Silence pressed down on the ARASU MAALIGAI (royal palace) like a held breath.
Day after day, the ARASU AVAI (royal court / hall of rule) convened beneath its high pillars, feet echoing against the KAL THARAI (stone floor), but the throne remained empty.
The seat of the ARASAN (king) stood untouched, draped in cloth, waiting for a body that no longer came.
Vaisen sat next to it.
OLAI (palm-leaf records) lay open before him. MUTHIRAI (royal seals) waited at his hand.
Orders moved through the palace with his name spoken quietly, carefully, passed from KAAVAL (guards) to messenger.
Not king.
Not yet.
Murmurs rippled across the hall.
One of the AVAI MŪTHŌR (assembly elders) rose. His heel struck the KAL THARAI (stone floor) once, sharp, commanding silence.
MŪTHŌR (elder/respected man) NEDUMĀRAN spoke, his voice edged with authority.
"You speak as though the crown already rests on your head," he said. "But you are not the ARASAN yet." The words struck like flint.
VAISEN did not look up.
Another man stood at once—quicker, louder. It was AMAICCAR (senior/minister) VELPAṆṬIYAN, "You cannot decide troop movement. You cannot finalize pacts. Those powers belong to the throne."
A third voice cut in, scoffing. NĀṬṬĀR (regional chief) KODIYŪRAN, he leaned forward. "He is the next heir.Why should he not?"
The answer came immediately—cold, precise.
AMAICCAR (chief minister) ILAVARASU MĀRAN spoke without rising.
"Because ARASAN PARANARASAN has not placed the crown upon AIYĀṈ (prince) VAISEN's head."
He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the elders.
"He did not name him ARASAN yet."
The hall stirred.
"He is not ARASAN,"
MŪTHŌR NEDUMĀRAN repeated.
Voices overlapped. Accusations sharpened.
The sound swelled, bouncing off stone and pillar, rising higher, harsher, filling the ARASU AVAI (royal assembly).
VAISEN's jaw tightened.
His fingers curled against the armrest. The scrape of wood beneath his grip was the only warning.
"Enough," said AMAICCAR (senior minister) VELPAṆṬIYAN.
"No—listen—" another MŪTHŌR tried.
"You are overstepping—" snapped a NĀṬṬĀR. (regional chief) KODIYŪRAN
VAISEN stood.
The movement was sudden.
"SILENT." The shout thundered through the ARASU AVAI.
Every voice died.
Not a breath stirred. Even the hanging banners along the pillars seemed to still.
VAISEN stood rigid, chest heaving, his face flushed, the bridge of his nose red with fury held too long.
"Behave," he said, each word cut clean.
"Remember where you stand."
No one answered.
Bootsteps broke the stillness.
A THŪTHAN (palace messenger) ran past the KAAVAL (guards), breath ragged, sweat darkening his tunic.
He dropped to his knees, forehead striking the KAL THARAI.
"AIYĀṈ VAISEN—"
His voice faltered. He swallowed.
"The ARASAN…
ARASAN PARANARASAN…
he—"
The words landed before they were finished.
VAISEN's legs buckled.
He caught himself, fingers digging into the wood as the room tilted. The hall blurred, faces smearing into colour and sound.
Gone.
The weight struck all at once—his APPAN's voice, his hand on Vaisen's shoulder, the throne that would never be passed gently now.
His breath shuddered.
Across the hall, a few men exchanged glances.
One did not look away.
While others lowered their eyes or stiffened, he remained still, hands folded at his back, posture untouched by the shock moving through the ARASU AVAI (royal assembly).
The corner of his mouth lifted—no more than a breath. Not triumph. Not cruelty. Something quieter. Settled.
Then AMAICCAR ILAVARASU MĀRAN shifted his stance—just enough to block the line of sight between that man and VAISEN.
The smile was gone.
The hall exhaled.
VAISEN did not.
Then Another messenger burst in, stumbling over his own feet. He bowed so deeply his forehead struck the KAL THARAI (stone floor).
"AIYAAN," he gasped.
"VEDAN THAYE (queen mother)… she fell from the MADIL MEEDHU (from atop the fort wall / rampart) and she—"
Vaisen lifted his head.
One look.
Sharp. Absolute.
The messenger froze mid-sentence, mouth still open, the rest swallowed by silence.
Vaisen did not need the words.
He straightened slowly. His hands trembled once, then stilled.
The hall waited.
And in that waiting, something irrevocable settled over him—not a crown, not yet—but the cold knowledge that nothing would ever be handed to him again.
Only taken.
------
The ŪR (village) crouched under silence.
Not peace—but the weight of death pressing bones to MAṆ (earth).
By the ĀRU (river), two bodies lay on PAṆAI KATTAI (palm-wood funeral biers), bound rough with fiber, stripped of pride, stripped of cloth.
Women wailed, fists on breasts, voices ragged. Men muttered low, eyes hard, faces twitching with disbelief and fear.
VAISEN sat cross-legged before them.
His back was straight.
Hands steady.
Before him, the NERUPPU (fire) flickered against dark skin.
His lips moved—not in chant, not in verse—
only breath and silence, broken by the women's cries and the crackle of fire.
He did not look up. He did not flinch.
Around him, the ARASU MAKKAḶ (royal folk) held stiff faces.
Beyond them, the ŪR MAKKAL (villagers) pressed close, teeth gritted, eyes sharp, mouths moving with venom.
Whispers snapped like dry sticks.
"Both gone… at once? Who has this much courage?"
"AIYĀṉ VAISEN… is it he who did this to ARASAN (king) and VĒDAN THĀY (queen-mother)?"
"But for what? won't the crown was about to be his? Then why?"
"because he doesn't want to rule under anyone!"
"He cuts all paths in One sweep!"
"A FILTHY DOG! He should rot in fire before the dead!"
"PĀVI! PĀVI! PĀVI! (evil-stained man)"
Spit flew from cracked lips. Fingers jabbed air. Eyes glared with accusation and hunger.
VAISEN heard every curse.
He rose and seized the NERUPPU (fire). Step by step, he approached the PAṆAI KATTAI (funeral biers).
VAISEN stood.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped aside — away from the pyre.
Gasps rippled.
"If I were guilty," he said, calm, controlled,
"I would flee fire."
He looked at the crowd.
"But I sit in it."
Silence swallowed the ŪR. No one gets a word to accuse.
Even hatred needs ground to stand on.
The pyre had not yet taken its full breath.
Flame clung low to the wood, licking but not consuming. Smoke rose thin, uncertain, as if the fire itself hesitated.
VAISEN reached up.
One by one, he loosened the ĀṆI (ornaments) from his arms. Metal slid against skin, dull and final.
The weight that had marked rank and bloodline fell into his open palm and then to the ground.
A footstep cut through the mourning.
A THŪTHAN (royal messenger) had come close—too close.
He did not bow.
He did not lower his eyes.
His voice struck straight, sharp as a thrown blade.
"AIYĀṈ VAISEN. You are called to an important ARASU AVAI (royal assembly)."
VAISEN lifted his gaze to the man. Their eyes met.
Then, without a word, VAISEN turned back to his body and resumed unfastening the ARAṆAI (royal insignia) at his waist.
The THŪTHAN did not step back.
His voice hardened.
"You are called. Now."
VAISEN turned.
He took one step closer — not threatening, not loud.
"Say it again," he said softly,
"with your eyes lowered."
The THŪTHAN froze.
Every man present understood:
this wasn't anger — this was training authority.
The THŪTHAN bowed.
------
The ARASU AVAI (royal assembly) stood full. Stone pillars rose on either side, their shadows stretching long across the KAL THARAI (stone floor). Lamps burned low, smoke clinging to the air.
PERU-AMAICCAR (chief ministers) stood in ordered rows. Nearby, the elders gathered close—AVAI MŪTHŌR (assembly elders)—silent, watchful, their age lending weight to every breath they took.
At the center, before the empty seat of rule, stood AMAICCAR (minister) VELPAṆṬIYAN.
VAISEN entered.
His steps were slow. Bare.
Mourning cloth hung loose upon him, unadorned, stripped of every sign of rank. The sound of his footfall carried farther than it should have.
Every gaze turned.
Some burned with anger.
Some held restraint.
Some watched with something colder still. VAISEN met them all.
He did not bow.
He did not lower his eyes.
For a heartbeat, he did not understand the weight pressing down on the hall. Then it settled into his chest.
This was not grief alone.
This was TĪRPPU (judgment).
PERU-AMAICCAR (chief minister) ILAVARASU MĀRAN spoke first. His voice was even, careful—too careful.
"Welcome, AIYĀṈ (prince) VAISEN." The words rang wrong. A murmur stirred through the hall, low and uneasy.
"What is this?" He turned slowly, taking them in.
"Why am I called here like this—
in the middle of my APPAN (father)'s funeral?"
MŪTHŌR (elder) NEDUMĀRAN spoke softly, but his words carried mock.
"Two deaths in one dawn." The hall stilled.
"The ARASAN (king)," he continued, "and the VĒNṬAṈ THĀY (queen-mother)."
Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant.
AMAICCAR (minister) VELPAṆṬIYAN stepped forward, his voice slower, weighted.
"The palace has not yet learned how to breathe," he said.
"But already, questions walk its halls."
VAISEN's jaw tightened.
"Say it plainly," he snapped. "What are you circling?"
PERU-AMAICCAR (chief minister) ILAVARASU MĀRAN did not raise his voice.
"You know what he means, Vaisen," he said.
"Why must it be spoken bare?"
VAISEN's eyes cut to him—sharp, searching.
Before he could answer, footsteps echoed from behind. The hall shifted.
A figure entered—unannounced, unquestioned.
KĀVALAR (guards) straightened.
AMAICCAR (ministers) fell silent.
AMOGH.
VAISEN turned. The world stalled.
"ILAM THAMBI (younger brother)…" His voice dropped. "You are here?"
Amogh did not answer. His gaze slid past Vaisen, settling ahead.
MŪTHŌR (respected elder man) NEDUMĀRAN spoke again, measured.
"When the throne stands empty," he said,
"those bound to it must be present."
VAISEN looked from face to face, confusion threading into disbelief.
AMAICCAR (senior minster) VELPAṆṬIYAN's tone hardened.
"When those responsible for the deaths of the ARASAN (king) and VĒNṬAṈ THĀY (queen-mother) are sought," he said, "no one is excused."
VAISEN turned sharply.
"Responsible?" A short, bitter breath escaped him. "Is this how grief speaks now?"
ILAVARASU MĀRAN lifted his hand.
"We believed the same," he said.
"Until this."
At his signal, servants were brought forward.
Their faces were pale. Eyes darting. Hands trembling.
The first stepped ahead, voice shaking.
"This morning…" he began, swallowing hard.
"We saw AIYĀṈ VAISEN leaving the chamber of ARASAN PARANARASAN."
A ripple moved through the hall.
"When we entered," the servant continued, barely above a whisper,
"ARASAN was no longer breathing."
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