The palace by morning felt like a different world entirely.

  Guards patrolled every hall twice as thick as usual. Every crossing of corridors carried murmurs. Every servant whispered. Every noble passed with glances sharper than blades.

  The news had spread—not officially, not announced, but like smoke that seeped through cracks:

  The prince was attacked in the night.

  The attackers bore the seal of the Council.

  And now the Rajya Sabha’s Inner Council—those same shadowed, aristocratic pillars of Suryavarta—stood assembled in the king’s private audience chamber.

  Surya entered behind Maharani Maitreyi and Senapati Rudra.

  He had never seen the chamber so tense.

  The council members wore unreadable expressions—shock, outrage, disbelief, insult—and something else… fear.

  Not fear of Surya.

  Fear of what this incident meant.

  At the far end, Maharaja Veerajit sat on the dais, posture rigid, a storm behind his stoic expression. He rarely showed emotion, but today his jaw was too tight, his breath too controlled.

  The moment Surya stepped inside, a flicker—tiny, almost invisible—passed across his father’s eyes.

  Relief.

  Quickly smothered.

  “Begin,” the Maharaja said.

  His voice carried the weight of steel.

  Minister Kalapriya—the eldest, most influential among them—stepped forward, bowing stiffly.

  “Your Majesty, we have heard the reports.”

  He lifted his head. His voice trembled with insulted dignity.

  “We deny any involvement.”

  Yashomati Devi, sharp as a razor, spoke next.

  “To attack the crown prince is treason beyond treason. And to use our seal—an unmistakable attempt to implicate us. We demand justice for this insult.”

  Surya felt something cold coil in his stomach.

  They looked genuinely furious.

  But were they skilled enough at deception to feign such sincerity?

  Maharani Maitreyi, standing tall beside her son, snapped:

  “Then explain why assassins carried your mark.”

  A ripple of murmurs passed across the council ranks.

  “Someone wishes to frame us,” Yashomati insisted.

  Kalapriya added, “If we desired such treachery—Your Majesty, forgive the bluntness—you would know. We would not act from shadows like cowards.”

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  Rudra’s voice cut the air like a thrown spear.

  “No one is above suspicion. Not even you.”

  Several ministers flinched. One looked offended. Another paled.

  But no one spoke against the Senapati—not openly.

  Maharaja Veerajit leaned forward at last, hands clasping the lion-headed armrests of his throne.

  His voice was low. Controlled.

  Dangerous.

  “My son bled last night.”

  The council stiffened.

  “My heir was nearly killed.”

  A beat of silence.

  “And you ask me to believe that this is all coincidence?

  That assassins using your own restricted seal—a seal kept under lock and census—appeared by chance?”

  Kalapriya swallowed. “Your Majesty, the seal is restricted, yes. But… but it is not impossible for someone within the palace to obtain access—”

  “You imply one of my scribes?” the king asked icily.

  “No—no! That is not—”

  The king’s gaze sharpened.

  “This kingdom has stood for centuries because treachery was cut out before it spread. If the Council believes it has enemies within its own ranks, speak now.”

  No one spoke.

  And that silence… was worse than any admission.

  Surya stepped forward.

  “My father,” he said quietly, “I do not know who attacked me. I only know someone wants us at each other’s throats.”

  Soft murmurs.

  Maitreyi looked at her son sharply, surprised by his nuance.

  Yashomati narrowed her eyes.

  “You defend us, Prince?” she asked.

  “No,” Surya replied. “I am stating the truth. Whoever planned this attack gained much by sowing distrust.”

  One of the younger ministers scoffed. “Why would anyone benefit from that?”

  “Because,” Surya said simply, “Suryavarta divided… is Suryavarta weakened.”

  The room froze.

  Even Maharaja Veerajit stared at him.

  Rudra’s eyes flicked to Surya with approval—stern, but quietly proud.

  Kalapriya inhaled slowly. “Yuvraj… you suggest a third party?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  Surya hesitated.

  I don’t know.

  And that ignorance frustrated him like a splinter under the skin.

  But he shook his head. “It is too early to say.”

  Kalapriya exhaled. “Then until evidence is found, we request our innocence be honored.”

  Meera—waiting by the wall with the other companions—muttered under her breath, “Innocence, my foot.”

  The queen shot her a warning look.

  The council’s voices rose again:

  “We demand to see the bodies—”

  “We must examine the seal—”

  “The prince encountered only two assassins—this seems staged—”

  “No one in the council benefits from his death—”

  “The people already suspect us!”

  “Then perhaps they should—”

  “ENOUGH.”

  The king’s voice crashed through the chamber like thunder.

  “Until we uncover the truth, all Council members will remain within Indraprastha. No travel. No private meetings without notice.”

  The council erupted in outrage—

  “Your Majesty, this is imprisonment—!”

  “This is not proper—!”

  “We have estates and duties—!”

  Veerajit’s eyes blazed.

  “I will not bury my son because of politics.”

  Silence.

  Cold. Absolute.

  Then:

  “Leave us.”

  The Council bowed stiffly, fury and fear swirling beneath their collected fa?ade, and departed the chamber in uneasy silence.

  When the doors shut behind the last minister, the chamber felt larger, emptier, heavier.

  The Maharani stepped beside Surya, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Rudra crossed his arms, gaze fixed on the door through which the council exited, as though memorizing each of their footsteps.

  Surya stood still.

  Not trembling.

  Not angry.

  Just… thoughtful.

  “Surya,” the king said.

  Surya looked up.

  “You do not believe the Council is behind this.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Surya drew a slow breath. “I don’t know. They… could be. They have reasons. But something about it feels wrong.”

  Maharani Maitreyi nodded slowly. “Your instincts have carried you far. Trust them.”

  Rudra grunted. “Instinct is good. But keep your guard high. Whether guilty or not, the Council is cornered now. Cornered beasts can be dangerous.”

  Surya nodded.

  But inside, doubt churned.

  Someone wanted him dead.

  Or wanted him to believe the Council wanted him dead.

  Either way…

  He was walking into a battlefield with no map.

  A battlefield where every smile hid a blade.

  And behind the closed doors of the palace,

  the first seeds of political war had been sown—

  not by enemies across the border,

  but from within the beating heart of Suryavarta itself.

  The sun was rising on a new kind of conflict.