For ten long years, the sandstone walls of Aryagarh stood in anxious silence — waiting for the return of one boy.
The boy who would be king.
Prince Vivaan Vikramasena, firstborn of the mighty Maharaj Vikramasena, had once been a name uttered in reverence, spoken with a kind of awe usually reserved for gods. Born under a solar eclipse, it was said that even the skies had held their breath at his arrival. From the very beginning, he was unlike the other children. While young nobles played with wooden swords and chased fireflies through the palace orchards, Vivaan sat solemnly in council chambers, studying ancient scrolls, or drawing battle formations into the dust with his fingers.
At the age of five, as tradition dictated, he vanished from the public eye.
Taken to the harsh northern front — far from velvet cushions and royal comforts — he was not sent merely to observe battle, but to be carved by it.
"They sent me to war so I would return a king,"
Vivaan once told his old tutor.
"But I came back as something far more dangerous — a question no one dares to answer."
What kind of boy returns from a decade of blood and strategy?
One who no longer speaks like a boy.
One who watches more than he breathes.
One who carries silence like a sword.
At fifteen, Vivaan returned — but not as a child. He entered the palace gates clad in black armor laced with silver, his face veiled beneath a dark hood, his eyes colder than a monsoon night. He rode a black steed, silent as shadow, and the palace fell into stunned hush. Gasps echoed through corridors as he passed — not for his title, but for his presence. Tall and lithe, with storm-gray eyes and raven hair brushing his shoulders, he walked like a ghost with unfinished purpose.
"He doesn't speak like a boy raised for the throne, he speaks like a man who's seen empires fall." - a minister whispered.
But Vivaan's power lay not just in appearance.
He could quote the Vedas and argue philosophy with sages. He had studied Greek mathematics and improved siege formulas that had stood for generations. In the war camps, he healed wounded soldiers with rare herbs, knowledge no one expected of a prince. He restructured entire battalions. Death rates fell. Morale soared.
"He doesn't lead with fear, he leads like he's already seen the end of the world — and survived it." - A general once said.
He could defeat whole garrisons with strategy alone, never needing to raise his sword. But when he did — his blade, Dhvansak — struck like lightning. Most didn't realize they'd been cut until they collapsed.
He was a master of mind games too. In court, he dismantled a Persian chess master in eleven precise moves. In a diplomatic gathering, he solved a centuries-old riddle no scholar had cracked.
"It's a trap disguised as a legacy, and like all traps, it begins with pride." - He murmured while reading the final lines of the ancient scroll.
Yet with all his brilliance, Vivaan remained distant — unreachable. His face was carved in stoicism; his voice seldom rose. Servants whispered that no one had seen him smile since the day he left. Some claimed even the gods had turned away from him in fear.
"Loyalty is not earned through affection, it is forged in silence and tested in blood." - Vivaan said.
Then came the ceremony — the grand investiture that would name him Yuvraj, Crown Prince of Aryagarh.
As the drums echoed through the palace courtyard and petals rained from the terraces, a dancer entered the arena. Eyes dazzled by colors and music, none noticed the blade until it flashed.
But Vivaan did.
In a breath, he disarmed the assassin using nothing but a silver goblet and the sash from his robe. The man was caught. Interrogated. And the truth spilled like poisoned wine.
The attempt had not come from rebels. It had come from someone inside the palace. - Whispers stirred again.
He's cursed, some said. Too dangerous, said others. Too clever to be controlled.
Even the ministers — once firm in their loyalty — grew wary.
Who was this boy they had raised for the crown? A savior?
Or a storm they had mistakenly invited into their halls?
But Vivaan did not strike back. He did not rage. He did not demand blood.
He demanded the truth.
And beneath the golden domes and velvet silence of Aryagarh's ancient halls, he began his hunt. Not for vengeance.
For betrayal.
"A dagger in the dark wounds more than the blade — it wounds trust. And that is harder to heal." - Vivaan said firmly
What the empire did not understand was this:
Vivaan was not trained to be worshipped.
He was trained to survive anything.
And survival, he knew, began with knowing who your enemies truly were.
Even if they wore royal robes.