The chamber smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink. Morning light had long since shifted to a harsher noon glare, pressing heat against the stone lattices. Abhijishya sat at her desk, spine held straight though her body begged for rest. She had woken before dawn, too restless to remain in bed, her mind circling the knowledge that in three weeks’ time the four Pandavas would march in different directions to secure the Rajasuya Yajna.

That thought lingered behind her temples like a dull ache. When they left, Indraprastha would feel suddenly hollow, as if its pillars had been carried away with them, leaving her and Draupadi to keep the roof from caving in.

“Rajneeti Mantrika.”

Scholar Bhavesh’s voice broke into her fatigue. He entered with his satchel clasped to his chest, bowing before laying a careful stack of parchments upon the low desk. His hair was askew, his robe uneven—rare disarray for the meticulous man.

“You look like you have been wrestling with something,” Abhijishya said, her tone more observation than accusation.

Bhavesh managed a humorless smile. “Wrestling, yes. And each scroll more slippery than the last.”

He unrolled the first parchment with carefully. The ink had faded to a dusky brown, but the names were clear. “This is the commendation register. All eight men appear here. A decade of records—discipline spotless. Guard duty on the trade routes. Escorts for dignitaries. Patrol shifts along the city walls. Not a stain between them, save one—” he tapped near the bottom, “—a vague infarction against two of them for ‘dereliction of muster.’ But nothing more. No detail. Not even a date.”

Abhijishya frowned. “An infarction left so empty is almost a shield. No commander would sign such a thing.”

“Precisely.” Bhavesh pulled forward the second scroll, the paymaster’s ledger. “And yet, six weeks ago, their allowances ceased. A note attached: ‘Dismissed per order.’ That order number should have led back to the Commander of their legion. But when I searched…”

He shook his head.

Her fatigue fell away. “Nothing.”

“Worse,” Bhavesh said. He spread the third document across her desk, his hand flattening the curling edges. “This is the dismissal itself. Civil records, not military. It accuses them of insubordination, failure to report. But look closely—no seal. No signature from a commander. Only clerks’ initials as it passed through their hands, each one assuming authority had already been granted above them.”

Abhijishya leaned over, fingers brushing the margins where faint, tired initials marked blind obedience. She could almost see the clerks now—inking their quills, stamping their marks, never daring to question.

“Someone wanted them removed,” she murmured. “Without room for appeal.”

Bhavesh’s mouth tightened. He hesitated, then produced a fourth scrap—no larger than his palm. “I went further. The civil register lists the dismissal’s origin. Not a full name, only a signature flourish. But I have seen this hand before.”

The ink curved with deliberate grace, the kind of flourish that belonged to a man confident his name need never be spelled in full.

“Advisor Ratnagir,” Bhavesh said. The name landed like a weight. “He signed it where no one would question. A bureaucrat inserting himself into military order.”

For a long moment, silence stretched. Outside, the faint sounds of the training yard drifted in—horses snorting, the metallic clash of practice swords. Life in Indraprastha continued unaware of the rot scrawled across her desk.

Abhijishya sucks in a sharp breath. "How could this have gone unnoticed? This- this is merely his signature- no seal on it and yet-" She lets out a frustrated sigh.

"He is too high in the heirachy of the court Mantrika," Bhavesh reminded. "Especially after his swiftness and efficacy with the infirmary reconstruction and given the void left after..." His voice trailed off delicately.

Abhijishya pursed her lips. Atulya had been quite a figure despite his treacherous intentions. After his passing along with the exile of Shreeman Jatasya, it had created a gap that had been nicely filled with humble competent Ratnagir- the true colours of whom Abhijishya was starting to see now. Politics was truly fickle.

The next words were cool, deliberate. “Ratnagir chose his trail well. Passing off his own signed flimsy document to a junior clerk- skipping the ones just below him to pressurize them and make them pass this- he is a sly predator. Layered across civil and military ledgers, so each clerk believed the order had already been approved elsewhere. Even if we raised this to Maharaj, it would appear routine had you not cross referenced all related scrolls from departments. What about the military records? Surely they must have something accounting for these men going on unexplained leave?”

Bhavesh’s brow furrowed. “That is what troubles me, Mantrika. I didn't find anything concrete yet- I do plead you lend me some more time. In the mean times, the motive behind this has bothered me- Why would Ratnagir even bother with this? These are eight men from different wings of the army. Hardly high-ranking. Why not let the generals deal with them, if dismissal was truly needed?”

The question lodged itself deep.

Ratnagir was no soldier. His dominion was bureaucracy, treasury, temple accounts—not the barracks. Soldiers, especially common ones, should never have crossed his notice.

Yet here he was—bending rules, forging paper trails, blotting them out as though they carried some secret weight far beyond their stations.

Abhijishya’s fingers lingered against his name, pressing it flat as though she could pin his intent to the table.

“Why eight?” she murmured. “Why men scattered across departments? What threat—or use—did he see in them, that he risked his hand in matters outside his reach? Could it be he helped them leave and perhaps they are carrying out his orders? The motivations could be varied, Scholar.”

Bhavesh lowered his voice. “It was not negligence that placed them on the roadside, Mantrika. That is certain. It was design.”

“And design leaves intent.” Her eyes, sharp despite the shadows under them, fixed on the parchments. “Our task is to learn whose game they're made pawns of.”

Bhavesh bowed low. “I will start with their families. And the comrades who once shared their duties.”

“Quietly,” Abhijishya said. "Discreetly. If Ratnagir wished them unseen, he will guard the reason with teeth.”

When Bhavesh withdrew, the room fell still again. Abhijishya let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The parchments lay rolled on the desk like dormant snakes. Outside, she could hear a child’s laughter, carried faintly from the courtyard where Shatanik must have been pestering his sister again. The sound pulled at her heart—life so light, while within these parchments lay shadows of lives deliberately crushed.

Ratnagir. Eight soldiers turned looters. Rajasuya. Things were going to be quite complex.

---

The parchments did not leave her mind, even as she set them aside and forced herself back into the rhythm of the day.

Abhijishya listened to petitions, gave orders for the redistribution of grain, and answered questions from courtiers—all the while her mind tugged at Ratnagir’s signature, looping like a snake at the bottom of the page.

Her body betrayed its weariness: fingers stiff around her stylus, head inclining heavier with each passing hour. The ache across her shoulders pulsed like a tether to her chamber, but she would not yield—not when Indraprastha’s people looked to her with their troubles.

Still, between each petition, between one order and the next, her mind traced back to the paper trail.

When she finally returned to her private chamber late in the afternoon after having a hearty lunch with Nakul and Anvi, her hand brushed against the scroll Bhavesh had left, the dismissal register. She sat, unrolled it again, and this time forced herself to study the notations at the edges.

Dates.

Her eyes narrowed. She drew the stylus across the column of figures—one year past. Another, a half-year earlier than that. One and one-half years ago…

Her breath caught.

That was when the purge had swept through the ranks—when Atulya’s shadow still stretched across Indraprastha’s ministries like a stain.

They had rooted out his loyalists carefully, painfully—every man or woman tied to him by oath or blood, dug out from their posts and cast aside. Some had been punished. Some forgiven. A few had simply disappeared.

The number had not been many, but they had been placed with precision: a scribe in the treasury, a guard in the city watch, a clerk in the granary. Quiet, forgettable positions—until one remembered they all belonged to Atulya’s hidden lattice.

And now—eight soldiers. Demoted, dismissed, cast out rather informally who were stirring up trouble near the borders at nearly the eve of Rajasuya conquest.

Abhijishya leaned back, her braid sliding over her shoulder like a loose rope. Her pulse thrummed louder in her ears.

If these men had belonged to Atulya once, then who had Ratnagir ousted them for? To shield them? To silence them? Or—more troubling still—to use them for something unseen?

She pressed her fingers against her temple, whispering to herself, “It cannot be coincidence.”

A knock came at the door, and Reva’s voice announced some minor update about the arrival of Kosalan fabrics for the Rajasuya feast. Abhijishya gave a distracted answer, letting the woman withdraw.

Her mind was already racing ahead.

Ratnagir.

The man was too careful to leave his name anywhere unless he wished it found. And yet here it was, half-buried in the civil register.

Which meant—it had not been for her eyes. It had been for those within his circle, those who understood his codes, his trails. Perhaps kept for a show- if anyone wanted documents of any of the eight soldiers he would provide the ones from the junior clerks. Quite a clever move by him.

And who was always within his circle?

Minister Vashistha.

The name slipped into her thoughts with the sour taste of bitter medicine.

Vashistha—her most persistent critic in the council chamber. Forever nitpicking her judgments, pressing the weight of his clan’s interests against her words, turning small matters into debates of principle. A thorn in her flesh, sharp and constant.

Yet—never disloyal.

He had always bowed to Indraprastha’s welfare in the end, even when his pride smarted. And he worked closely with Ratnagir, their duties overlapping: records, taxation, land disputes. Where Ratnagir set his hand, Vashistha’s ink was never far.

If anyone could point her toward the true root of Ratnagir’s meddling, it would be him.

Her lips pressed into a line. It galled her to think of it—of calling upon the man who so often made her grind her teeth in council. But this was not about pride. This was about eight men and the shadow of a conspiracy that refused to stay buried.

She closed the scroll slowly, deliberately, as though sealing her resolve with it.

“Yes,” she murmured into the silence. “It is time.”

Time to call upon an unlikely ally.

Time to draw Minister Vashistha into her confidence—whether he welcomed it or not.

---

The ruse had been simple enough to spin. A morning visit to the temple at the outskirts of the city, a faint complaint of weariness, and her palanquin turned discreetly toward Minister Vashistha’s residence in the capital.

Abhijishya had chosen her words carefully when her attendants conveyed the request: a brief stay, only until she felt her strength return, if Lady Sulochana would not mind the burden.

The gates of the minister’s house opened swiftly enough.

Sulochana met her at the threshold, sari pleats gathered neatly, bangles chiming softly as she pressed her palms together in greeting. Her eyes brimmed with both humility and delight.

“This humble one welcomes the pride of Indraprastha Honourable Rajneeti Mantrika to our humble abode. What honor this is,” she said, almost breathless. “Please, please do not speak of burden. Our house has been host to scholars, merchants, envoys—what greater blessing than to welcome you?”

Abhijishya inclined her head with a small smile, allowing the woman’s warmth to wash over her. She murmured apologies, the script of courtesy spilling easily: she had not wished to intrude, her weakness had pressed the decision, she hoped it was no inconvenience.

Sulochana waved it all away with soft laughter. “We are used to guests, Mantrika. My husband’s duties ensure our threshold is never quiet. Please—this is but a joy.”

Servants were already rushing with trays of cool sherbet and cushions for the small reception hall. Abhijishya seated herself, noting the careful but modest taste of the minister’s household—nothing flamboyant, yet everything of quality.

The stir of voices reached deeper into the house, and moments later Minister Vashistha appeared.

He halted just within the doorway when he saw her. For a heartbeat his face was unguarded: a flicker of irritation, as though he had bitten into a sour lime. But the mask returned quickly. He pressed his palms together, bowing with formal grace, and his lips curved into a polite, stiff smile.

"Greetings to Rajneeti Mantrika,” he said. “What an unexpected surprise.”

“I hope not an unwelcome one,” Abhijishya replied, her tone mild, unreadable.

“Unwelcome?” He shook his head, the smile never reaching his eyes. “Never. Though I must confess—my council chamber sees your presence often enough. To find you here as well… is doubly my fortune.”

The words were smooth, but the faint dryness clinging to them was not lost on her.

The three of them sat to eat. The table was laid generously: rice steamed, lentils spiced just so, greens fragrant with ghee. Conversation began on the safest paths—festivals, temple repairs, the new road stretching toward the riverbank. Sulochana carried much of it, smiling brightly, while Vashisth contributed in clipped but polite tones.

It was midway through the meal that Abhijishya tilted the talk slightly.
“I had the reports from the northern granaries the other day. Curious how consistent their tallies remain, even through the year’s harsher turns. Quite precise and well maintained charts,” she said lightly, spooning dal onto her plate. “Almost reminds me of the old infirmary records, before the fire.”

Vashisth’s spoon paused. He glanced at her. “That was Ratnagir’s charge, was it not? The rebuilding after?”

Abhijishya gave a small nod. “So it was. I recall his careful hand in many matters then.”

A faint, almost sardonic sound escaped the minister’s throat. “Careful, yes. Peculiar too. He had a habit for duplications. Copies upon copies- the second was always sent away. To whom, I was never told. I assumed—at the time—that he did so under your direction.”

Her brows lifted slightly. “Mine?”

“Of course.” He set his spoon down, studying her. “Ratnagir was no fool. If he moved quietly, I thought it must be at your bidding. You always did prefer silence to proclamations. Especially given the fact how Rajneeti Mantrika had graciously conceded to him taking the responsibility of the reconstruction effort.”

Abhijishya let the corner of her mouth curve, but her eyes stayed cool. “I do believe you give me credit for more shadows than I’ve ever cast, Minister. You seem to think anything that happens in quiet within the palace must be my doing.”

He leaned back slightly, lips twitching into a dry smile. “Is it not so? In my experience, the quietest things and the loudest things both trace back to Rajneeti Mantrika.”

For a moment she simply regarded him, then a sudden laugh broke from her, low and warm, spilling into the stillness of the dining chamber. Sulochana startled at the sound, then relaxed into a smile of her own, as though reassured that nothing sharp lingered between the two.

Abhijishya reached for her cup, shaking her head as her laughter faded. “You make me sound like a conjurer of ghosts and trumpets both.”

“Not a conjurer,” Vashisth said, returning to his food with a dismissive air. “Simply… the axis about which Indraprastha is turned at your leisure. Whether you admit it or not.”

Her smile lingered, faint but thoughtful, even as her mind quietly tucked away the remark about Ratnagir’s peculiar duplications.

Once done with her meal, she bid a quiet farewell and started on her journey back to the palace her mind mulling over the words exchanged.

Sulochana and Vashisth watched the entourage depart. She murmured, "Do we have anything to be worried about?"

Vashisth sighed, shaking his head. "Not yet at least. Rajkumari doesn't dine with her enemies this soon into the game. Whatever she is chasing has something to do with Ratnagir. If I am not wrong, Rajkumari came here to get an assessment on my stance and any odd observations I may made of Ratnagir which I provided. So no, we don't have anything to worry about."

Sulochana remained quiet for a moment. Then she asked hesitantly, "And may I ask what is your stance?"

"That I am not standing against Indraprastha. Rajkumari knows that-" Vashisth replied.

She interrupted, "What if she mistrusts you wrongly? I have heard about her- she is a formidable woman. If Maharani deals  out straight forward orders, Mantrika softly bends- manipulates- didn't you hear about the wife of Atulya being turned against him? The wife gave a statement and brought proof against her own husband."

Vashisth clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I was there witnessing everything first hand. You don't need to remind me. Don't nurture worry in your mind unnecessarily. It will give her the wrong impression that you are involved."

"But I am not!" Sulochana gasped horrified. "You must convince her at once."

Vashisth hummed, rather amused. "Still looking anxious- infact guilty. You will definitely give the wrong impression." He patted Sulochana's arm as if consoling her. What would Rajkumari Abhijishya do this time?

Things were going to be very interesting. Even profitable if Vashisth played it just right.