Rajabhoomi

Prelude: 3 Years ago

The moonlight painted silver squares across the stone floor of the children's chamber, and Prakram Singh stood within one of those squares like a man caught between shadow and light. His son Veerpratap lay sprawled across his small bed, one arm flung wide in the careless abandon of childhood sleep, while his daughter Devyani had somehow managed to twist herself into her blankets until only her dark hair spilled across the pillow like spilled ink.Six and five years old, Prakram thought, watching the gentle rise and fall of their breathing. Still young enough to sleep without dreams of war or duty. His hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of Bhakshak, the ancient sword that had been his father's before him, its weight as familiar as his own heartbeat .

"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you coming to bed?"The voice was silk and honey, and Prakram turned to find Padma in the doorway, her hair unbound and falling in dark waves past her shoulders.

Even after seven years of marriage, the sight of her still stole his breath—the curve of her neck, the way the lamplight caught the gold threads in her nightrobe, the knowing smile that played at the corners of her mouth. He gave her that crooked smile that had charmed her since their wedding day.

"I was just watching them sleep."Her expression softened, but her eyes grew knowing.

"So you're not coming to bed."It wasn't a question. After all these years, she could read him like one of the ancient texts in his father's library. The way his shoulders held themselves just a little too rigid, the way his fingers drummed against Bhakshak's pommel—small tells that spoke of restlessness and the call of steel.

"The sword is calling me tonight," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need to practice for a bit."

"Your sword has been calling you a lot these days." Padma stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the jasmine oil she wore. "That's not good."

"It just needs some workout, nothing else." The words came out more defensive than he'd intended.

She reached up to touch his face, her palm warm against his cheek. "Don't go tonight, na. I don't feel good about tonight. I want to hold you close to me."Something in her voice—a note of genuine worry—made him pause. But Bhakshak seemed to pulse at his side, a sensation he'd learned long ago not to ignore.

"I'll be back soon, Padma. I just need to sweat. Bhakshak needs either blood or sweat when it calls, and I'd rather give it sweat."

She sighed, knowing she'd lost this battle before it began. "Then come back soon. The children are sleeping, and you know what time it is."

The way she said it, the slight emphasis, the way her eyes held his—it sent heat coursing through him. In his mind, he saw her as she would be waiting for him, nothing but moonlight and silk sheets and that smile that was his alone. The image made him blush like a boy of sixteen, not a man of twenty-seven who commanded armies.

"I won't be long," he promised, leaning down to kiss her lips.

The corridors of Veergarh's palace were hushed with the deep quiet of night, broken only by the distant call of guards changing watch. The northern section of the great fortress-city housed the royal family, and Prakram knew these halls as well as he knew the scars on his sword-hand. He'd run through these passages as a child, learned to walk like a prince within these walls, discovered the weight of duty in the very stones beneath his feet.

Light spilled from beneath Rana Maa's door—a warm, golden band against the darkness. Prakram paused, his hand halfway to his sword hilt. Deepali Rani, his widowed aunt , had been more mother to him than his own since his mother, Yashodhara Devi, had sought solace with the Buddhist monks atop Dilawar Seesh. If she was awake at this hour, something was troubling her.

He knocked softly and pushed open the door."Rana Maa? You haven't slept yet."

She looked up from where she sat by her window, a piece of embroidery forgotten in her lap. Her hair, once black as a raven's wing, was now shot through with silver, and there were new lines around her eyes—the weight of worrying over two sons, one by blood and one by love.

"Prakram, my son. I am feeling restless tonight. I always do when Abhai is not around."

"Where is he?" Though he asked, Prakram already knew the answer would not be one that brought comfort.

"I don't know, son. These days he doesn't tell me where he goes." Her fingers worried at the edge of her dupatta. "But son, remember—he is your brother, and he will always remain so."

"Of course, Rana Maa. I know that. I've always treated him as such." The words were true, but they tasted of old guilt. How could they not, when fate had made him heir to a throne that might have been his cousin Abhairaj's if timing had been kinder?

"I wish I could say the same for him," she said quietly, and in those words lay all the heartbreak of a mother who loved two sons but could not make them love each other without complication. "But he looks up to you. Make sure he remembers his duty. He dreams... he dreams of what would have happened if his father hadn't died, or if he'd been born earlier. He dreams of being Maharana. But he looks up to you—help him find a path in life."

Prakram knelt beside her chair, taking her weathered hands in his. "Yes, mother. He is your son. He is precious to me for that reason alone. Now go to sleep and stop worrying so much."

She smiled then, the first genuine smile he'd seen from her in days.

"Go on, then. I know that look. Your sword is calling, isn't it?"

Does everyone know me so well?

"You raised me too well, Rana Maa. I can't hide anything from you."

Outside, the night air carried the scent of the Taporanya Forest from the south and something else—something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Veergarh sprawled around him in concentric circles: the royal palace in the north, the king's court beyond that, then the military barracks and stables, the markets, and finally the residences of common folk, all contained within the massive walls that made the entire plateau into a fortress.

The training terrace atop the court building was empty, as it always was at this hour. This was where his father Samar Singh had trained as a young prince, where the stones still bore the scars of countless practice sessions. Prakram had received Bhakshak here seven years ago, had spent countless hours since then learning to hear its voice, to understand its hunger.

"Prakram, you have the chhaya of a great warrior," Shivdas Singh had told him once, years ago in this very place. "Maybe you can be as great as him, if you train with dedication."

He could almost see his twelve-year-old self, barely able to lift a practice sword, being systematically demolished by a girl his own age. Meera had been ferocious even then, quick as a cobra and twice as deadly."Yes, Shivdas, but I'm not sure I'll still be able to beat your daughter," young Prakram had gasped after she'd put him on his back for the third time that day.

Meera had smiled at him then—not mockingly, but with the fierce joy of someone who had found a worthy opponent. Even with his developing power, his chhaya beginning to manifest, she had remained his equal in all but the rarest moments.

"Meera," he said aloud to the empty terrace. "She was ferocious. I was never really able to beat her, not even with my power. I wonder how she is doing now, as a wife."

She was in Girital now, the Red City, with his father and her husband Rajveer for the wedding of Bhan Singh, son of Maharaja Ishwar Singh who ruled Vijaymahal—the largest and strongest empire in all of Rajabhoomi. The most powerful king's eldest son was taking a bride, and all the nobles of Rajabhoomi would be there to witness the union and perhaps forge new alliances in the process.

Prakram drew Bhakshak, and the blade sang softly as it cleared its sheath. Seven years it had been his, and still it seemed hungry for more—more practice, more perfection, more blood if necessary.

He began with Chandra Pranam, the traditional salute to the night, his movements flowing like water as he honored the darkness that taught warriors to fight by instinct rather than sight.

The Winds of Ruhani came next, the sword forms that mimicked the desert gales of the west, flowing and unpredictable, designed to confuse an enemy who expected the rigid structure of more formal styles. Bhakshak carved silver arcs through the moonlight, its edge catching and throwing back the pale radiance in fragments.

He was just settling into the opening stance of Hiran Chaal—the Deer's Movement, his favored form that emphasized the speed and awareness of a stag scenting wolves on the wind—when something landed on the terrace with a sound like silk tearing.

It was a bird, if bird was the right word for something so utterly black that it seemed to devour the moonlight around it. Not crow-black or raven-black, but the deep, absolute blackness of a moonless night or the bottom of a well. As Prakram stared at it, a chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the night air. He had heard of such creatures- horrors from the cursed lands of Sayarann, the very monsters his kingdom stood guard against.

Impossible, he thought, but his hand tightened on Bhakshak's hilt. The creatures of Sayarann do not venture beyond their cursed borders. Everyone knows this.

The thing—for he was no longer certain it was truly a bird—perched on the stone parapet and fixed him with eyes that held depths he did not care to contemplate. Between its talons, impossibly, it held a rolled parchment.

Prakram approached slowly, Bhakshak still naked in his hand. The creature made no move to flee. Instead, it seemed to urge him forward with those fathomless eyes, as if it had traveled far from somewhere to find him and would not be denied its purpose.

He reached out carefully and took the letter. The moment his fingers touched the parchment, the creature launched itself into the air and vanished—not flying away, but dissolving into the darkness as if it had never been more than a shadow given momentary form, like a creature disappearing between the world of the living and the realm of nightmares.

The letter was tied with no string, sealed with no wax. It simply lay open in his hand, and by the pale moonlight he could see that the words upon it had been written in something that looked disturbingly like blood:

Samar Singh is betrayed in Girital. They are coming for you too.

Bhakshak hummed in his hand, no longer calling for practice but for battle, and Prakram Singh, heir to the throne of Sinhdesh and guardian against the horrors of Sayarann, realized that his quiet evening is about to become very violent.

The sound of boots on stone echoed from below, growing louder with each heartbeat. Prakram's fingers tightened on the bloodstained parchment as the terrible truth settled into his bones like winter frost.

"Still playing with that toy of yours, brother?"The voice carried across the terrace like silk over steel, familiar as his own heartbeat yet now edged with something that made Prakram's blood run cold. He turned slowly, Bhakshak singing softly in his grip, to find the training ground no longer empty.

Thirty soldiers in the red of Vijaymahal Empire filled the terrace, their armor catching the moonlight like fresh blood. But what broke Prakram's heart were the handful of men wearing the green of Sinhdesh—his own soldiers, men he had trained with, shared meals with, trusted with his life. And there, standing among them like a prince from the old tales, was Abhairaj Singh.

His cousin was handsome as ever, vain as ever, but his face now wore betrayal like a crown. Nishanchi, his legendary bow, rested on his shoulder, and his sword gleamed naked in his hand. Twenty-four years old and born after his father's death, Abhairaj had always carried the weight of what might have been—heir to a throne that fate had given to another.

"It's not a toy, Abhai," Prakram said quietly, his voice carrying across the stones with deadly calm. The ancient sword of his fathers hummed in his hand, no longer calling for practice but thirsting for blood.

"Oh, but it is," Abhairaj mocked, his perfect lips curving into a smile that held no warmth. "It's only good to play with, brother. It can't save your life."The words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre. Prakram felt something cold and final settle in his chest.

"What happened to my father?"

Abhairaj's laugh was beautiful and terrible.

"Oh, he declined the offer for an alliance yet again."

"I asked what happened to my father." Steel entered Prakram's voice, the tone of a prince who had commanded armies before he could grow a proper beard.

"Ishwar Singh wanted an alliance. I offered him the alliance—only problem is that I'll have to become the Maharana for it." The words fell from Abhairaj's lips like drops of poison, each one more damning than the last.

"So you betrayed your own king?" The question was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of kingdoms.Abhairaj's face twisted, revealing the bitter hurt that had festered in his heart for years.

"I should have been the king, brother. Your father should have passed me the crown as soon as I was born. Anyway, you don't need to fight. You can be my general, commander of my army—you'll be really useful. You'll have a place of prestige. Even beautiful Padma bhabhi will be taken care of." His voice dropped to something soft and deadly. "Otherwise... you know what."

Prakram's grip on Bhakshak tightened until his knuckles went white. The sword sang its hunger, and he felt the familiar stirring of power in his blood—the Chhaya that had marked him since birth.

"You already know my answer, Abhai."

"I guess I do, brother."

The attack came like lightning, soldiers rushing him from all sides with the desperate fury of men who knew they were trying to kill a legend. Prakram moved without conscious thought, his body flowing into the Winds of Ruhani—the desert fighting style that made warriors unpredictable as sandstorms. Bhakshak carved silver arcs through the moonlight, and men screamed as ancient steel found flesh.

He spun and danced between the soldiers, using his power to read the wind of their movements, feeling the currents of battle flow around him like water. But there were too many, and these were not mere bandits—they were trained warriors, and some bore the green of his own kingdom, men who knew how he fought.

Switching to Hiran Chaal, the Deer's Movement that emphasized speed and awareness, Prakram flowed through the press of bodies like smoke, always moving, never where they expected him to be.

He had to reach Abhairaj—end this before more blood was spilled, before the betrayal became complete.Steel rang against steel as cousin faced cousin on the moonlit terrace. Abhairaj was good—better than good. He had trained alongside Prakram since childhood, knew his techniques, his patterns. They danced the deadly dance of warriors, each seeking the opening that would end it all.

But Prakram was the heir to Sinhdesh, trained by the best, marked by destiny itself. His blade found the gap in his cousin's defense, carving a line from jaw to cheek that would mark Abhairaj forever. Blood flowed like tears down that once-perfect face.

"Kill him now!" Abhairaj screamed, his voice thick with pain and rage.

More soldiers pressed in, surrounding Prakram like wolves around a stag. He recognized one of them—Birju, who had served his father for twenty years. As the man fell to Bhakshak's edge, he gasped out his final words: "It was either money and betray, or death for us. That was the only choice we had."

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade. His own soldiers, bought with gold and threatened with death. Prakram felt rage building in his chest like a storm, and he channeled it through his sword into the stone beneath his feet. Drawing all his concentration and might, he brought Bhakshak down with the force of thunder.The terrace shook like the world was ending. Cracks spider-webbed across the ancient stone, and every man on the platform fell as the earth itself rebelled against betrayal. In the chaos, Prakram ran, leaping down the stairs three at a time, his heart breaking with every step that carried him away from his family.

As he turned toward the royal palace, desperate to reach Padma and the children, cold steel kissed his neck.

"I'll be the one to kill the mighty Prakram," the hidden soldier breathed, triumph in his voice.

"No, you won't."The blade that emerged from the soldier's chest was familiar, wielded by a hand Prakram trusted above all others. Shivdas Singh, his mentor and guardian, stepped from the shadows like death itself, his weathered face grim in the moonlight.

"What happened?" Prakram gasped, relief and terror warring in his chest.

"Vijaymahal soldiers were marshalled in by Abhairaj," Shivdas said grimly, cleaning his blade with practiced efficiency.

"He's either imprisoned or bought off most of our army in a surprise attack. This has been planned for months."

"I need to save Padma and the children." The words tore from Prakram's throat like pieces of his soul.

"No," Shivdas said firmly. "The palace is full of guards. We won't survive."

"But I need to save my family!"

The old warrior's eyes were infinite with sorrow. "Dead men save no one, Prakram. We need to survive tonight. We will come back for them."

The truth of it hit Prakram like a physical blow. His children—Veerpratap and Devyani, only six and five years old, sleeping peacefully when last he saw them. Padma, waiting for him to return from his practice, probably still wearing that smile meant only for him. They were in the hands of traitors now, and there was nothing he could do.

He broke then, for just a moment, the weight of it all crushing down on his shoulders like the stones of a fallen kingdom. But he was the son of Samar Singh, heir to the throne of Sinhdesh, and he would not surrender to despair.

"To the stables then," he said, his voice steady despite the tears on his cheeks.But when they reached the stables, Abhairaj was waiting with a dozen soldiers, his scarred face twisted with hatred and fresh blood.

"You need to die, brother," he said, his beautiful voice now ugly with rage. "You scarred my face. You made me ugly like you."

Prakram put his hands to his mouth and whistled—two long notes and one short, sharp blast. The sound echoed through the stable like a battle cry.

"You need to die, brother," Abhairaj continued, reaching for Nishanchi with deadly purpose. "I can't be Maharana until you die. You can't live, not after what happened tonight."

Fear shot through Prakram as his cousin nocked an arrow. Abhairaj never missed—never. In all their years of training, competing, testing each other's limits, his cousin's bow had been perfection made manifest.

Desperate, Prakram channeled his power one more time, bringing his sword down on the stable floor with all his might. The ground bucked and heaved, throwing everyone to their knees just as Abhairaj released his shot. The arrow whistled past Prakram's ear, close enough to part his hair.

As the soldiers struggled to regain their footing, the stable doors exploded outward. Vajra burst through like white lightning—the mighty stallion of Prakram, responding to his master's call. The great horse trampled two soldiers beneath iron hooves as Prakram leaped onto his back and hauled Shivdas up behind him.

"Catch them!" Abhairaj screamed, already nocking another arrow.

Prakram barely deflected the second shot with Bhakshak's blade as they thundered out of range, but now five horsemen gave chase, their mounts pounding across the cobblestones like drums of war. They reached the west gate just as it began to lower, the massive iron portcullis descending with inexorable finality. Sonvir Singh stood at the winch, his weathered hands guiding the mechanism down. Their eyes met across the courtyard—master and loyal servant, prince and faithful guard.The lowering slowed.

"Sonvir, quickly!" someone screamed from behind them.

But Vajra was already moving, stretching his great body low as he raced beneath the descending gate. They passed under it with inches to spare, the iron teeth scraping Prakram's back as they cleared the threshold. The gate slammed shut behind them, cutting off their pursuers with final authority.

In the darkness beyond Veergarh's walls, Prakram turned back for one last look at his home, his heart breaking anew at what he was leaving behind.

"Thank you, Sonvir," he whispered to the night wind, knowing his words would never reach the man who had saved them.

Then he turned his face toward the darkness ahead, toward exile and uncertainty, carrying with him the weight of a kingdom's betrayal and the desperate hope that someday, somehow, he would find a way to come home.