Episode 1- The Messenger
1135 Words
The Hall of Lions glowed beneath torches.
At its centre sat Emperor Rahul Singh Bedi, straight-backed, still, as carved stone.
A goblet of red wine rested between his fingers; he watched the court with the patience of a blade sheathed but never dulled.
The black mask curved around his left eye and cheek, its edge glinting each time he moved.
The doors thundered open.
Two guards dragged a man forward—a stranger with dark skin and dust-torn clothes. Chains rattled against the marble.
“Your Majesty,” one guard said, bowing low. “We found him near the eastern gates. He carries no seal.”
Rahul’s voice was calm. “Speak.”
The man lifted his head, breath trembling. “I come from the forests of Bayana, from the Siddis. I carry word from our king.”
A ripple of whispers stirred the hall.
Rahul’s gaze did not shift. “The Tribals?” he said softly. “After all these years.”
The messenger straightened his back. “We seek peace, Your Majesty. An alliance between our people and yours. The wars have taken too much. We offer gold—and loyalty.”
For a moment nothing moved. Then Rahul rose. The long folds of his black robe swept the steps below the throne.
“Your king is bold,” he said. “Tell him the House of Bedi will meet his hand with honour.”
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
The messenger bowed deeply, relief shining in his eyes. “You have our gratitude, Emperor.”
When he was gone, Rahul turned to his general.
“Abhishek Pooja,” he said. “At dawn, ready the men. We ride for Bayana.”
The general bowed. “By your command.”
A voice cut through the hush.
“Brother.”
Prince Rohit Singh Bedi stepped from the shadows, King Rahul's twin brother, identical in face but not in fire. His eyes were restless, his smile sharp.
“You would bargain with forest blood?” he asked. “With those who murdered Mughal soldiers and called it freedom?”
Rahul’s tone did not rise. “They fought for what was stolen from them.”
“They’re savages.”
“They are survivors,” Rahul replied. “And survivors understand the value of peace better than kings ever will.”
Rohit’s jaw clenched, but Rahul was already walking away.
That night, the Queen Mother Yamini Rao summoned him.
Her chamber smelled of jasmine and old incense; her jewels flashed like small suns.
“You would ally yourself with them?” she asked, each word polished by disbelief.
Rahul bowed his head slightly. “It is not alliance I seek, Mother. It is balance. The forests bleed too, even if the court pretends not to see.”
Her bracelets chimed as she turned. “You think peace is bought so easily?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s earned—with risk.”
She studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing, weighing her son against her crown.
Finally she spoke.
“Then so be it. But the savage they are bringing must not be of any trouble to us.”
Rahul inclined his head. “I will take care of it, Mother.”
When he left, her reflection in the mirror flickered like a candle that refused to die.
At dawn the army rode from Agra’s gates.
The city fell away behind them, replaced by fields, then by forest thick with mist.
The rhythm of hooves echoed through the trees until dusk.
“Camp here,” Rahul ordered at a clearing beside a silver lake.
Tents rose, fires crackled. The night smelled of rain.
When the soldiers finally slept, Rahul walked alone to the water’s edge.
He knelt, letting the cool air touch his face. The moon shimmered on the lake—and then the water moved.
A woman rose from the waist-deep water, fully dressed in a dark, water-laden tunic of tough-spun wool. She swept her palms firmly over her face, clearing the water from her eyes, then pushed them back through her hair. Her dark hair clung to her neck and shoulders in wet, curling tendrils before falling loose against her back. The simple, efficient gesture was one of a warrior, not a bather. Her skin was the rich hue of mahogany, and her eyes, when they opened, were dark and fearless, holding the stillness of the forest itself.
Rahul froze. The torchlight from the camp behind him faded; the world narrowed to her breathing and the sound of water falling from her skin.
She lifted her gaze and saw him. For a moment, their heartbeats were in sync. She saw a man, perhaps a scout or a noble from the encampment, his features sharp, his presence unsettling. The black mask he wore marked him as a soldier who had seen battle, nothing more.
Without a word she wrapped herself in a rough cloth and disappeared into the trees.
Rahul stood long after she was gone. His heart, steady through battles and councils, beat harder than it should have.
The next morning the forest thickened. The air hung heavy and green.
A roar shattered the calm.
Two tigers leapt from the brush.
Steel flashed; the soldiers fought. One beast fell beneath their blades, the other lunged straight for the Emperor.
Rahul drew his sword, but the animal’s weight crushed him against the earth. Its breath seared his skin. He forced the blade upward—too slow.
Then a cry rang out, fierce and wild.
A spear tore through the tiger’s neck. It collapsed beside him, blood steaming in the damp air.
Rahul looked up.
The woman from the lake stood above him, chest heaving, eyes bright with untamed fire.
For a moment, neither spoke.
He tried to rise, wincing from the pain in his shoulder. She stepped forward, not to help, but to yank her spear free from the beast. ”You shouldn’t wander so far from your camp, soldier,” she said, her voice laced with neither fear nor deference. ”The forests of Bayana do not care for your rank or your king’s banner.”
Their eyes met—her defiance against his authority, equal and electric.
She turned to leave.
“Wait—” he said, his voice rough with disbelief. ”Who are you?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.
”The one who just saved your life. Try to be more worthy of it.”
And before he could answer, she vanished into the forest once more.
The Emperor of the Bedi Dynasty, who had faced war, rebellion, and kings, lay still on the ground—his heart echoing with the voice of a stranger who saw not an emperor, but just a man.
- Writer
