3500 BCE, Erayagarh

Erayagarh—the heart of the Nirjara Empire. My empire. The largest, the most powerful, the most abundant in the entire Bharatvarsh. We claim the North, the West, the East... Or should I say, I claim it all, for there is no we. Only me.

Every night, when I lie awake in the silence of my chamber, my mind drifts into a place I can never escape. The ghosts of the past refuse to let me go. They haunt me in my dreams, wrapping their cold fingers around my heart, pulling me deeper into memories I’d rather forget. But I don’t wish to forget them. I can’t. There’s a fire within me that will not die, a fire fueled by the past. A past that I carry with me, breathing with me, burning with me. It is the only reason I am still alive.

The fire that once held my soul in warmth now consumes me with an insatiable rage. Every breath I take is a reminder of that day—the day they took everything from me. The day they tore my heart from my chest and set it on fire. The day they stole her from me. The day she... vanished.

Distant—yes, I want to forget the distance between us, the pain of losing her. But my heart refuses. And so, I live in the shadows of those days. I live for my subjects now, for they are the only family I have. The people of this empire. The ones who rely on me. But even in their faces, I see a reflection of the emptiness within me.

I no longer know what peace is. My peace, my joy, was her. And now, even the gods cannot restore it.

Each day, I rise at Brahma-muhurata, my mind fragmented, my body weary. The stars on the ceiling of my chamber seem to mock me, their distant light an unwelcome reminder of a time I never wanted to revisit. Yet, my mother’s teachings of the stars linger in my veins, their positions and movements engraved in my soul. She believed in the stars, in their power to shape destiny, and she taught me to understand their language. Astrology, they call it—some deem it superstitious, but to me, it is logic. Just as the stars pull on the earth, so do our actions pull at the fabric of the world. What is superstition but a veil for the truth that we do not wish to face?

Rising from my bed, I step into the cold, hard reality of my life. I’ve long abandoned comfort, long forgotten what rest feels like. A soldier’s life is not meant for comfort. And a king’s life is meant for sacrifice. My muscles ache with the weight of responsibilities I never asked for, but I carry them with pride. I step onto the practice arena before the sun has even touched the horizon. It is where I find solace, where I can drown the chaos of my thoughts in the rhythm of the sword. It is where I forget... if only for a moment.

The palace is quiet, the torches flickering softly in the early hours, casting long shadows on the stone walls. The soldiers gather, awaiting their training, as they do every morning. I once practiced with them, side by side, to forge a bond. A bond forged in blood, sweat, and steel. A bond that made us family. But now, the connection is... different. They see me as their king, but they no longer see me as a man. And I no longer see myself as a man.

"Pranaam, Maharaja!" Shankar's voice cuts through the air, the concern in his tone as familiar as the rustle of the wind. "Don’t you think you should rest a little longer? You’ve barely slept."

Shankar—my chief-commander, my brother, my shield. A man whose loyalty surpasses even the highest of oaths. A warrior forged from the same fires that burn within me. We’ve shared the battlefield, our lives intertwined in ways no one could understand. He is the one man who truly sees me—the man behind the crown.

"Shankar," I reply, my voice laced with a wry mockery, "You worry too much. I’m fine. If anything, I’m thinking of reducing my sleep altogether. It’ll give me more time to work... more time to fix things."

His gaze sharpens, sensing the underlying bitterness in my words. "Maharaja, you cannot keep pushing yourself this way. It will take its toll." His voice softens, almost imperceptible, "You’ve given so much already. Your health matters, even to those of us who would never dare say it out loud."

I know where this conversation is going. He is not the only one who is concerned. I have watched the eyes of those around me—my ministers, my generals, my soldiers—tracking me, scrutinizing every move I make. They see a king, a ruler, a figurehead. But they do not see the man who once lived, laughed, loved.

"I’m fine," I repeat, my voice growing colder, as I circle my blade in the air with smooth, precise motions, the feel of steel in my hand grounding me to the present. "I am more than fine, Chief-commander. I’ll sleep fifteen minutes less if that makes you happy."

For a brief moment, his stoic demeanor falters, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It is the smile of someone who has witnessed a battle far greater than any war. It is a smile that says, I know you. I know your pain.

"Good," he replies, his voice a low murmur of satisfaction. "Now, let’s train, Maharaja. The battle for this empire never ends."

As we face off in the arena, my thoughts wander—not to the present, but to the echoes of the past. Her face, her smile, her laughter. Gone. I was the one who failed. I let her slip away. The thought gnaws at me like a ravenous beast.

But I will never let her go completely. Not while I still have breath in my lungs, not while there is still time to seek vengeance for what they took from me.

The battle for this empire may never end, but neither will the battle within me.