Broken brass plates rang out in sharp alarm.
The servants of the royal chambers threw open the corridor windows with a sudden jolt, and the horn bearers raised the goat horns to their lips.
The entire capital would soon know what the palace already knew.
The father of the nation was dead.
At the royal attendant's secret summons, the Rajpurohit arrived without delay. Steadfast in discipline and seasoned by decades of learning, the old Brahmana stepped into the chamber wearing his measured dignity, his disciples gathering behind him like a silent procession. Their voices trembled as they began reciting the Vedic Suktas to Yama.
The Rajpundit gently closed the King's eyes, eyes which gave off a cruel illusion of life. With steady hands he filled the King's mouth with the holy waters of the river Ajaya for the last time. Once, he had raised this prince almost as his own son, for once even the unyielding Royal Brahman faltered, as if he'd lost his own kin.
The servants lifted his body and laid him down on the royal bier, escorting it slowly down the palatial stairs. Another group of palace cleaners hurriedly cleaned the marble floor where it would be placed, covering it with a white cloth, the kusha grass laid carefully throughout the floor where he would rest.
The courtiers present lowered their heads as it entered the hall.
The women of the Antahpura emerged with their attendants, the aged Rajamata leading the procession. Behind her walked the principal queens, each surrounded by her servants, arranged according to their rank and seniority. The Sabha hall, which had once witnessed coronations, victories, and royal debates, now echoed with the cries of a grieving mother and the lament of widows left behind.
"Whither hast thou gone, my son?"
"Whither hast thou gone, my husband?"
"O Prajanatha ! Whither hast thou gone, leaving us like lambs without shelter in this treacherous world?"
Some fell at his feet, some at his head, others at his sides, their cries rising one after another. One clung to his feet, another held his lifeless hand, while others pressed their foreheads against the bier
Courtiers, nobles, and mantris gathered in the Sabha hall from across the realm. Their lament grew louder with every passing moment, swelling like the ocean at the end of summer as the monsoon clouds gather upon the horizon. The sky was without any clouds, but the thunderclaps of mourning bells and horns echoed through the city. The hall filled up with governors, provincial lords, the families of the Adhipatis, all in the order of their distances to the capital. The hierarchy of entries was dismantled for this short while.
The royal princess, Ratnaprabha entered the hall, wearing a plain cotton garment, the two-piece cotton garment, dyed light pink. A few tears trickled down her cheek, her face as cold as a stone statue recently crafted in the honour of the great Goddess Shakti which moves through the three worlds.
The lament of the royal widows echoed off the high stone walls, but beneath the wailing, a different sound took root. The snake-tongued mantris moved among the grieving masses, dabbing at dry eyes with silk handkerchiefs and offering hollow consolations.
Men who had never been granted an audience with the departed King now loudly sang his praises as though mourning a lifelong friend. The pleasantries and flattery which would dye the terracotta-red skin of the king to an even deeper crimson if he were animated enough to know them, slowly but steadily broke out to give the reason as to why they began in the first place.
"His Majesty has presented us with three wonderful sons" the governor of Avanti's wheat basket remarked "I wonder who takes after him the most?"
The question of succession finally breached the heavy silence of the hall.
"His Highness Prince Chandrasen has been blessed by the Gods with the strength and valour of ten men," a certain eastern lord declared, his voice carrying over the murmurs. "With such wide shoulders and long reach of arms, we are truly blessed. May his mother, the daughter of Karunad, Her Highness Shalmali, find the utmost happiness."
The strength of ten men? Ratnaprabha's eyes remained fixed on the floor, though her mind raced. If he is so strong, why was he hiding at his grandfather's estate while my brother was shedding blood at the northern pass? Had the kingdom's wheat basket been sold so cheaply already?
"Nay, my lord, you are still young and unknowing of worldly affairs," countered Adhipati Sushena, the eldest of the kingdom's dukes. His voice was gravelly but commanded absolute respect. " Legitimacy comes from precedence. Her Highness Hiranyakeshi, was the first to wed His Majesty. Her son, His Highness Arstishenn, should succeed. May Her Highness lead us as our Rajmata."
Sushena had given everything to his beloved adopted daughter. The sheer economic survival of the kingdom rested heavily on his dukedom's ledgers.
"The wise have always said that those afflicted by disability should never ascend the throne," a third noble cut in smoothly, weaponizing the ancient laws. "His Highness Arstishenn has been through something extremely unfortunate. He is devoid of his right leg. Therefore, let the second prince lead us as our shepherd."
Ratnaprabha's jaw tightened. And whose fault is it that my brother lost his leg? He lost it protecting the very borders you sit safely behind.
"Furthermore," the noble continued, his tone turning venomous, "the sages warned long ago that kingdoms must guard their lineage, lest foreign influence bring the nation to ruin."
A low, dangerous whisper swept through the assembly. Men shifted on their seats; hands discreetly drifted toward the hilts of ceremonial daggers.
"The Shaivite royal lineage of Karunad that bore Prince Chandrasen is older than half the noble houses in this hall!" another minister shouted back. "By virtue of pure lineage, His Highness is unmatched!"
Before the hall could erupt into shouting, Kanishka, the Lord of the Frontier, rose to his feet. His eyes were red with fury, a stark contrast to the polished courtiers around him.
"If frontier blood is foreign, my lord," Kanishka's voice boomed like thunder, "then whose sons have protected this kingdom from being plundered by the barbarians beyond the hills? The soil of Avanti is still wet with the blood we have shed! How cruel is the providence of destiny that our Prince and our Queen are questioned despite the sacrifices they have made for your safety!"
Beside the rugged warlord, Adhipati Sushena slowly rose to his feet. The rustle of his silk robes sounded deafening in the sudden silence that followed Kanishka's words. He did not wear any heavy ornaments, nor did he make any noise while getting up that attracted specific attention. He did not yell like the frontier lord; he didn't need to.
"If anyone doubts the lineage of my daughter,"
the elder Duke said, his voice a quiet, lethal blade that carried to the furthest corners of the room,
"they may dare to challenge our house openly, and face the extinction of their entire clan."
A heavy dread settled over the opposing mantris. The message was perfectly clear: Kanishka had the swords to wipe out a bloodline, but Sushena had the gold and the influence to ensure they were erased from history.
Together, the biological father and the adoptive father stood shoulder-to-shoulder, an unbreakable wall of steel and gold defending their daughter and her children.
The debate had crossed a line that no man dared to step over. After Adhipati Sushena's quiet threat of extinction, the chain of incessant shouting ground to a suffocating halt. The nobles clamped their mouths shut; no one was foolish enough to challenge the wealthiest Duke in Avanti while the Lord of the Frontier stood breathing down their necks.
Into that heavy, terrified silence came a sharp, brittle crack.
On the other side of the hall, the sairandhrīs had begun their grim work. Moving through the ranks of the junior consorts, these specialized attendants were methodically dismantling the shringaar: the sacred adornments of marriage. One by one, the vivid red sindoor was wiped from their partings by the senior handmaidens, leaving their foreheads pale and bare. The ceremonial lac bangles were snapped, falling to the marble floor with a sharp, weeping clatter that echoed through the vast assembly. Gold and glass were stripped away and placed onto silver trays held by the waiting parichārikās.
Whatever the wailing widows lacked in expressing their sorrow, this violent, systematic erasure of their married identities by the royal maids magnified a thousandfold.
The women of the inner chambers moved up the hierarchy, finally reaching Queen Shalmali.
From her place near the stone pillar, Ratnaprabha watched her stepmother closely. For a fraction of a second, before the maid even reached for her wrists, one side of Shalmali's mouth twitched upward into a soft, triumphant smile. Then, faster than a striking viper, the mask of ultimate agony fell over her features.
"Do not dare to touch me!" Shalmali shrieked, striking the aged servant's hand away.
She threw herself toward the bier, collapsing at the heavy, terracotta-hued feet of the dead king. "I shall not die a widow, my naatha!" she wailed, her voice echoing with pitch-perfect devastation. "I will follow you to the heavens! I shall serve you there as the beloved wife you deserve!".
A collective gasp of horror rippled through the hall. But it was not a silence of submission; it was an eruption of theological panic. Brahmins and nobles alike stumbled to their feet, the hair on their arms standing up like reeds.
"O Daughter of Karunad, cease this terrible resolve!" cried one of the senior Acharyas. He stepped forward with his hands folded in the utmost respect. "A mother whose children yet breathe has no right to the pyre, nourish your children and look after the living. Devi, we look upon you as one of this nation's mothers. We humbly beseech you to not abandon us in the times of such distress,"
Shalmali did not flinch. She kept her forehead pressed against the heavy, terracotta-hued feet of her husband.
"I may be a mother to this nation, but the duty of a pativratā nāri is praised by the gods above all else. First and foremost, I am his wife." Her resolve was unwavering. She spoke as if the pyre had already been lit right there in the assembly hall.
"Sister Hiranyakeshi," she wept, her voice breaking. "You are now the sole father and mother of my children. Beside you, I was but a maid, a mere surrogate for this lineage. Please... grant me the authority to follow our husband to the heavenly abode."
Ratnaprabha's blood ran cold. It is a flawlessly laid trap, she realized instantly. If my mother grants permission, she must guarantee Chandrasen the throne. If she doesn't, Shalmali's brother will use her death as an excuse to invade the kingdom and seize it entirely. If she refuses permission, the court condemns her as a jealous tyrant. Shalmali looked like the most pitiful creature in the room, but the dice had just been loaded entirely in her favor. But Shalmali was not the only woman in the room who knew how to play the game of ultimate sacrifice.
Before Hiranyakeshi could speak a word to seal her own doom, Ratnaprabha stepped out from the deep shadow of a massive stone pillar at the edge of the hall. Her bare feet made no sound against the floor, but her voice was steady, carrying clearly over the murmurs of the panicked court.
"Mother Shalmali, please take note of this humble daughter of yours," Ratnaprabha said, dropping to her knees beside her stepmother. She bowed her head, matching Shalmali's theatrical piety with a terrifyingly calm devotion. "If you wish to ascend the pyre to serve my father, then I shall follow you as well. We Kshatriya women live and die for honor. May our Pitrs nourish this family and nation after us."
The entire baithak froze. A royal princess, unmarried and in the prime of her youth, offering to follow her father and stepmother into the flames was unheard of in a thousand years. Ratnaprabha kept her eyes on the floor, waiting for her stepmother to realize she had just been checkmated.
For a long, suffocating moment, the hall fell into silence so profound one could hear the sputtering of the camphor lamps.
Crack.
"Have you both lost your minds?"
The old Rajmata struck her wooden crutch against the marble floor. It echoed through the baithak like a hammer blow. "What mother sacrifices herself only to drag an entire dynasty onto the pyre with her? Have I lived this long only to see my putravadhu and my granddaughter turn my son's funeral into a contest of flames?"
The dowager queen had always been ruthless in her bluntness, but today, her voice carried the wrath of all of the royal clan's ancestors. "Fetch more wood then! Burn the whole royal house while you are at it. Let the kingdom watch our entire clan turn a funeral into a sea of flames."
Hearing such harsh words, Shalmali retreated to her position. Not even the royal daughter of Karunad had the guts to bypass the authority and the commanding presence of the dowager.
We must stand strong together, not shatter," Hiranyakeshi stepped in, her calm, regal voice soothing the sting of the Rajmata's slap. "If we are consumed by grief in these dark times, what hope is there for our people? I have already lost a husband; I refuse to lose a sister and a daughter today as well."
"Enough," the Rajmata commanded, her eyes sweeping over the paralyzed mantris. "Rajpurohit Indrayaaja, read the final decree. Settle this dispute once and for all. I will tolerate no more political vultures circling my son's body."
The Royal Brahmin paused. With a solemn nod, he gestured for his senior disciples to bring forth the bronze casket they had been guarding. He untied a heavy key from a knot in his shawl and broke the royal seal. A copper plate, protected by a thin layer of dried clay, was gently brought to the light. Removing the clay dust exposed the weighty inscriptions, proclaiming the deceased monarch's unequivocal decree.
"Let it be known across the earth, and heard by the heavens," the Rajpurohit began, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. "On the day of my passing, when this seal is broken, the following shall be absolute law."
The hearts of the nobles hammered against their ribs. In the shadows, the queens clenched their fists.
"With the Devas Agni, Surya, and Chandrama as my eternal witnesses, I hereby solemnly proclaim that the absolute authority of this lineage, the treasury, and the Solar Throne, be passed to..."
The priest paused, his eyes scanning the copper plate. Every second of silence felt like an agonizing eternity.
"...my daughter, Ratnaprabha."
The words fell like an executioner's blade.
"I invoke the ancient and sacred custom of the Putrikā," the Rajpurohit read on, his voice cutting through the rising, horrified gasps of the northern lords. "She is my heir. The responsibility of the funerary rites shall be handled by her brother, Arstishenn, and the throne shall be held by her, and thereafter, the descendants borne of her womb."