Dusk settled over Indraprastha quietly, the sky dimming into shades of rose and amber as the palace bells rang their solemn evening notes. Servants moved about lighting rows of tall oil lamps, their flames steady against the stone walls. The air carried a measured tension — the kind that came before important truths.

  Surya walked behind Maharaja Veerajit, his companions following a few steps behind him. Their boots echoed softly against the polished floors as they approached the grand doors of the Sabha hall. When the guards pushed them open, the murmur of gathered voices faded into an abrupt hush.

  Inside, the hall was already full.

  Senapati Rudra stood like a pillar of iron among the generals. Ministers in embroidered silk whispered to one another. Veteran warriors — some still bandaged — stood near the walls. Even a few high-ranking Rishis from the capital had gathered, their eyes sharp behind calm expressions.

  All eyes turned toward Surya the moment he entered.

  King Veerajit stepped to the center of the hall. “This Sabha convenes,” he said, “to hear the truth of the western frontier.”

  There was no dramatic flourish, no raised voice. Just the steady weight of a king who knew every word mattered.

  Surya stepped forward.

  For a heartbeat, he looked at the faces around him — strangers and allies, skeptics and believers — and then he began.

  He spoke of the first signs in the villages, the eerie behavior of the tribes, the burned settlement at Aghora Ridge, the strange frenzy in the attackers’ eyes. He described the retreat, the panic, the way the corruption seemed to break men from within. He told them about the fire signal he sent into the sky, the Garuda charging through the forest, and the final collapse of the enemy line.

  He spoke plainly, without embellishment.

  When he finished, the hall erupted.

  “Impossible!”

  “The tribes act strangely every few decades — this is nothing unusual.”

  “A giant? Dark corruption? These sound like stories told to frighten children.”

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  “Or the imaginations of those too young for war!”

  Surya didn’t flinch. He stood silently, letting the storm run its course.

  It was Vashrya who finally stepped beside him.

  “Enough.”

  The word wasn’t loud, but it carried like a drawn blade. The hall quieted.

  “When the Rakshasa touches the world,” Vashrya said, “it does not come with horns or claws. It does not announce itself. It infects weakness — fear, hunger, desperation — until the mind breaks. What Prince Surya speaks of is not imagination, nor myth. It matches the oldest records preserved in Kashi.”

  Several nobles stiffened.

  “Kashi?”

  “Do not invoke legends, Sage.”

  “Rakshasa are old fables—”

  Vashrya raised a hand and held out a sealed scroll.

  A guard brought it forward. The moment the sigil of The Akasha was revealed, the hall stilled. The herald unrolled the parchment and read aloud:

  “To the Rajya Sabha of Suryavarta.

  From the Council of Elders of Kashi, under the guidance of Jagadguru Daksha.

  Reports from the western frontier match the forbidden records of ancient corruption.

  It is our judgment that remnants of Rakshasa influence have begun stirring after long dormancy.

  Prepare your borders. Strengthen your cities. The signs are unmistakable.”

  Silence.

  True silence — the kind that crawled beneath the skin.

  Even the most doubtful ministers paled. Veterans exchanged dark glances. A few Rishis lowered their eyes in grim acknowledgment.

  Senapati Rudra stepped forward, his voice grave. “If Kashi has spoken, we must act. The west must remain reinforced.”

  Another general added, “And the south cannot be ignored. If corruption spreads, Avanendra will grow more unstable.”

  The hall filled with low, urgent discussions — this time not dismissive, but concerned.

  King Veerajit raised his hand.

  The room stilled again.

  “Suryavarta will strengthen the western watch,” he said. “Scouts will rotate every two days. Supplies will be doubled. The southern border remains fortified at all costs.”

  He turned to his son.

  “And you, Surya, will remain in Indraprastha for now. There is much to discuss — and much the kingdom must hear from you.”

  Surya bowed his head. “As you command, Maharaja.”

  One by one, the ministers and officials began to file out, whispering among themselves. Warriors exited with troubled expressions. The Rishis bowed slightly and slipped into the corridors.

  Soon, only a handful remained.

  Vashrya stood behind Surya like a silent mountain.

  Rudra lingered near the steps, arms folded.

  Surya’s companions waited near the entrance, eyes anxious but trusting.

  The king dismissed the last attendant with a wave of his hand.

  The hall doors closed softly.

  For the first time in nearly a year, it was only Surya and his father — no throne, no council, no courtly distance between them.

  Just a king and the son he had sent into the world.

  And the conversation waiting between them carried a weight far heavier than war.