Chapter 3: Prince Abhinav
Normalcy, Abhinav learned quickly, was a performance.
The morning rituals began before the sun had fully risen. He was washed, anointed, and dressed by practiced hands that never once asked permission. Warm water poured over his shoulders. Oils were pressed into his hair. Cotton and silk were layered onto his body with ceremonial precision. Each gesture assumed familiarity—assumed obedience.
He let it happen.
To resist would invite questions. To question would invite scrutiny. And scrutiny, he sensed, would be fatal.
As attendants worked, Abhinav watched them from behind lowered lashes, memorizing faces, rhythms, hierarchy. Who spoke first. Who avoided eye contact. Who touched him without fear. Data, he reminded himself, was survival.
When they finished, they stepped back as one.
The boy reflected in the polished bronze mirror was not Arjun Menon.
His face was younger, softer at the edges, framed by dark hair still damp with oil. The eyes, however—those were familiar. Alert. Measuring. Already tired.
A name surfaced in his thoughts, unbidden yet certain.
Abhinav.
The door opened.
An elderly man entered, bare-chested save for a simple cloth draped over one shoulder, sacred thread crossing his torso. His forehead bore ash markings. His gaze was sharp, assessing.
"Prince Abhinav," he said, voice calm but probing. "Do you recognize me?"
A test.
Memories stirred—another life's memories. Lessons beneath banyan trees. Long recitations. Stern corrections.
"Acharya Somadeva," Abhinav replied, inclining his head just enough to show respect without submission.
The scholar's eyes narrowed—not with anger, but curiosity.
"You have been ill," Somadeva said. "Fever can loosen the tongue… and the mind."
Abhinav met his gaze steadily. "It can also sharpen it."
A flicker. Approval? Concern? It vanished too quickly to name.
Before Somadeva could respond, drums sounded from beyond the chamber—slow, measured. Announcement, not alarm.
"The court awaits," the Acharya said. "The Zamorin wishes to see you."
The word carried weight.
They walked through corridors Abhinav had never seen and somehow knew. Pillars carved with stories. Floors worn smooth by centuries of bare feet. Light filtered through latticed windows, casting patterned shadows that shifted as they moved—nothing here was accidental.
The court assembled in tiers. Merchants in fine cloth. Warriors with relaxed hands near sword hilts. Priests robed in authority older than kings. At the center, elevated yet not isolated, sat the ruler of Calicut.
Zamorin Manavikraman.
He was older than Abhinav had imagined. Not frail—seasoned. His eyes were steady, unreadable, the eyes of a man who had learned when to listen and when to wait.
Abhinav approached and bowed, copying the motion his body remembered.
"Rise," the Zamorin said. His voice carried without effort. "They tell me death nearly took you."
Abhinav chose his words carefully. "It took something, my lord. I am not certain what."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the court.
The Zamorin studied him for a long moment. "And what did it give you in return?"
The trap was subtle.
Abhinav thought of fire and equations. Of empires and famine. Of futures that should not exist.
"It reminded me," he said slowly, "that life is fragile—and wasteful if not used well."
Silence followed. Then, unexpectedly, the Zamorin laughed. Softly.
"Spoken like a merchant," he said. "Or a philosopher."
Eyes shifted. Lines were drawn.
The Zamorin leaned forward. "You are young, Abhinav. The court will watch you now—closely. Illness changes men."
"I welcome their gaze," Abhinav replied, surprising himself with the truth of it. "It will teach me."
Somadeva's expression tightened.
The Zamorin rose, signaling the end of the audience. "Rest today. Tomorrow, you return to your lessons."
As the court dispersed, Abhinav felt the weight of dozens of eyes linger on him—calculating, hopeful, suspicious.
He walked back through the corridors alone.
In his chamber, the incense still burned.
Abhinav stood very still and allowed himself one quiet breath.
The performance had begun.
And somewhere within it, he would have to decide—not who he was pretending to be—but who he was willing to become.