The war banners of Kamboja hung heavy in the palace hall, their deep crimson folds unmoving despite the mountain wind that whistled outside. The great torches lining the obsidian-pillared chamber flickered low, casting long, distorted shadows across the cold marble floor.
Baruksha knelt in the center, his armor dulled, dirt-streaked, his blade still sheathed. Around him, generals and cultivator-priests watched in silence, their faces drawn.
At the far end of the chamber, seated upon the Black Throne of Bones, was King Vriddhashira, Lord of the Western Marches, his silver beard braided with iron rings, his eyes sharp as broken obsidian.
"You crossed their borders," the king's voice boomed, low and unforgiving. "You led thirty thousand into the enemy's land. And you return with all of them. Unbloodied. Unvictorious."
Baruksha did not lift his eyes.
"There was no war, Majesty," he said hoarsely. "Only… design. We were never meant to clash swords. We were unraveled before we knew we had begun."
The king rose, his royal jade bracelets clattering as he descended the dais. "Unraveled? By whose hand?" he demanded.
Baruksha swallowed. "Devavrata. The son of King Shantanu and the Divine River Ganga. He commands war like a god commands breath."
A silence hung, long and heavy.
Then, a dry, mocking laugh broke it—one of the elder priests sneering.
"A boy?"
Baruksha looked up at last, and in his eyes there was no shame—but awe and fear mingled like poison in wine.
"Not a boy. A will. A force. He turned mountains into weapons. He stole our resolve and fed it back to us as silence. We were never meant to die. We were meant to submit."
The king stared down at him, unmoving.
And then, slowly, he turned to the gathering.
"Summon the Inner Circle," Vriddhashira said coldly. "If Devavrata fights like a god, then we must prepare to confront the divine. No more raids. This war will not be fought in passes and whispers. "
Hastinapura – The Hall of the Ivory Throne
The sun rose golden over the towers of Hastinapura, bathing the marble city in a radiance that gleamed like burnished pearl. Horns rang out from the temple spires. Bells tolled across the city walls. From the street to the palace, voices rose—not in alarm, but in joy.
The great square outside the palace had filled long before dawn. Merchants closed their stalls. Priests abandoned their altars. Children sat on the shoulders of guards just to glimpse the royal balcony.
In the Hall of the Ivory Throne, nobles and advisors lined the colonnades, while artisans painted fresh lotus patterns on the chamber floor. At the center, seated in quiet majesty, was King Shantanu, his robes simple but his eyes bright with pride.
Devavrata entered not to fanfare, but to silence—a silence deeper and more reverent than any cheer. He wore no armor. No blade. Only white robes, lightly dusted with the dust of travel. He walked as if no battle had occurred at all.
Shantanu rose. "My son," he said, his voice steady, "you left this court with no war-drums, no boasting, no promise of conquest. And you return with not a drop of our blood spilled—yet the might of Kamboja has turned back like mist before the sun."
Devavrata bowed. "Father. The mountain fought for us. I merely whispered to it."
A ripple of laughter spread gently through the chamber, warm and proud.
Then came the minister of records, unrolling a parchment.
"Let it be known," he called aloud, "that on this day of Gṛishma's Third Rising, the armies of Hastinapura held the Ajana Pass without sword or arrow. By design, by will, by command—Prince Devavrata ensured a victory that the world shall remember not in songs of blood, but in tales of wisdom."
The crowd erupted in cheers. From the balconies above, garlands rained down. The people shouted his name: Gangeya! Gangeya!
But Devavrata stood still.
He turned to his father and said, "Let them cheer, if it brings peace. But peace is not a moment—it is a vigilance. The mountain does not sleep twice."
Shantanu placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then may it never sleep while you stand watch, my son."
And in that moment, the boy who was raised by the Divine River became, in the eyes of the kingdom, something more.
Not just heir.
Not just warrior.
But Protector of the Dharma.
And the shadow that would never falter.
The Black Ember Circle – Kamboja's Secret Council
Night fell thick upon the Kamboja capital. Its towers, usually wreathed in torchlight, stood dark. The king had ordered it so.
Within the heart of the Iron Citadel, beneath layers of stone and silence, a chamber lay buried far below the earth—older than Kamboja itself. A place not even the generals dared speak of aloud. The Sanctum of Black Embers.
Here, King Vriddhashira descended alone.
The iron doors groaned shut behind him as the final torch flickered out. The walls shimmered with ancient warding glyphs—etched in silver flame, writhing with subtle malice. The air was thick with incense made from crushed bone-lotus and ashen mandrake. A scent that coiled around the mind like a serpent.
At the center of the circular stone chamber, seven figures sat robed in shades of smoke and crimson. Their faces were masked in onyx, but the power in the room shifted at their slightest movement. These were no ordinary ascetics. They were the Vratyas—the militant cultivator sect who had once trained in the Void Temples beyond the western cliffs. Cultivators who had long cast aside balance for supremacy.
The tallest among them spoke first. His voice slithered rather than rang.
"You summoned the Ember Circle, King. Does this mean you are ready to break the old oath?"
Vriddhashira stood before them, hands behind his back, cloak trailing like shadow.
"I am ready," he said. "Hastinapura must fall."
A hiss like wind through bone passed through the circle.
Another figure leaned forward, fingers adorned with red iron talismans. "The boy-commander shattered your army's will with illusions and passive arrays. Would you challenge such a mind in open war?"
"I will not match his brilliance," the king growled. "I will unmake it. From the inside."
He unrolled a dark scroll—sealed in wax and bound with serpent-hair thread. A war doctrine written not in ink, but in memory fragments stolen from dead sages.
"This is the map to the Nāga Gateways beneath Ajana. Forbidden ley-line vaults that pierce beneath the spine of the continent. Your Order once feared them. But I say: awaken them. Let them bleed into the mortal realm once more."
One of the Vratyas chuckled, slow and cold.
"You would unleash what the ancient kings sealed away?"
Vriddhashira's eyes burned. "I would unleash what wins."
Silence.
Then, as one, the seven figures rose.
The head among them removed his mask. Beneath it was a face of stone. Not metaphorically—truly stone—etched with living runes, eyes gleaming with inner fire.
"So be it," he said. "The Vratyas will break their bindings. The Kamboja shall no longer march like men. They shall strike like unseen blades of the underworld."
A ritual dagger was placed before the king.
He took it without hesitation, sliced his palm, and let the blood fall into a waiting ember bowl.
The flames turned black.