The Vyangadesh palace is quieter now, but tension lingers like a storm that has passed but may return. Guards patrol silently, and whispers of Karan's failed rebellion still echo through the marble corridors.
King Raghunath sits on his throne, expression as cold and sharp as a blade. Before him knelt the captured nobles who conspired with Karan but survived, unlike other nobles, their faces pale, eyes wide with fear. Some are chained; others tremble at the thought of the king's wrath.
"You see what defiance brings," Raghunath says, voice low but cutting through the hall like steel. "You, Karan's family, remember this. Should you or your line ever dare the same folly… it will be your end. And I do not hesitate."
Near the center of the hall, two small figures stand silently beside their mother, five-year-old twins, clutching each other's hands. They are Vasudha and Aditya, children of the late Karan, heirs to a house now brought low. Though too young to fully understand the politics around them, their presence is a living reminder of Karan's bloodline — a bloodline the king does not forget.
Raghunath's gaze sweeps over them, sharp and cold. "Remember this, Vasudha, Aditya," he says, voice low and deliberate. "Your father's mistakes must never be repeated. One misstep, and you too will pay."
The nobles glance at the children, understanding the implicit threat. Though the little ones cannot respond, their fear is visible — and so is the twisted seed the king has planted in their hearts: survival at any cost, and one day… perhaps revenge.
Karan's widow stands slightly apart, her face pale but composed. Though grief has carved lines into her features, there is a spark of determination in her eyes. She steps forward, voice measured, careful.
"Your Majesty," she says, bowing slightly, "with your permission, I will act as temporary head of our house… until my children come of age. I… I will ensure loyalty and compliance, so that the errors of my late husband are not repeated."
Raghunath narrows his eyes, studying her closely. "Do not forget, widow," he says, voice low and dangerous. "One misstep and your house ends. Every breath your children take is because I allow it. Do not mistake my mercy for weakness."
She bows again, heart hammering. "I understand, Your Majesty. I will not fail."
Later, Harishchandra, barely three years old, perched on a small velvet cushion beside his mother and his father, watching him, radiated a confidence far beyond his years. His dark eyes gleamed with curiosity and cunning, a mischievous spark that hinted at the power brewing within him. Damini's smile was faint, measured — a reflection of the control and influence she already held through her son.
A trembling noble stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Your Majesty… surely the boy is too young to—"
Raghunath's gaze swept over him, cold and unforgiving. "Do not presume to lecture me," he said, voice sharp and slicing through the hall like steel. "This child, though small, is already stronger than many men here. Blood does not lie, and in Vyangadesh, blood commands obedience."
He leaned forward, the shadow of his power pressing down on everyone in the chamber. "Underestimate him," the king continued, his tone like ice and fire combined, "and you will learn what it means to face not just a boy, but the storm that rises from my own bloodline."
The nobles shivered, their courage faltering. The subtle hum of magic in the air, the faint glint of the king's sword, the promise of arrows not yet loosed — it all spoke louder than any threat could. Even the bravest bent slightly, understanding that in Vyangadesh, defiance came with a price heavier than death itself
The hall remains tense, every noble present aware that the balance of power has shifted irreversibly. Harishchandra giggles softly, amused by the silent fear in the room, the clever spark in his eyes already showing that he will grow up spoiled, cunning, and dangerously powerful, much like his mother.