It was the middle of the night when Advika and Nusrat were roused by Saanvi's urgent, insistent call. Nusrat had insisted on staying in the same room as Advika after the past few harrowing days, unwilling to leave her alone.

"Chutki, what's wrong?" Advika murmured, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"I was in Bhaiya's room," Saanvi whispered, her voice trembling, "when Uncle came in. He fed Bhaiya something... I think it's wrong. He had this... smile on his face after Bhaiya drank it all without protest."

"Fed something?" Nusrat's voice dropped, then she gasped. "Oh no... Advika, what if it was poison?"

Advika's own gasp echoed the fear in the room. "We need to go to Bhaiya's room NOW. Saanvi, help Nusrat grab salt. I'll sneak into his room through the secret tunnels."

Without hesitation, Nusrat and Saanvi dashed to gather the salt, while Advika slipped silently through the hidden passage. Her eyes widened as she saw Devansh tossing and turning, fidgeting restlessly. The signs were unmistakable. The poison was taking hold.

Moments later, Saanvi and Nusrat returned with the salt. Advika quickly mixed it into water, and together, she and Nusrat forced Devansh to drink it, glass after glass.

He struggled weakly against them, but the sickness had drained much of his strength. Relief washed over Advika when she managed to turn him to his side, allowing him to vomit up the poison and the thick phlegm that had clogged his throat.

"S-Saanvi? What did you do?" Devansh croaked, his voice hoarse and laced with disbelief. Then, he realized immediately that breathing felt easier, his body lighter, and the choking weight lifted. 

Advika gave him a reassuring glance. "You're safe now, Bhaiya," she whispered, gripping his hand tightly. "But we have to be more careful than ever. Uncle's planning... something."

"What... what do you mean, Bachcha?" Devansh asked, his voice a mix of confusion and concern.

Advika took a steadying breath and recounted everything... the story she had shared with Surya. She explained how she had overheard their uncle plotting to kill her on her wedding day after first eliminating Devansh. Her eyes hardened as she added, "And my spy saw him prepare some green liquid, claiming it was medicine for you. That's why I had to force you to vomit it... to save your life."

The color drained from Devansh's face. His fingers curled into the bedsheet until his knuckles blanched, disbelief and fury twisting together in his eyes. "If I die, then... King Surya will become the king. But if you don't get married..." he trailed off, the thought choking him. His lips tightened, and he muttered bitterly, "All this... just to take over the throne? How greedy... how cruel!"

Silence pressed down on the chamber, so heavy that even the night wind outside seemed to hesitate at the window. The betrayal hung between them like a blade, and both knew the palace would never be safe again.

"Saanvi, bachcha... I'm already sick. And no one so far has survived this illness," Devansh said, his voice heavy with regret. "I want to give you something." 

He turned toward Nusrat, his eyes tired but resolute. "Ms. Nusrat, please... open that chest and take out the dagger from there."

Nusrat's hands trembled as she obeyed, bringing the dagger forward. Devansh accepted it with a faint, weary smile.

"Saanvi, this was Father's dagger... the royal dagger of Rajmanya. He gave it to me before I went to join King Surya at the battlefield. This dagger has belonged to the kings of this kingdom for generations. I... I don't think I will live long enough to honor it fully. So I'm entrusting it to you. Keep it safe. Use it, or give it to King Surya after your wedding. This dagger and the royal seal are the two things anyone would need to become the next king of Rajmanya. Hide it. Even if Uncle manages to seize the seal, he cannot ascend the throne without this dagger." he explained.

His voice cracked, the weight of his words pressing down on them all. "I'm sorry, my dear sister. As your older brother, it was my duty to protect you, yet here I am... fallen sick like a child."

Advika's tears spilled freely. She rushed to him, wrapping her arms tightly around her brother, sobbing. Devansh held her close, the two of them clinging to each other as the shadows of illness and betrayal loomed around them.

Advika pulled back slightly, brushing away her tears, her hands still gripping the dagger tightly. She looked at Nusrat and Saanvi, her expression a mix of fear, determination, and urgency.

"Listen carefully," she said, her voice firm despite the quiver in her chest. "We cannot let anyone get their hands on this dagger or the royal seal. Arindam chachaji has already shown what he's capable of. If he succeeds... everything will be lost."

Advika thought quickly. "We need a plan. First, the dagger and seal must be hidden in separate, secure places. They can't even be in the same room together. I'll take care of the seal, hide it somewhere only I know. I'll personally guard the dagger." She turned the dagger over in her hands, feeling its weight, its history. "Nusrat, stay near bhaiya. Take care of him. Make sure he's safe while I go to get the seal. We have to act before chachaji suspects anything."

Nusrat nodded, swallowing hard.

Saanvi's ghost hovered nearby, her presence calm yet resolute. "I know where father kept the seal the last time he used it. Come." She floated toward the hidden passage, beckoning Advika to follow.

Advika gave Devansh a final glance, her heart aching. "Bhaiya, I'll be back soon. Promise me you'll stay strong."

Devansh nodded faintly, trying to muster a smile. Advika turned and followed Saanvi into the tunnel, leaving the room in a hushed silence.

Once the door clicked shut behind her, Nusrat stepped closer to Devansh, her hands trembling as she reached for his. "We will try our best to find a cure for you. You just have to hold on a little longer, Your Highness," she urged softly.

Devansh gave her a weak, crooked smile. "Ms. Nusrat, I don't think I'll last more than a few days. The sickness was already enough, and on top of that... we don't even know what kind of poison I was given. Even if I vomited it up, there must be some side effect waiting to strike." He sighed, leaning back against the pillows.

For a moment, the heaviness in the air pressed down between them until he suddenly blurted, with a sheepish grin, "I know I shouldn't be saying things like this right now, but... Ms. Nusrat, I think I fell in love with you. If I survive this, will you marry me?"

Nusrat's cheeks flushed crimson. "I... I wish that was possible."

Devansh frowned like a sulky child. "Why not? If I survive, I'll be the king. Kings can do whatever they want, can't they?" He puffed his chest a little, clearly trying to look less like a sick man and more like a monarch.

Nusrat winced, torn between laughter and sadness. "It's not that simple. We belong to different religions. And I... I can only marry a Muslim man."

"Oh." Devansh blinked, then groaned dramatically, throwing his head back on the pillow. "Right. Religion. I always forget that one tiny detail." He peeked at her from the corner of his eye, mischief glinting faintly through the pain. "You know, you could've just lied to me. I'm literally dying here." He gave her a comical little pout.

Nusrat pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. "Lying is a sin," she reminded him, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Cruel honesty is worse," he muttered under his breath, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his act.

For a fleeting moment, despite the shadows of sickness and poison, the room filled with something warm and light. A sweetness neither of them wanted to let go of.

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The battlefield still smelled of blood, steel, and smoke. The cries of victory echoed across the war-torn plain, soldiers raising their weapons to the sky as drums beat in celebration. Broken banners of the enemy lay scattered across the ground, trampled beneath the feet of jubilant warriors.

King Surya Aditya sat beneath a war tent lit by flickering torches, a goblet of wine in his hand. His generals surrounded him, their laughter booming as they celebrated not only victory, but the complete annihilation of the enemy forces. Meghdhar was safe again; its walls unbroken, its people freed from fear.

But Surya's gaze wandered away from the revelry. The wine tasted like ash on his tongue. But Surya's mind was elsewhere. Even as victory banners fluttered in the night breeze, his thoughts strayed far from Meghdhar's reclaimed lands. They drifted back to Rajmanya... to its palace halls, to its people, and most of all, to the one person whose smile steadied his heart. His beloved, his Saanvi.

When Crown Prince Devansh had received word of a mysterious illness striking Rajmanya, Surya himself had urged the young man to return. It had been more than six days since then, and still no word had reached him. The silence gnawed at him more than any enemy blade ever could.

The rhythmic thunder of hooves broke through the night. Surya straightened as a rider, cloaked in dust and sweat, burst into camp. The man bore Rajmanya's crest, his armor marked by the familiar insignia, and the token of Devansh hung at his side.

The soldier dismounted swiftly, falling to one knee before the king. "Long live the King!" he saluted breathlessly. "Your Majesty, His Highness has sent an urgent message."

Surya's chest tightened. He set his goblet aside, his voice clipped. "Speak. What message?"

The soldier's eyes glistened as he delivered the words. "His Majesty King Raghunath and Her Majesty Queen Sampriti passed away two days ago. Crown Prince Devansh has also fallen sick and fears he may not survive. He bids you... to look after Princess Saanvi and Rajmanya, should the worst come to pass."

The goblet slipped from Surya's hand, the wine staining the earth like blood. For a moment, the battlefield noise faded into a hollow silence. His hand tightened into a fist, knuckles whitening. The image of the king and queen; healthy, smiling, their blessings warm upon him. It hadn't even been twenty five days... now gone forever.

Surya drew in a sharp breath, but it caught in his chest as his thoughts flew to her. His Saanvi. His love. What torment was she enduring, losing her parents, watching her brother fight death itself? The ache in his heart was sharper than any wound he had ever borne in battle.

He turned to the weary messenger, his expression firm but not unkind. "Tomorrow at first light, you'll ride back to Rajmanya with my message that I march for them without delay. For tonight, eat and rest. You've carried heavy news; you've done your duty well."

Then Surya faced his generals, his voice ringing with authority. "General Satya. General Ranvijay." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, heavy with a decision made. "I see the weariness on the faces of my army. They have fought with the courage of lions for weeks. They are battle-worn." He continued, the command firm. "General Satya, you will take half of the Royal Guard and ninety percent of the soldiers back to Simhapatra. Our kingdom must not be left vulnerable, and our men must rest."

His eyes shifted to Ranvijay. "General Ranvijay, gather the rest of the Royal Guard and a small, uninjured troop of men. We ride for Rajmanya at dawn. Let every soldier understand this clearly: we do not march to claim what is not ours. We march to guard Rajmanya, to honor the bond of friendship and blood I swore to King Raghunath." His tone softened, the steel in his gaze giving way to a flicker of raw emotion. "But more than that... my Saanvi needs me. I will not leave her to face this storm alone."

General Ranvijay bowed his head with conviction. "We will protect our queen, your majesty... at any cost."

Unknown to them, danger already lurked in their midst. Among the Rajmanya soldiers who had been sent to aid Surya in battle was a man whose loyalty did not lie with his king, but with Arindam.

The guard had kept his silence throughout the war, blending in with the others. But the moment he overheard Surya's command to march for Rajmanya, his heart pounded with treachery. He knew this was the news Arindam would want immediately.

Slipping away under the cover of celebration, he entered his tent and unfastened a small wooden cage. Inside, a sleek black pigeon stirred. The guard tied a narrow strip of parchment to its leg. On it, hastily scrawled words:

"King S marches for Rajmanya at dawn with his army.
He suspects something. Intends to protect the princess."

With a sharp whistle, he released the bird into the night sky. Its wings cut through the darkness, carrying betrayal straight to Arindam.

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Arindam stood outside Crown Prince Devansh's chamber, hands clasped behind his back, his face carefully composed into a mask of concern. A few loyal ministers flanked him, murmuring prayers under their breath as the royal physician tended to the prince inside.

Moments later, the physician emerged, his expression heavy with worry.

"Vaid ji," Arindam stepped forward, voice laced with just the right amount of anxiety. "How is our beloved Crown Prince? Tell us... is he improving?"

The physician sighed, shaking his head. "His Highness is weakening with each passing hour. We are trying everything within our knowledge, but the sickness clings to him like a shadow. At this point..." he hesitated, lowering his eyes, "...only God's grace can save the prince."

Arindam's brows knit together, his lips pressing into a thin line. "He's... weakening," he repeated slowly, as if the word didn't fit the picture in his mind. His tone puzzled a few ministers, but none thought twice about it. They only saw a grieving uncle's sorrow.

But inside, his thoughts churned darkly. 'Weakened? That poison should have devoured him from within, left him gasping, broken. Not this slow decline...' Trying to mask the flicker of doubt in his eyes, Arindam asked casually, "So he's awake now?"

"Yes," the physician nodded. "He has enough strength to speak, though only for short periods. You may see him." With another bow, the physician excused himself.

The ministers hurried into the chamber, whispering words of comfort for their crown prince.

Arindam lingered a moment longer, blinking in confusion. 'Strange... very strange. That poison has never failed me. Could it be his body's strength... or someone's interference?' His eyes narrowed, a shadow of suspicion crossing his features. With a soft, mocking chuckle under his breath, he thought, 'So, Devansh survives... for now. But no man escapes death forever.'

And with that, Arindam stepped into the chamber, his mask of concern perfectly in place once again. "Your Highness! How are you feeling, my child?" he exclaimed as he hurried to Devansh's bedside, his voice dripping with concern.

Devansh's weary eyes lifted to meet his uncle's. For a long moment, he simply stared, as though weighing every word before it left his lips. Finally, his voice came, hoarse but steady. "I feel as though death itself is standing outside my door... waiting to claim me."

"Don't speak such ominous words, Your Highness," Arindam said quickly, shaking his head, his face etched with sorrow. "You mustn't lose hope. Now that His Majesty is gone..." He let the words trail off, lowering his gaze with just the right touch of grief.

Devansh's eyes sharpened. "You're very talented, Uncle," he said, his tone cutting through the act like a blade.

Arindam blinked, feigning confusion. "Talented?"

"Yes." Devansh forced himself upright a little, his breathing ragged but his resolve unshaken. "That's why, I trust that you'll be able manage the kingdom temporarily until I recover... or King Surya Aditya comes to claim the throne that will rightfully be his."

A flicker passed through Arindam's eyes, too quick for the watching ministers to catch, but enough for Devansh to notice. Then, just as swiftly, he pasted on an oily smile, bowing his head with mock humility. "As you command, Your Highness. I will carry this burden faithfully, until destiny decides otherwise." His words were respectful, but the gleam in his eyes betrayed something far darker.

/ . / . /

Arindam lounged in his chamber, a goblet of wine in hand, while one of his most loyal men fawned over him.

"My lord, the heavens themselves must have conspired to bring this moment to you. With the king and queen gone, and the prince half-dead, who else but you could ascend the throne? Rajmanya was always meant for yours to rule."

Arindam smirked, savoring the words like fine wine. "Ah, you always know how to please me. Yes, soon the throne will be mine, and all those fools will bow their heads whether they want to or not."

Just then, a faint flutter broke the air. A sound Arindam knew too well... the deliberate, heavy wings of a black pigeon. His smile faded, replaced by sharp curiosity. Slowly, he turned toward the balcony, where the bird perched, waiting like a harbinger of fate.

"Only my most trusted use black pigeons..." Arindam muttered, striding forward. He untied the small scroll fastened to the bird's leg and unfolded it quickly. His eyes scanned the words.

Arindam's jaw tightened. "So... that's why the brat spoke with such confidence about Surya Aditya," he snarled, crushing the paper in his fist. "He already sent for him through a foot soldier. That weakling dares to defy me even on his deathbed!"

His loyal man bowed his head nervously. "What shall we do, my lord?"

Arindam's lips curled into a vicious smile. "Even if King Surya marches toward Rajmanya with his army, he won't reach here in time. Rajmanya will not fall to him so easily... not while I still breathe."

He stroked the pigeon's dark feathers almost fondly, as though it were an accomplice in his treachery. After feeding it a few grains, he unfurled a fresh slip of parchment, his hand moving swiftly and decisively across it.

Kill him... or delay him.

Folding the message tightly, he tied it back to the pigeon's leg with a practiced knot. Then, stroking its dark feathers, he whispered, "Fly swift, and carry my will."

The bird took flight into the midnight sky, its wings slicing through the silence, carrying with it Arindam's malice and intent for blood.

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Before sunrise the next day, the elite soldiers of Rajmanya took a faster route home. Their armor caught the pale morning light, but their spirits were dim. The loss of their beloved king and queen weighed heavily on every heart, and even the steady rhythm of hooves seemed to echo their sorrow.

Among them rode Arindam's spy, face calm and unassuming beneath his helmet. None suspected the venom curling beneath his composure. Halfway through the journey, he reined in his horse, feigning concern over a broken strap or a missing item. With a few convincing words, he urged the others to ride on, promising to catch up once he'd "fixed the issue."

But the moment their silhouettes disappeared, his demeanor changed entirely. His calm mask slipped, revealing the cold focus of a man on a deadly mission. Spurring his horse toward a lesser-known trail, he rode swiftly to a nearby ravine... a place whispered about by travelers as a den of thieves.

There, in the shadows of flickering campfires, he met a gang of cutthroats and deserters. Bandits infamous for plundering travelers along this stretch of road. Gold changed hands, and blood was promised. More than fifty hardened killers gathered under his command, lured by greed and the thrill of sanctioned slaughter.

By the time dusk settled over the jungle, the ambush was ready. Concealed behind the thick tree line and the shadowed ridges of the hills, the bandits crouched in silence, their blades catching stray flashes of fading sunlight. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and tension. Arindam's spy stood among them, calm and calculating, his gaze fixed on the winding road below, where King Surya's small, exhausted troop would soon appear, unaware that the night itself had turned against them.

/... /

The deep jungle pressed in on King Surya and his weary troop, its dense canopy swallowing what little light remained. After a full day of relentless marching, every step felt heavier than the last. Even Surya, hardened by years of war, could feel the ache settling deep in his bones. The moon was hidden behind thick banks of cloud, turning the path ahead into a narrow tunnel of blackness.

"General Ranvijay," Surya called, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion and command alike. "We go no further tonight. Set a defensive perimeter. We rest here until first light."

The soldiers obeyed without a word, relief written in every sluggish movement. They sank to the damp earth, removing helmets and stretching aching limbs. A single fire was lit; small, trembling, its glow barely enough to chase away the darkness. The flames cast uneasy shadows across the trees, their movements distorted and ghostly.

Ranvijay made his rounds, posting what few guards remained fit for duty. Their eyes were dull with fatigue, their grips on their weapons loose but determined.

It was in that deceptive calm that the attack came.

The silence shattered with a guttural roar, savage and chaotic. Shadows exploded from the tree line; men, but not soldiers. Their movements were wild and hungry, like wolves closing in on wounded prey. Blades caught the firelight, crude and jagged, while others carried clubs, axes, even sharpened farming tools turned into weapons. At their center, calm and unhurried, moved the familiar figure of Arindam's spy, his cold eyes glinting as he pointed the way.

"To arms!" Ranvijay's voice tore through the chaos. His sword flashed free as he planted himself in front of the king. "Unidentified attackers... defend the line!"

The small clearing erupted into madness.

Steel clashed with steel, sparks flying as blades glanced off armor. The air filled with the guttural cries of men in pain, the wet, sickening crunch of bone meeting iron. Blood sprayed across the leaves, dark in the firelight, as the first of Surya's guards went down with a scream, his throat torn open by a jagged cutlass.

Surya himself fought with brutal precision, every strike honed by years of command but his body betrayed him. Each swing felt heavier than the last, his muscles dulled by weeks of fatigue. He cut down one attacker with a thrust through the gut; the man's scream curdled into a wet gurgle as blood bubbled from his mouth. Another lunged with an axe. Surya caught him across the jaw, shattering bone and spraying teeth across the dirt. The third he felled with a downward slash, the man's crude club falling uselessly as he collapsed in a twitching heap.

But there were too many. Always too many.

A blur from his blind side came. Surya turned too late. An unpolished iron blade hacked into his left shoulder and tore downward across his chest. The mail links burst like twine. Agony ripped through him, white-hot and blinding, as blood poured instantly down his side. The force drove him to one knee, his gauntleted hand instinctively clamping over the ragged wound, but it was like trying to stop a flood with bare fingers.

"Your Majesty!" Ranvijay bellowed, but the cry was drowned out.

Another attacker was already there. A heavy shape loomed, then... 

crack!

A club smashed down against the back of Surya's skull. His vision exploded in a flash of white. The world tilted, spinning. He crumpled face-first into the mud, unmoving, crimson soaking into the earth beneath him.

"NO!" Ranvijay's roar shook the clearing. He threw himself into the press of bodies with reckless fury, fighting like a lion cornered, each swing of his sword fueled by raw despair. His blade bit deep into flesh... an arm flew free from its shoulder, a chest split open, the spray warm against his face. Still, they came.

A bandit's spearpoint slashed his thigh. Pain flared like fire, a deep gash cutting muscle and sending blood streaming down his leg. His stance faltered; his left leg nearly gave way. But still he fought, teeth bared, swinging, blocking, driving them back by inches.

The air was thick with the copper stench of blood, the shouts of dying men, the hiss of steel tearing through flesh. Surya's troop, outnumbered and exhausted, was being butchered around him. And yet, Ranvijay did not fall... not while his king lay bleeding at his back.

The chaos began to fade, replaced by the grotesque aftermath of battle. The screams had dulled into ragged moans, the clash of steel into the wet squelch of blood-soaked mud beneath boots. The fight had ended not with victory, but with greed.

The bandits, those filthy vultures of the forest, no longer swung their weapons in fury but turned their blades toward spoils. They kicked aside corpses and dying men alike, tearing through armor straps, yanking rings from fingers still twitching with life. The clinking of coins and the rattle of chainmail filled the clearing as they stripped the fallen of weapons, purses, and boots. One laughed... a hoarse, ugly sound as he pried a jeweled insignia from a soldier's chest plate.

It was all part of the plan.

Hidden in plain sight among them, Arindam's spy stood watching, his expression carved from cold precision. The blood on his hands was not from the fight as he had barely lifted a weapon. Instead, he surveyed the massacre like an artist admiring his own work. Everything had gone exactly as planned.

The king lay motionless in the dirt, half his armor torn away, his lifeblood soaking into the soil. General Ranvijay was down on one knee, still gripping his sword though his leg was bleeding profusely. The few surviving soldiers were scattered and barely conscious, crawling or gasping weakly for breath.

Perfect.

The spy's gaze lingered on King Surya. The man's chest rose faintly; alive, but barely. A cruel smirk ghosted over his lips. He didn't need the king dead. Not yet. Wounds like those would take weeks to heal, and by then, it would all be over. By the time Surya Aditya could rise again, if he rose at all, Arindam's crown would already be set.

Satisfied, the spy gave a low, sharp whistle. The bandits knew the signal. They gathered what loot they could carry and melted into the shadows, their torches flickering out one by one until the clearing was swallowed by darkness again. Only the stench of blood and the rasp of dying breaths remained.

Ranvijay, teeth gritted against the fire burning through his thigh, dragged himself through the carnage toward his fallen king. The ground was slick with blood... his men's blood, and he slipped more than once, his gauntlets coming away red each time he pressed them to the earth.

He reached Surya and turned him over with trembling hands. The king's face was pale, lips streaked with dirt and blood. The sight nearly broke him. "Your Majesty..." he rasped, his throat raw. "Stay with me."

With what little strength he had left, Ranvijay tore a strip from his own cloak and pressed it against the deep wound that slashed across Surya's chest. "We must move, Your Majesty! Now!" His voice cracked, half command, half plea.

He looked around. Three soldiers were still breathing, though they were dazed and bloodied but alive. "Get up!" Ranvijay barked, his voice snapping like a whip. "Get up or die here like dogs!"

The words jolted them into motion. Together, limping and stumbling, they lifted the king between them. Each step was agony. Ranvijay's leg threatened to buckle, and the others swayed under Surya's weight but they pushed forward, driven by sheer desperation.

Every step through the jungle was agony. The ground was slick with mud and blood, the roots reaching up like claws to trip their weary feet. Ranvijay's wounded leg burned with every movement, but he refused to stop; his iron grip around the king's shoulder never loosened. The night pressed in on them... thick, silent, suffocating. Broken only by the labored gasps of men clinging to survival.

Branches tore at their armor. The forest floor was uneven and treacherous, and twice they nearly fell with the king's body between them. But still they pushed forward, driven by sheer will and the stubborn refusal to die.

At last, through the endless blackness, a faint scent reached Ranvijay's blood-smeared face... the smell of smoke. His head snapped up, heart pounding. Then, beyond the trees, a dim orange flicker winked through the darkness. "Light," he rasped, his voice hoarse with pain and relief. "There... light!"

Sheer luck or perhaps the gods' pity guided their faltering steps toward it. The glow grew brighter until the dark gave way to the outline of small thatched huts. A humble farming village, asleep and unaware of the broken soldiers stumbling toward it.

And far away, already miles ahead on the road to Rajmanya, Arindam's spy rode through the night with a grim satisfaction curling in his chest. The jungle behind him was painted in silence and death. His work was done.

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The small, nameless farming village stood in stark, silent contrast to the chaos they had fled. The bewildered villagers, roused from sleep by the sight of bloodied soldiers dragging an unconscious man in royal armor, froze in fear until one torchlight glance at the golden sunburst of Simhapatra on his breastplate made them fall to their knees in stunned recognition.

They carried King Surya inside the largest hut and laid him gently on a straw-stuffed pallet. His torn armor clattered to the floor, soaked through with his own blood. The wound was horrific; a long, slashing gash that started above his shoulder and ran diagonally across his ribs, missing his heart by little more than the will of the gods. Blood still seeped through the hastily tied bandages, his skin cold and clammy, his face drained of all color.

General Ranvijay, though his own thigh was split open from a deep sword wound, ignored the pain that gnawed at him. "Find a healer! Anyone!" he barked at the village headman, who could only wring his trembling hands. "The king must live!"

An elderly woman stepped forward, her face lined but calm, her voice steady as stone. "I am all the healer you will find here, General," she said. Without hesitation, she began boiling water and gathering herbs from pouches hung by her door. The villagers, their fear melting into urgency, rallied around her—fetching clean water, tearing linen into strips, and stoking the fire until the hut glowed with dim, feverish light.

Ranvijay knelt beside the king, pressing a damp cloth to Surya's forehead as the old woman worked swiftly. Steam rose, mingling with the sharp scent of crushed herbs and blood. When she cleaned the wound, Surya's breathing grew ragged, his eyelids fluttered... and then rolled back. The blow to his head and the loss of blood had finally dragged him under. King Surya Aditya slipped into the deep, unyielding silence of a coma.

Ranvijay's throat tightened. He gripped his king's hand, his calloused fingers trembling against the chill of Surya's skin. "Hold on, Your Majesty," he murmured hoarsely. "It was just bandit scum, filthy thieves who stumbled on us in the dark. A cruel misfortune, nothing more." His voice wavered, but he forced conviction into every word. "They delayed us, by the gods, but they haven't stopped us. We'll get you to Queen Saanvi. I swear it."

He said it like a vow carved in stone, because he needed to believe it more than anything.

When he finally looked up, the remnants of his troop were little more than shadows;  three wounded, broken men huddled near the doorway, too dazed to speak. Beyond them, the jungle waited outside the hut, black and endless, whispering through the trees. They were days from Rajmanya, with no supplies, no reinforcements, and a dying king in their care.

The night stretched endlessly. The only sounds were the low murmur of villagers outside and the healer's soft, deliberate movements. Her hands, stained with blood and herbs, moved with the precision of long practice. 

At last, she stepped back from the pallet, her weary eyes meeting Ranvijay's. "The bleeding has stopped," she said quietly. "The wound is deep, but clean. He's weak as he has lost much of his vital blood."

Ranvijay leaned forward, desperate. "And his head? When will he wake?"

The woman sighed, her shoulders sagging beneath invisible weight. She glanced down at the king, whose chest rose and fell with slow, fragile rhythm. "The blow to his head was heavy," she said. "And his body has been pushed beyond its limits. King Surya Aditya has fallen into a deep sleep... a temporary coma."

The word struck Ranvijay like a blade to the chest; colder and sharper than any wound he bore. "How long?" he demanded in a rasp. "A few hours? By morning?"

The old healer shook her head. "I cannot say, General. It could be days. It could be weeks. Or..." Her eyes softened, but her tone did not waver. "...he might never wake at all. His fate now rests with the gods, and the strength of his own will. Until then, you have an unconscious king... and a kingdom that waits for him."

Ranvijay sank back against the rough wooden wall, every ounce of military discipline fracturing under the weight of her words. Weeks. Even days were too long. Every moment lost could mean something far worse than their imagination.

His gaze drifted back to the king, once fierce and untouchable, now pale and still as carved marble. Around them, the jungle pressed close, vast and indifferent. And in that moment, Ranvijay finally understood: even kings could fall... and even the bravest soldiers could feel utterly powerless.

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A/N::: That was a rough night for King Surya and Ranvijay 😢 

What do you think will happen next in Rajmanya while the king lies unconscious? Drop your thoughts and theories in the comments below! 💬

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