The first child arrived with a guard.
The second came with a clerk.
By the third, no one pretended it was a coincidence.
They arrived in twos and threes, not as a formal procession, not heralded by drum or decree. A son of Zafar Khan, the Amil whose ledgers governed every grain of tax and trade in the district. A daughter of a revenue officer whose seal stamped the emperor's will into coin. A boy whose father's quiet signature moved fortunes through the Fort's clerks without a word spoken aloud. Some entered openly through the main gate, heads high under watchful eyes; others slipped in quietly via side paths, names whispered once to the gatekeeper and never committed to paper.
By noon the rumor had spread faster than dust in the wind.
"They say the Fort children are being taught here."
"They say the Faujdar himself approved it."
"They say the teacher makes ministers' heirs sit like common boys on plain mats."
The teaching hall had once been a storage room—thick stone walls that swallowed sound, narrow windows that admitted only slivers of light, a floor that stayed cool even when the sun scorched the courtyard outside. Mats lay in straight, unyielding lines. No cushions softened the stone. No raised dais elevated the instructor.
Raghuveer stood at the front, hands folded behind his back, watching the children settle. Their fine silks and embroidered kurtas looked almost comical against the stark simplicity of the room.
Viren Singh Rathod arrived last.
Not because he was late—but because everyone waited.
He entered without flourish, dressed in plain cotton, a wooden practice sword belted at his side. He nodded once to Raghuveer and took his place among the others. Some children straightened instinctively. Others stole glances, then looked away.
Raghuveer allowed the silence to grow heavy.
"Before we begin," he said calmly, "understand this: rank does not sit here. Only attention does."
No one spoke.
"This lesson will repeat," he continued. "Not once. Not twice. Until it becomes habit."
He walked slowly down the rows.
"Today we learn how judgment fails."
Brows furrowed. Judgment was the daily work of their fathers—Faujdars enforcing order, Amils tallying revenue, officers deciding whose claim held weight.
"Tell me," Raghuveer said, pausing beside the son of Zafar Khan, "when two men come before a court, who is right?"
"The one with proof," the boy answered without hesitation.
Raghuveer nodded. "Good. And when proof is unclear?"
"The one who speaks better," offered Zafar Khan's daughter, her voice steady.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
Raghuveer's gaze swept them all. "And when one of them reminds you of yourself? Or your father? Or someone you fear?"
Silence fell like a curtain.
"That," Raghuveer said quietly, "is bias."
He clapped once.
Two assistants—servants chosen and trained for this—stepped forward. They bowed, then launched into a staged argument, voices rising in controlled fury. One accused the other of stealing grain from a shared store. Accusations sharpened. Gestures grew sharp.
Raghuveer watched the children's faces, not the performance.
"Who do you believe?" he asked abruptly.
Answers tumbled out. Most pointed to the confident accuser. One girl favored the older man. Viren remained silent.
Raghuveer raised a hand. The argument ceased.
"Why him?" he asked the girl.
"He didn't hesitate. He sounded sure."
"And you?" he asked a boy.
"He reminded me of my uncle," the boy admitted, flushing.
Raghuveer's faint smile acknowledged the honesty. "Good. You noticed."
He addressed them all. "Bias is not evil. It is human. But an administrator who cannot see his own bias becomes a weapon in another's hand."
He paced again.
"Correction begins with recognition. Ask yourself: Why does this face feel familiar? Why does that voice grate? Why does silence unsettle me?"
Viren raised his hand.
Raghuveer nodded.
"If we know an enemy's bias," Viren said carefully, "can we use it?"
Raghuveer's eyes sharpened—not in warning, but in approval.
"Yes," he said. "Because if you know your enemy's personal bias, or if your enemy knows yours, it can be turned in war, in negotiations, in any contest where minds meet. But first you must master your own. Otherwise you wield the wrong weapon—and cut yourself. Bias should be removed because the enemy can use it against you."
The lesson unfolded not as lecture, but as living motion.
A mock petition was read aloud. Then a courtroom vignette enacted. Raghuveer altered tiny details—tone, posture, a single pause—and watched judgment tilt invisibly. He pointed out each bend in perception before anyone noticed it had bent.
"No writing today," he said. "Memory only."
He taught association without naming it theory.
"To remember a man," he instructed, "attach him to a sound. A smell. A mistake he repeats. Memory is not rote repetition—it is pattern."
He had them repeat phrases softly, like mantras, each linked to an image or gesture. The children thought it ritual. Raghuveer knew it was discipline.
Distant horse hooves clattered beyond the walls—another messenger, another rumor—but inside, focus held.
By the second repetition of the exercise, the room had shifted.
The children spoke less. They watched more.
Viren struggled at first—his mind raced ahead, answering before the question finished. Raghuveer corrected him once. Viren tried again and earned a second correction.
On the third attempt, Viren paused. He waited. Then spoke.
Raghuveer said nothing. The approving silence was enough.
Outside the Fort, the rumor had reached sharper ears.
Grain traders caught it first in the market's clamor. Not the details—storehouse, direct purchase—but the shadow it cast.
Farmers had begun hesitating.
Not refusing. Just waiting to see what came next.
That hesitation was enough.
By evening three major traders met behind a shuttered shop. A middleman joined them, sweat gleaming on his neck from the day's heat.
"They're building something," one muttered. "Walls. Storehouses, maybe."
"Walls don't fill granaries," another scoffed. "Price does."
They agreed quickly.
They would lower selling prices in the market just enough—undercut rivals to squeeze margins thin. At the same time, they would raise what they paid farmers by a coin or two when buying direct.
Not generosity. Pressure.
Before the rumor, a farmer might have received fifteen coins for his sack. Now seventeen arrived in his palm, no argument, no haggling.
"Let them think we're kinder," the middleman said. "They'll come back when the storehouse rumor fades."
It was clever. Too clever for honest men.
In the village the change struck fast.
A farmer returned home with more coins than usual. His wife stared at the small pile as if it might disappear with dawn.
"They paid extra," he said simply. "No arguing."
That night the family ate together without counting rotis first.
The youngest child ate until full, belly round. The mother laughed once—startled by the sound after so many lean evenings. The father said nothing. He simply watched the oil lamp burn steadily, its flame unwavering in the still air.
Yet in the back of his mind, the farmer wondered if this extra coin was a gift or a lure. The traders had never been kind without reason before. Still, for tonight, the lamp burned bright, and the family slept with full stomachs for the first time in months. Tomorrow would reveal the true cost, but hope lingered in the quiet.