Morning in Hastinapura did not begin with sunlight.
It began with sound.
The low creak of gates opening along the outer walls. The call of guards changing shifts. The distant thud of wooden wheels as carts rolled in from the eastern road, grain sacks tied down with rope that had seen too many seasons to still be new. The city woke itself gradually, layer by layer, as it always had.
Devavrata was awake before all of it.
He stood in the inner courtyard of the palace, barefoot on the stone, the chill of early air grounding him. A shallow basin sat nearby, water still and unbroken. He had washed, dressed, and prepared without assistance. He preferred it that way.
From where he stood, the palace unfolded outward in ordered symmetry. Colonnades lined the courtyard, their pillars carved with motifs of lions, lotuses, and river patterns worn smooth by time. Beyond them lay the training grounds where soldiers would soon gather, and beyond that, the city itself.
Hastinapura was not beautiful in the way poets described distant capitals. It was solid. Built to last. Stone upon stone, layered over generations, each ruler adding to what already stood rather than tearing it down. There were older walls beneath the newer ones, foundations laid by kings whose names survived only in records and ritual.
Devavrata liked that about the city.
It reminded him that no one ruled alone, and no one ruled forever.
He moved through the corridors toward the outer terrace, passing servants who bowed quickly and guards who straightened at his approach. Their reactions had changed over the years. As a child, he had been indulged. As a youth, he had been respected. Now, as a man, he was… measured.
People watched him carefully.
He noticed the way conversations paused when he entered a space. The way advice was phrased more cautiously around him. The way older ministers looked at him with something close to expectation, and younger ones with something closer to anxiety.
Succession had a weight, even when unspoken.
Devavrata reached the terrace overlooking the city. The river was visible from here, cutting a steady line through the landscape. Barges moved along it in disciplined order, guided by poles and rope. The water reflected the sky without interest, unchanged by human intention.
He leaned against the railing, hands resting lightly on the stone.
Voices drifted upward from the lower courtyard.
"They say the fisherman's daughter will be queen."
"That cannot be decided so lightly."
"The king has not said otherwise."
"And the prince?"
Silence followed.
Devavrata did not turn.
He had learned to listen without reacting. It was a skill taught quietly, not through instruction but necessity. Words spoken around him often revealed more than words spoken to him ever would.
Later that morning, he attended the outer council session.
He was not invited to speak, and he did not expect to be. His role was understood. He stood behind the throne, slightly to the right, where he could see the faces of those who spoke and those who chose not to.
The council chamber was long and rectangular, its ceiling supported by thick wooden beams darkened with age. The floor bore faint lines where ceremonial mats had once been placed for gatherings long past. Incense burned near the far wall, its scent mild and restrained.
Ministers spoke of harvest projections, of disputes between border villages, of tribute from allied states. All necessary. All routine.
And yet, the tension lay beneath every exchange.
Devavrata watched as one minister hesitated before recommending an increase in river tolls. Another cleared his throat twice before offering agreement. Several avoided looking in his direction altogether.
When the session ended, Devavrata lingered while the others departed.
One of the older ministers approached him cautiously.
"My prince," he said, bowing low. "You listen carefully."
Devavrata inclined his head. "It is my duty."
The minister hesitated. "The kingdom listens as well."
Devavrata did not respond.
The man exhaled softly and moved on.
Outside, the palace grounds were already busy. Soldiers gathered near the training yard, adjusting armor straps and testing weapons. The clang of metal echoed faintly, rhythmic and familiar.
Devavrata walked among them.
They greeted him respectfully, but without fear. Many had trained under his supervision. He did not correct harshly. He did not praise excessively. He demonstrated. He expected imitation.
A young soldier approached him, helmet tucked beneath his arm.
"My prince," the man said. "Is it true?"
Devavrata raised an eyebrow slightly. "Truth travels faster than discipline," he replied. "Be careful which one you trust."
The soldier flushed and bowed, retreating quickly.
Devavrata continued on.
As he walked, memories surfaced unbidden.
Standing at the river as a child, watching the water move endlessly forward. Ganga's voice, calm and distant, speaking of belonging and freedom. His father's silence, heavy and careful, shaping the space around him.
He had never asked why his mother left.
Not because he did not care.
Because he understood that some questions changed nothing.
By midday, the palace buzzed with quiet speculation.
Servants whispered in shaded corridors. Courtiers spoke in half sentences. Satyavati was seen walking the inner gardens with her father, her posture composed, her expression unreadable.
Devavrata saw her once, from a distance.
She stood beneath a flowering tree, her hands folded loosely before her. She spoke softly to her father, who listened with the attentiveness of a man used to command within his own sphere. They looked, Devavrata thought, like people accustomed to understanding their place in the world.
Not entitled. Not apologetic.
Certain.
That certainty unsettled him more than ambition would have.
He returned to his chambers as evening approached.
The room was simple by palace standards. A low bed. A wooden chest. Shelves lined with scrolls and training manuals. Weapons rested along one wall, cleaned and maintained but rarely displayed.
Devavrata sat at the low table and unrolled a scroll without reading it.
He thought instead.
About what it meant to inherit a kingdom.
He had been taught that kingship was not possession, but stewardship. That the land did not belong to the king, but the king belonged to the land. That blood alone did not grant authority. It granted responsibility.
He had believed those lessons fully.
But now, he saw their limits.
Kingship was also agreement. Between ruler and ruled. Between past and future. Between power and acceptance.
Satyavati's father had named that truth plainly.
Her son must inherit.
Devavrata understood the demand instinctively. A queen without assurance was a vulnerability. A line without legitimacy invited conflict. The fisherman was not greedy. He was protective.
And his protection collided directly with Devavrata's existence.
The realization did not bring anger.
It brought clarity.
Devavrata rose and walked to the window.
From here, he could see the great hall where assemblies were held. The wide stone steps leading up to it. The massive doors carved with symbols of lineage and conquest. The space where decisions were made public and irreversible.
He imagined himself standing there.
Not as heir.
As obstacle.
The thought settled heavily.
In Hastinapura, vows were not gestures. They were contracts sealed by reputation, ritual, and consequence. A man who broke a vow did not simply lose honor. He lost place. Community. Sometimes life.
Devavrata had seen widows who refused remarriage because of vows spoken at fourteen. Warriors who fought beyond injury because retreat would violate an oath taken before witnesses. Priests who starved rather than abandon rituals sworn to deities that never spoke back.
Vows endured because society enforced them.
And because people believed in them.
Devavrata closed his eyes.
He saw the pattern clearly now.
The kingdom required continuity. Satyavati required assurance. His father required peace. All of it pointed in one direction.
Toward him.
When Shantanu summoned him that night, Devavrata was not surprised.
They sat together in silence for a long time before either spoke.
"You have heard," Shantanu said at last.
"Yes," Devavrata replied.
Shantanu looked at his son, searching his face for something. Resistance. Anger. Hurt.
He found none of those.
"I have not spoken to you of it," Shantanu said.
Devavrata inclined his head. "You did not need to."
Shantanu's shoulders sagged slightly.
"There are moments," he said, "when a king must choose between people he loves."
Devavrata met his gaze steadily.
"And there are moments," he said, "when a son must understand why."
Silence followed.
Shantanu looked away.
Devavrata stood.
"I will consider what the kingdom requires," he said.
He bowed deeply, not as a son, but as a subject.
When he left the chamber, Shantanu remained seated, staring at the space his son had occupied.
Devavrata returned to his room and closed the door behind him.
The decision had not yet been spoken.
But it had been made.
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End of Chapter 9