Chapter 7: The Court of Rituals
Ritual, Abhinav discovered, was governance disguised as devotion.
The summons arrived wrapped in sanctity. At dawn, bells rang across the palace complex—deep, resonant tones that vibrated through stone and bone alike. Attendants moved with renewed urgency, their expressions solemn, as if the day itself demanded obedience.
"The temple court convenes," one whispered, fastening a sash around Abhinav's waist. "It is an auspicious hour."
Auspicious for whom, Abhinav wondered, but kept the question to himself.
They led him through open courtyards washed in early light. The scent of incense was stronger here, layered with flowers and clarified butter. Priests gathered beneath carved pillars, their chants overlapping in measured cadence. Every gesture—every step, every pause—had been rehearsed for generations.
At the center of the temple hall stood the altar, heavy with offerings. Beyond it, arranged in a semicircle, sat men whose authority did not require weapons. Their power lay in memory, lineage, and repetition.
Abhinav bowed as expected.
An elderly priest stepped forward, voice ringing clear. "Prince Abhinav, you stand before the guardians of dharma. Your illness has stirred omens."
Omens were convenient things. They explained fear without admitting it.
"I survived," Abhinav said evenly. "If that is an omen, I am grateful."
A ripple of disapproval passed through the gathered priests.
"You speak plainly," the priest said. "Plain speech before the gods is dangerous."
"Before the people as well," Abhinav replied. "Yet they listen to it."
Silence followed. Somewhere, a lamp guttered.
Acharya Somadeva sat among them, hands folded, watching. His face betrayed nothing.
Another priest rose. Younger, sharper. "Tradition holds this land together. Kings rise and fall, but ritual endures. You would do well to remember your place within it."
Abhinav inclined his head. "I wish to understand it better."
That, he sensed, unsettled them more than defiance would have.
The ceremony continued. Abhinav poured water, recited verses, traced symbols whose meanings layered over one another like sediment. His body remembered when his mind did not. Each movement reinforced belonging—and constraint.
As chants swelled, Abhinav felt the weight of collective belief pressing inward. This was not mere superstition. It was social cohesion made sacred. To challenge it openly would be to fracture the city.
When the final bell rang, the priests withdrew in quiet satisfaction. The ritual had reaffirmed order.
As Abhinav turned to leave, Somadeva rose and joined him, walking at his side through the colonnade.
"You see now," the Acharya said softly, "why ritual cannot be discarded."
"Yes," Abhinav replied. "And why it must be understood."
Somadeva stopped. "Understanding leads to change."
"Sometimes," Abhinav said, "it leads to patience."
The Acharya studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Be careful, Prince. Those who guard ritual believe they guard the world itself."
Abhinav watched the priests disappear into the inner sanctum. He felt no urge to tear the structure down.
Yet.
As the sun climbed higher, Abhinav carried the truth with him like a hidden blade:
Ritual was not the enemy.
Rigidity was.
And any future worth building would have to pass through this court—unchallenged, unbroken, but quietly transformed.