The assassination attempt should have remained a palace secret.

  It should have stayed buried beneath marble floors, spoken only in guarded whispers, contained by protocol and dignity.

  But Indraprastha was a living creature—every corridor a vein, every market a lung.

  And the moment blood stirred, the city felt it.

  By sunrise, whispers were already leaking through cracks in the palace walls.

  By midday, they were trickling across merchant stalls.

  And by evening—

  They were everywhere.

  It started innocently.

  A servant who knew a guard.

  A guard who mentioned seeing too much commotion.

  A cook who overheard the queen raising her voice.

  A medic who noticed poisoned corpses being quietly incinerated.

  No one knew the full truth.

  So they filled the gaps with imagination that felt… believable.

  “The prince was attacked. I heard arrows flew!”

  “Assassins inside the palace! How did they even get past the guards?”

  “Someone said two attackers died before they could be questioned.”

  “Died… or were killed to hide the truth?”

  “What truth?”

  “The Council. Who else would dare?”

  It spread like a lit spark in dry grass.

  By the second day, the city had formed its own theories—each more confident than the last.

  A group of merchants near the textile market argued heatedly:

  “Why would the Council target him?”

  “Because the people love him too much! Look at the festivals—kids wear wooden crowns pretending to be Surya!”

  “Yes, and did you not see the bards last week? They say he walks with the strength of ancient heroes!”

  An elderly man spat to the side.

  “A Council that fears losing relevance will try to secure its power. Don’t pretend you don’t know how politics works.”

  Across town, in the spice district, a woman whispered to her friend:

  “I heard the Council plans to replace him with someone more… obedient.”

  “Is that true?”

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  “My cousin works in the palace laundry—she saw poisoned needles removed from the prince’s clothes!”

  (It wasn’t true. But truth no longer mattered.)

  Under the banyan tree near the main gate, a group of young men whispered:

  “Have you forgotten the attack last year in the senate hall? They said tensions were rising even then!”

  “No, that was different!”

  “But the Council has been pushing hard lately. And why do they keep meeting without the king?”

  “They’re scared. That’s why.”

  “Scared… or treacherous?”

  The words were thrown casually, but they stuck.

  They always stick when spoken about those in power.

  By the third day, the rumors had turned into something heavier.

  Something visible.

  Council members walking through the city found conversations dying as they passed.

  Bows became shallower.

  Faces became colder.

  Artisans who once scrambled to offer their finest goods now pretended to be busy.

  A cloth merchant in Old Bazaar was overheard muttering, just loudly enough:

  “Oh, Minister Kalapriya? I’m… out of stock. Come back later.”

  A lie—the shelves were full.

  At a tea stall, Yashomati Devi, one of the most powerful noblewomen in the council, stepped forward to order. The tea-seller hesitated.

  Not disrespectful.

  Not rude.

  But… different.

  “A moment, noble lady,” he said, though five cups were ready right behind him.

  A moment made long enough to sting.

  Another councilor, passing through the incense market, found two boys whispering behind their hands:

  “That one looks like the type who’d poison someone in their sleep.”

  Their mother slapped them on the head and scolded them, but even she did not deny it.

  The city was not rebelling.

  But it was shifting.

  And the people who always walked with authority suddenly felt… watched.

  Judged.

  Distrusted.

  The smallest slights stung harder than open insults.

  Because they came from the very people the council believed they ruled.

  By the fourth night, frustration simmered.

  Not one councilor had been publicly accused.

  Not one had been punished.

  Not one citizen dared be outright disrespectful.

  But the quiet disrespect?

  It was everywhere.

  Minister Kalapriya slammed his palm against the council table.

  “This cannot continue. Our authority is being eroded by rumors!”

  Yashomati Devi’s eyes were pinched with worry.

  “Rumors,” she echoed slowly. “Rumors that someone wants to spread.”

  “But the prince… surely he does not believe—?”

  Another cut him off. “Belief is not the matter. Perception is.”

  “We must clear this!”

  “We must demand investigation!”

  “We must—”

  “No.”

  Kalapriya’s voice dropped into something grim.

  “We must go to the prince.”

  The room fell silent.

  A councilor whispered, voice trembling:

  “Will he even receive us now?”

  “He must,” Kalapriya replied. “Or the kingdom will think we hide from him.”

  “And what will we say?” Yashomati asked.

  No one answered.

  Because none of them knew.

  The councilors walked together toward the palace the next morning.

  People stepped aside respectfully.

  But not warmly.

  Respect out of duty, not reverence.

  A thrice-bowed greeting before

  had become once.

  A once-smiling welcome

  had become a quiet nod.

  Even the guards at the palace gates bowed slower than usual.

  It did not go unnoticed.

  By the time the council reached the inner court, every one of them felt the same chill:

  The city does not trust us anymore.

  They stopped outside the prince’s chambers.

  A palace guard announced them:

  “The Inner Council requests audience with Yuvraj Surya.”

  Inside, footsteps approached.

  Surya appeared in the doorway—

  calm,

  composed,

  his expression unreadable.

  Behind him, Dharan stood with arms folded, Virat with hand on sword hilt, Pratap watching sharply, Meera glaring openly, and Varun observing with quiet intensity.

  Surya met the eyes of every councilor.

  He did not speak.

  And the councilors realized:

  For the first time in decades…

  they were the ones who felt compelled to bow first.

  “Yuvraj,” Kalapriya said, bowing with uncharacteristic humility, “we wish to speak.”

  Surya stepped aside.

  “Enter.”