Facing the most violent storms with the calmest smile was a skill Agastya carried like a second skin. Perhaps it was his past that had shaped him so—teaching him early that panic invited cruelty, and silence often
saved lives.
His mind still lingered on the interaction with Commander Siddhartha as he climbed the wide stone steps leading toward the royal court.
The words exchanged earlier echoed faintly in his thoughts, not sharp enough to wound, yet persistent enough to remind him of his place in the eyes of others.
You don't belong.
Agastya exhaled slowly.
The sun roared above the fortress, unforgiving and relentless. Its heat pressed down on soldiers and servants alike, drawing sweat from skin and warmth from armor. Yet with every step Agastya took upward, a
different sensation settled in him.
Cold.
The royal court had always carried its own chill.
It had nothing to do with stone or shadow. It came from memory—memories that did not fade, no matter how much time passed.
At the gates, his steps slowed.
Then stopped...
The massive doors stood before him, tall and ancient, their metal surface polished smooth by centuries of hands that had pushed them open in hope—or dread. For a brief moment, Agastya saw his reflection in them. A commander now. Armored. Respected.
Yet behind that reflection lingered another image.
This court had once taken everything from him.
Not with fire. Not with blades.
With judgment.
His fingers tightened. He placed both hands against the cold metal and pushed.
The doors opened with a long, heavy creak. The sound rolled through the hall like a warning to those within.
Agastya stepped inside.
The royal court revealed itself in full.
Ministers stood in precise rows, robes heavy with authority and secrets. Officials whispered softly, their expressions calm and unreadable.
Commanders—war-hardened, disciplined—stood apart, silent pillars of the
kingdom's strength.
Every gaze turned toward him.
Agastya walked forward, boots striking stone in a steady rhythm. He moved to the center of the court and stopped. He did not let his eyes wander. He did not seek faces, friendly or hostile.
Instead, his attention fixed on the throne.
Empty.
Yet dominant.
Dark stone reinforced with metal, scarred and polished by time. Even unoccupied, it carried weight—as if it watched those who stood before it, measuring their worth.
Agastya straightened.
I will protect it, he vowed silently.
With everything I have.
The ripples in his mind began to calm.
Then—
Creeeak.
The doors behind him opened once more.
"All hail the King!" the announcer's voice rang through the
hall.
The court rose instantly. Heads lowered. Eyes fell to the ground.
It was a perfect unison of obedience, respect, and something deeper—fear learned over generations.
The king entered.
He was a man in his fifties, his body lean and appearing frail at first glance. Long hair fell along the sides of his face, partially shadowing his eyes. His cape flowed behind him, pitch black, swallowing the light that touched it. From a distance, one could not sense death from him.
But his eyes—
They were sharp. Like drawn blades. Unforgiving.
As he stepped forward—
Fire.
Cries.
The sudden scream of steel striking stone.
A man on his knees.
Hands raised. Trembling.
"Please," the man begged, his voice breaking. "Please, I have a family. I will leave. I swear it."
Soldiers surrounded the area, their armor smeared with soot and ash. Flames devoured the wooden structures behind them, smoke choking the air. The smell of burning flesh mixed with iron and fear.
The king who was much younger stood before the kneeling man.
His sword was drawn.
Its tip pointed forward.
The blade trembled—not with weakness, but with choice.
"Mercy," the man whispered.
The sword moved.
Not toward the ground.
Toward the man's chest.
Blood splashed upward.
Dark spots stained the king's neck, his face, his hands. The warmth shocked him more than the act itself. The man collapsed, his plea dying with him as fire roared louder around them.
The sword lowered.
Silence followed.
The throne loomed.
The king blinked.
Stone steps beneath his feet.
The present returned without warning.
He passed the commanders standing at the center of the court, his gaze fixed ahead, unchanging. The memory vanished as suddenly as it had come, sealed behind discipline honed over decades.
He ascended the steps and took his rightful place upon the throne.
The epicenter of the kingdom.
He raised his hand slightly.
"All may sit," the announcer declared.
The court obeyed.
Silence settled again, heavy and complete.
At the king's signal, the royal advisor stepped forward. Aged, composed, holding a scroll with steady hands, he bowed deeply.
"As per the tradition of our kingdom," he announced, "the Contest of Commanders shall be held beginning the day after tomorrow."
A murmur rippled through the court—brief and quickly smothered.
"This ancient contest exists to determine the order among the Twelve. It is to be held for fifteen days, divided into three stages."
The scroll unrolled.
"Each stage shall test a different aspect of command. Performance will be rewarded with points, and the final order shall be decided by the total accumulated."
"The trials are as follows," the advisor continued.
"Trial of Judgment."
"Trial of Command."
"Trial of Steel."
Each name echoed through the hall like a verdict.
"Each stage carries a maximum of four points, making a total of twelve."
The advisor rolled the scroll and turned toward the throne.
The king gave a single nod.
The date was fixed.
The court rose once more in obedience to the king's order.
For Agastya, the moment stretched.
This was the day he had waited for his entire life.
The day that would cleanse the darkness he carried—
—or sharpen it into something unbreakable.
He stepped forward and dropped to one knee, saluting with all his strength.
"For the kingdom Vraj,"Agastya said.
The king rested his palm upon the armrest of the throne. The surface was smooth and cool, polished by generations of rulers. Beneath that shine, he felt the scars of the past—battles fought, lives taken, choices made in fire.
This throne commanded resolve.
Or consumed those who lacked it.
His gaze returned to Agastya.
The young commander stood tall, calm, smiling faintly as if storms meant nothing to him.
The king's lips curved.
Not in kindness.
But in recognition.