The sword came to Aditya Pratap Singh not as a gift, but as an inheritance with teeth.
It was older than the palace walls, older than the painted balconies and the silken banners that fluttered in the afternoon breeze. Forged in a century when men still fought atop elephants and arrows darkened the skies, it had drunk the blood of invaders, rebels, tyrants, and martyrs alike. Its steel carried prayers at the hilt and curses at the edge.
And now, it lay waiting for him.
The armoury of Rajgarh was not a place often visited by idle courtiers. Unlike the audience halls bright with laughter and perfume, here the air was metallic and sober. Rows of spears stood like guardians, shields hung in solemn arcs, and battle standards slept beneath white cloths as if waiting to be woken by a single trumpet.
Aditya walked alone between them.
He wore simple white, the attire of discipline rather than ceremony. The sunlight filtering through the stone jali screens broke into latticed patterns across his face — warrior by training, prince by birth, soldier by choice.
He stopped at the central pedestal.
The sword lay there.
Unsheathed.
Unapologetic.
The blade caught the light and reflected not merely brightness, but history. The handle was wrapped in worn black leather softened by decades of palms. The guard curved like a crescent moon, etched with Sanskrit verses invoking dharma and kshatra — righteousness and duty. On the scabbard, faded yet proud, gleamed the emblem of the Sun Banner.
He did not touch it immediately.
Instead, he bowed.
Not because he believed the sword divine — but because he respected anything that could so easily end or protect a life.
Behind him, slow, steady footsteps approached.
Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj.
The King did not speak at first. He stood beside his son and allowed the silence to breathe. Silence, he believed, is the truest test of a man; only those uncomfortable with their own truth rush to fill it.
Finally, he said quietly, "Do you know its name?"
Aditya's gaze remained on the blade. "It has one?"
The King smiled faintly. "All true swords do. Those that are merely weapons remain nameless. Those that change destinies are called."
He touched the hilt with reverence, fingers tracing ancient grooves.
"This is Surya-Shastra — the Weapon of the Sun."
Aditya absorbed the name in silence.
Surya-Shastra.
A blade for illumination.
A blade for burning.
"It has belonged," the King continued, "only to those of our lineage who carried two burdens at once — command and conscience. Your grandfather wielded it in the uprising against the southern warlords. His father carried it across three battles and one famine. It is not just steel, Aditya. It is expectation."
Aditya finally wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
The sword was not heavy. It was honest. It rested in his grip like something that had simply been waiting to be claimed. The cool of the metal seeped into his skin, and with it, the strange pressure of a thousand unheard voices — soldiers who had charged screaming, mothers who had wept, kings who had hesitated at the brink of war.
He exhaled slowly.
"Pitashri," he said quietly, "is a sword meant for an age such as ours?"
The King was silent again, but only briefly.
"More than ever," he answered. "Because in an age of deceit and treaties, sometimes the sharpest blade is clarity."
Aditya sheathed the weapon.
The sound was soft, final, like the closing of a temple door.
Training grounds stretched beyond the palace gardens, concealed behind tall mango trees. To strangers, they looked like festival spaces — wrestling akharas, racing tracks, practice yards filled with laughter and dust. Only those who watched closely truly understood the discipline flowing beneath the casual surface.
Aditya entered with Surya-Shastra at his hip.
Voices hushed.
Young recruits paused mid-exercise. Senior soldiers struck their spears against the ground in silent acknowledgment. He was not merely the eldest prince — he was their Senapati, Armed General of Rajgarh.
He nodded once, formal yet warm.
"Continue."
They obeyed.
Swords clashed. Horses thundered. The scent of sweat, leather, and fresh-turned earth filled the air. Aditya walked among them, correcting a stance here, adjusting a grip there.
"Your arm is strong, but your intention wavers," he told a boy barely seventeen. "A sword does not respond to muscle. It responds to decision."
He guided another.
"Do not close your eyes when the blow comes. Fear grows in darkness."
He stopped at the archery field.
Princess Mrinalini stood there, veil tied back, bow curved, eyes bright with stubborn focus. Arrows already studded the target — not at its heart, but close enough to reveal relentless effort.
She noticed him and stiffened slightly.
"Bhai-saheb."
"Rajkumari," he replied with a small smile.
She loosed another arrow.
It struck the ring just outside the bull's-eye.
She muttered something sharp under her breath.
Aditya stepped behind her without touching her, simply aligning his voice with her breath.
"You pull as though the target is your enemy."
"It is," she said immediately.
"Then you will always miss," he replied softly. "Aim not with anger, but with purpose. Do not shoot to defy. Shoot to achieve."
She inhaled.
Exhaled.
This time, the arrow flew true.
Mrinalini's lips parted in surprise before pride straightened her spine. She did not thank him — gratitude between them was unspoken, steady, already woven into years of shared childhood and sharpened ideals.
Aditya moved on.
He reached the horse grounds just as Yuvraj Samrat Veer Singh — the Crown Prince — vaulted onto a restless black stallion. Married now. Responsible. Slightly more solemn than before, yet with the same flicker of mischief in his eyes that refused to be extinguished entirely.
"You will break your neck if you keep riding like a myth instead of a man," Aditya called dryly.
Samrat grinned. "And you will lecture me even if I were already a ghost."
He guided the horse into a flawless gallop anyway.
Aditya watched him with emotions layered and complex — affection, protectiveness, and a sharp awareness that history rested on his younger brother's shoulders.
A rustle of silk announced another presence.
Yuvrani Anushka Devi stood beneath the shade of a banyan tree, watching her husband as one watches a flame — awed, wary, calculating all at once.
Their eyes met across the training ground.
The breeze lifted the edges of her red saree, revealing the glint of sindoor in the parting of her hair. Her gaze slowly shifted to the sword at Aditya's side.
For the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered across her expression.
Not fear.
Not envy.
Something deeper.
Recognition.
Then she smiled — serene, queenly, unreadable once more — and turned as Samrat dismounted and went to her, laughing.
Aditya's hand brushed subconsciously against the hilt.
He had the strangest sensation that Surya-Shastra approved of her… or warned of her. He could not tell which.
That evening, the palace burned with lamplight.
Courtiers gathered for the display of arms, a tradition renewed every decade to remind the kingdom that silk without steel is simply fabric — but silk with steel becomes banner.
Aditya stood in the center court, sword belted at his side.
The King sat on his throne.
The Queen Regent at his right.
The Queen Consort at his left.
Princes and princesses watched from carved balconies. Musicians stilled. Blue-robed priests finished chanting mantras over the weapons displayed ceremonially before the altar.
The British Envoy stood stiffly near a pillar, his expression politely bored — or so he pretended. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the great sword at Aditya's side.
Aditya stepped forward.
He unsheathed Surya-Shastra.
Gasps moved through the assembly like wind through wheat.
The steel caught the torchlight and threw it back sharper, brighter. It did not appear bent by time; if anything, time had refined it. He raised it in salute — not to the Envoy, not to the audience, but to the people whose lives such weapons were meant to protect.
"Dharmasya rakshanartham," he said clearly.
For the protection of righteousness.
The priests repeated it collectively.
Aditya began the warrior's kata — slow at first, then accelerating, blade carving arcs of silver through air. His movements were not merely strength, but precision — every strike measured, every step grounded, every turn a dialogue between human will and ancient steel.
He ended with the sword pointed downward, tip kissing the earth.
A vow.
"I do not raise this sword for ambition," he said softly, though his voice carried effortlessly. "I raise it for those who till the fields, salt the shores, weave the cloth, and live under our banner. Let any who threaten them — foreign or our own — know they do not stand alone."
The crowd murmured its approval.
Even the Envoy shifted slightly.
The King's eyes glistened — pride, sorrow, fear intertwined.
The Queen Regent bowed her head just enough that others might mistake it for approval, but Aditya saw the prayer behind the gesture.
The Queen Consort pressed her beads tighter between her fingers.
Samrat's jaw was tight — admiration warring with the weight of knowing why a man makes vows like that.
Anushka did not move.
But in her stillness lived a hurricane.
Night deepened.
After the court dispersed, after the torches were lowered, after the echoes of applause faded from marble, Aditya stood alone again on the ramparts.
The kingdom sprawled beneath him — villages lit by oil lamps, distant fields glimmering faintly with reflected moonlight, the dark ribbon of the river winding like a sleeping serpent.
Surya-Shastra rested against the parapet.
He spoke softly, not sure whether he addressed the sword, the sky, or the ancestors.
"There will come a day when words will not be enough."
The wind answered.
Leaves rustled.
An owl called.
Somewhere, temple bells sang midnight prayers.
He continued.
"When that day comes, let my hand not tremble. Let my heart not harden. Let my judgment not falter between mercy and necessity."
Footsteps.
He did not turn immediately; he recognized the tread.
Queen Regent Aishvarya Devi.
"Mother," he said quietly.
She came to stand beside him.
"The sword suits you," she said.
"I am deciding whether I suit the sword."
Her eyes softened — pride and worry woven inseparably.
"You were born for burden, Aditya," she said. "Not because fate is cruel, but because you are strong enough to carry it without turning tyrant."
He swallowed.
"And Samrat?"
Her gaze drifted toward the distant glow of the inner palace where the Crown Prince slept beside his enigmatic bride.
"Samrat was born for destiny," she murmured. "You were born for duty. Kingdoms need both."
He leaned against the cold stone.
"The British are watching us. They sign treaties with the right hand and draw maps with the left. One day they will forget to smile while they tighten their grip."
"Yes," she agreed.
"And when that day comes?" he asked.
She looked at Surya-Shastra.
"When that day comes," she said simply, "the kingdom will be grateful that the sword is in the hands of a man who understands not only how to wield it, but when to sheathe it."
For a long moment, mother and son stood in companionable silence, sharing not tenderness — something deeper, forged of shared responsibility and unspoken fears.
Then she left.
Aditya remained.
He lifted Surya-Shastra once more and pointed it toward the horizon where the first faint hint of dawn would someday appear.
"Until my last breath," he whispered. "Until the last shadow retreats."
The sword glimmered faintly in the moonlight, as though acknowledging the vow.
Below, life in the kingdom continued.
Children dreamed.
Farmers slept.
British officers drafted letters.
And above it all, on the silent ramparts of a palace older than memory, the Sword of Aditya Pratap Singh committed itself not merely to war…
…but to watchfulness.
Act I pressed onward,
and destiny sharpened quietly in the dark.