The gardens of Neel Mahal shimmered in the early morning light, sapphire shadows dancing across the marble paths like whispered omens. The scent of night-blooming jasmine still lingered, mingling with the sharp bite of sandalwood rising from the copper incense bowls placed carefully along the garden steps. The Kashyapi River flowed just beyond the palace walls—silent and sure, like a vein of silver threading through the breast of Nilthala. Beyond it loomed the dark silhouettes of the Hindukush, unmoved as ever, their snowy peaks like the watchful eyes of gods.

Samrat Vidyut Kashyapnil sat beneath the shade of a flowering amaltas tree, its golden blossoms spilling overhead like a celestial blessing. Dressed in a white dhoti and a black embroidered shawl slung over one shoulder, his bare chest caught the light like burnished bronze. Three sapphire rings adorned his fingers, flashing whenever his hands moved—tokens of lineage, of blood too costly to spill. His expression was still, as if carved in stone, but beneath the calm lived a tide of storms.

Across from him, seated on a low marble bench, was Shastra Sidhantri—priest, prophet, and the enigmatic voice of divine will in Nilthala. Draped in black and red robes that shimmered faintly in the morning light, with his waist-length black hair unbound and blue eyes that mirrored the Samrat's own, Shastra looked like a figure drawn from the Vedas themselves—unreal, almost otherworldly.

"I have seen it," Shastra said at last, his voice quiet as a prayer, yet laced with dread. "Nilthala splintered. Blood upon its throne. A river of fire running through Rakhtgarh. The sapphire of your crown cracking down its heart. It is coming, Samrat."

Vidyut did not flinch. He sat with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture stiff, military-like—always on guard, even when no sword was drawn. His obsidian eyes did not meet the Guru's at first. They remained fixed on the mountains in the distance. Cold, watching, mute.

"I know," he said finally, voice low, hoarse. "The cracks are now visible. I wake to them. I eat beside them. I sleep with a dagger beneath my pillow because of them."

The air carried with it the scent of blooming night jasmine and the sharp musk of sandalwood—Vidyut's favorite atar, laced into the folds of his black shawl.

Shastra's eyes narrowed. "And how long will a mountain pretend it is not eroding?"

Vidyut finally looked at him, his expression weary but firm. "I sit on a throne of snakes, Guru. I do not know which one will bite me first. But I know the venom is coming."

There was a pause. Then, the Guru sighed, his voice edged with old sorrow. "Such is the tragedy of rulers. To raise an empire is to feed the mouths that one day may devour it."

Vidyut's jaw tightened. "My own brother, my own flesh and blood... I still remember when our father fell." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "The assassin's blade struck six times. Vishvant had tried to run to him. I held him back. I remember how tightly I had crushed him to my chest, shielding him from the sight. And now..."

"And now he walks toward the same shadow that took your father," Shastra said, not unkindly but not with empathy. "The will of the gods is not always gentle, Samrat. Karma weaves tragedy into our skin."

There was a moment of silence in which the cold winds of the Hindukush sighed. Then Vidyut spoke again.

"I did not choose this isolation. I was seventeen when I hunted down my father's murderer with my own hands. I returned with blood in my mouth and a head swinging from my saddle. And for what? So my mother could burn while my coronation chants still echoed? So my brother could one day spit upon the same throne I bled to protect?"

He stood then, the amaltas blossoms raining lightly onto his shoulders as he paced once, twice, a prowling tiger in a sapphire cage. "Dhananjay waits to strike like a jackal fat on coin and secrets. Rebels rattle gates. Dacoits infect the forests. And the people still chant my name like it's a prayer—but gods fall, Guru. Even mountains crack."

Shastra rose with him, the prophet's eyes shining like blue embers. He stepped close, his voice suddenly firmer.

"You are strong, yes, but no man, not even a Samrat, can outlast time without legacy."

Vidyut looked at him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"A marriage."

"Yes," the Guru continued, folding his hands before him. "With the daughter of another emperor. Such an alliance will steel your rule with iron bonds. Blood, after all, demands loyalty in ways gold cannot."

Vidyut turned again to the horizon. "And an heir," he said quietly, more to himself than to the Guru. "That's what you're leading to, isn't it? A name, a future, a symbol to silence the hungry and the faithless."

Shastra inclined his head. "You see clearly, Samrat. Once the people know who will wear the crown in your stead, the chaos will settle. The snakes will think twice before striking."

Vidyut's eyes twinkled in recognition. He knew Shastra spoke not without cause and never without details. "You have someone in mind already, I can see."

"The Princess of Kalyani," Shastra said. "Her father, Emperor Mahaditya, is my devotee. A man of wisdom, but no less a realist. He seeks an alliance through marriage. I have no doubt he would welcome your proposal."

Vidyut hesitated. "You forget, Guru. I cannot leave Rakhtgarh. Not even for a day, let alone a journey of months. I will return to find the palace in ashes."

Shastra did not argue. He simply gazed at the emperor in silence, as if waiting for the answer to form on its own.

And then, it did.

"A marriage by proxy," he said at last.

Vidyut turned sharply, intrigued. "Is it possible?"

"The scriptures allow it," the Guru replied. "In times of war, or great political strain, when the groom cannot attend in person, he may be represented symbolically. A horse he has ridden. A blade he carries. An heirloom passed down his line. And, of course, the bride price."

Silence stretched between them like silk.

"I will speak to Emperor Mahaditya myself," Shastra assured. "Once the alliance is confirmed, you will send a delegation to Kalyani. A woman to represent the royal family, perhaps Ranvijay's sister. With her, your dagger, the stallion you have ridden in war, your father's crown jewel, and the gift of your house. The Princess will marry your symbol."

"And when she arrives?" Vidyut asked, voice low.

"Then she becomes your wife in full. By law. By blood. By the gods."

Vidyut let the idea roll through his mind like the slow clang of temple bells. Then, with a small nod, he returned to his seat beneath the tree.

"Do it, Guru. Speak to Kalyani's court. If this is the way forward, I will not walk it blind. But I will walk it on my terms."

Shastra gave a faint smile. "As it should be, Samrat."