, but a fresh tear escaped, tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek. His shoulders began to shake again.
Agni (Weeping openly): "It's my fault. All of it. That day… on the field… he tried to stop me. He was screaming, 'Don't do it, Agni! Please, stop!' over and over. But I… I was blind. Blinded by pain, by fear, by the chaos. If I had just listened to him… if I had just lowered my bow…" He broke down, his words dissolving into incoherent sobs. "I am the criminal. I am the curse upon him and upon my own house."
Akshay grabbed Agni's hand, holding it tightly. "Enough, Agni. You must stop this. Here." He reached for a pitcher of water and poured a cup, pressing it into Agni's trembling hands. "Drink. Calm your breath. You cannot punish yourself into oblivion. It serves no purpose."
He helped Agni take slow sips, then guided him to lie back on the pillows. Agni's eyes were closed, his body utterly spent. But behind his eyelids, the scene played on a relentless loop: Neer's face, contorted in a scream he couldn't hear over the battle's roar, the tear tracks in the dirt on his cheeks, the look of utter betrayal in his eyes a moment before the world exploded. And then, later, the cold, dead fury in those same eyes as he unleashed the torrent that knocked Agni into darkness. A curse born from a broken heart, aimed at the one who broke it.
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A FEW DAYS LATER
A fragile, tentative rhythm began to establish itself in the palace of Tejgarh. Akshay proved to be a godsend. He did not try to make Agni rule. Instead, he became a bridge. He sat in on council meetings with Viprachit, translating the urgent needs of the kingdom repairs to border villages, disputes over lost property in the panic, the organization of a state funeral for the king and queen into small, manageable tasks. He would then bring these to Agni, not as a king, but as a friend asking for advice.
"Agni, the eastern granary roof collapsed in the last storm. The minister suggests sending five carpenters from the city guild. Do you agree?"
A slow nod from Agni.
"The widow of Captain Arjun seeks a pension.The treasury seal is needed."
Agni would wordlessly point to the small chest containing the royal seal.
Bit by bit, Agni began to emerge. First, it was just to the balcony adjoining his chamber, to feel the sun on his skin, a sensation that felt alien and harsh. Then, one evening, he followed Akshay to the private royal gardens, where the scent of night-blooming flowers tried, and failed, to mask the lingering scent of ash from the distant pyres. Finally, one morning, he walked with Akshay and Viprachit to the edge of the great Darbar Hall. He didn't enter, but stood in the shadow of the doorway, listening to the ministers discuss trade routes. It was a start.
One evening, as the sun bled a spectacular red and gold across the sky, painting the white marble towers in fiery hues, Agni stood on the highest balcony of the palace. Akshay stood a respectful few steps behind, giving him space.
Agni's gaze was locked westward, towards the distant, shadowy bulk of the Anilgarh mountains. The guilt was still there, a cold stone in his gut. The pain was still there, a constant ache. But alongside it now, faint but growing, was a new sensation: responsibility. It wasn't the glorious, destined duty of a crown prince. It was a heavy, grim obligation—a debt he owed to his parents, to his people, for the destruction he had wrought.
The wind picked up, carrying the chill of the coming night. He heard his mother's voice again, not as a curse, but as a plea. Hold it well. And hold yourself too.
He looked down at his hands, clenched on the balcony's railing. The hands that had fired the fatal arrow. The hands that had failed to hold his dying mother.
Then he looked back towards Anilgarh, towards where Neer was undoubtedly standing under the same darkening sky, nursing his own mirror-image wounds.
Into the quiet dusk, Prince Agni made a vow. He didn't speak it aloud, but its shape formed with perfect, painful clarity in his heart.
I will hold Tejgarh, Neer. I will hold it steady. Even if I must drown my own fire to do it. Even if the only flame I allow myself is the one that burns for atonement.
He knew this journey had only just begun. The path ahead was not lined with glory, but with the grim rubble of his own failures. The burden he carried was twofold: the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, and the heavier, denser weight of his own guilt in his heart. And he knew, with a certainty that was both a torture and a strange comfort, that somewhere to the west, his once-friend, now his cursed counterpart, was beginning a similar walk, carrying a weight of his own. Their paths were parallel now, divided by a valley of blood and ash, but destined, by that very curse, to forever run side by side, never to meet again, yet never to truly be apart.