Arya stood in the line of ten men and women. He was the newest member, the tenth in the ranks of the state guards. These ten guards answered only to Vayodhara. She commanded the army of the state and had held power beside Rankriti for over twenty years. The faces in this line changed every few years. Some guards fell in battles. Others were killed for slighting Vayodhara or Rankriti in the smallest of ways. Power here was not just earned. It had to be defended every moment.
Rankriti rarely interfered in Vayodhara's matters. Rankriti had her loyalty, but she ruled the army with complete authority. The ten guards were her shield, her wall, her fortress. Together, they were a barrier no enemy had crossed. If someone did break through them, they would still have to face Vayodhara herself—calm, deadly, and unmoving like a mountain.
Arya stood still beside the other nine. His armor reflected the light from the hanging lamps above. This was his induction. He would take his oath today. The hall was wide and high-roofed, filled with echoes of murmurs and footsteps. Curtains in deep red hung between tall stone pillars. A dark maroon carpet stretched from the entrance to the far side, leading up to the high platform where the state head sat.
People had filled the sides of the carpet. Nobles, soldiers, officers, servants. All had come to witness the ceremony. The wooden gate at the entrance was tall, polished, and inlaid with brass designs that shimmered under the lanterns. Castle guards stood at attention by the gate. On the far end, two grand chairs flanked a central throne. Rankriti sat at the center with her chin raised, calm and unreadable. Trishan sat to her left, Vayodhara to her right.
In front of them, twelve high officers stood in a semicircle. They would conduct the ceremony. The crowd hushed as the ten guards began walking in. Their footsteps echoed across the stone floor.
A high officer unrolled a scroll and began reading. His voice was clear and formal. He paused, then looked up.
"Arya," he said.
Arya stepped forward. His boots sank slightly into the thick carpet as he walked. With every step, his thoughts raced. What had brought him here? Months ago, he had fought to take power, to fix what was broken. He had faced warlords, made enemies, gained companions. But once the war ended, he found himself inside a new kind of prison. A golden cage.
Rankriti had taken him in. Not as a ruler, not as a rival, but as a weapon. And he became one.
In the months that followed, Arya was trained, tested, and used. He trained harder than anyone around him. He bled in the sand, fought in shadows, learned to follow without hesitation. He was supposed to join Shuka in the arena, but his dedication and growing strength pushed him further. He completed missions for Rankriti—sneaking into enemy buildings, stealing scrolls, eliminating threats quietly. Sometimes, he used force without question. He broke bones, ended lives, and left without leaving traces.
Both Vayodhara and Rankriti noticed. They watched him grow, adapt, and obey. And now, he stood here, about to become one of the ten.
As he walked, he glanced toward the crowd. Among the faces, he saw Shuka.
Shuka had once thrown him across the arena like a ragdoll. Arya had never even made him move. But things had changed. Shuka now looked at him like a teacher watching his student rise. Arya met his gaze. Neither of them smiled. But Arya's face carried something—quiet gratitude. Shuka saw it. He nodded once.
Arya reached the officers and stood in front of them. The high officer raised his hand, signaling the next part of the ceremony. Another officer turned and addressed the throne.
"Your grace, the candidate stands ready."
Rankriti stood. The entire hall bowed at once. Arya dropped to one knee, lowering his head.
An officer stepped forward and presented a sword to Rankriti. It was long, elegant, and forged from the finest steel in the state. Its blade caught the light as Rankriti took it in both hands.
"Arya," she said. "Look up."
He raised his head. Her eyes were sharp, focused. She stepped down and stopped in front of him. With both hands, she offered the sword.
Arya reached out and took it. The grip felt perfect in his hand. Without hesitation, he drew the blade. One of the officers pulled off his glove and extended his palm. Arya glanced at the blade, then made a clean cut across his own palm. Blood welled up instantly.
He raised his bleeding hand toward the crowd.
Gasps filled the room, followed by chants. The crowd erupted in admiration. Some chanted Rankriti's name. Others called Arya's.
This was the oath.
This was how a state guard swore loyalty. His blood was no longer his own. Rankriti now owned it—along with his life.
The officer stepped forward again and wrapped Arya's hand with a cloth. Arya sheathed the sword and stood up. Rankriti looked at him for a long moment, then nodded once and returned to her seat.
The ceremony was not over yet. The other nine guards stepped forward and stood beside Arya. A high officer walked in front of them and spoke loudly so all could hear.
"You are the shield. You are the wall. You stand between your commander and death. There is no choice. There is no delay. There is only the command."
All ten guards responded together.
"We obey."
The officer turned toward Vayodhara.
"Commander, the ten stand ready."
Vayodhara stood up slowly. The hall went quiet. Even the chants stopped.
She looked at the ten, then at Arya.
"Serve with pride. Fight without fear. Die without regret."
Her voice was calm but firm.
Then she sat down.
The ceremony was complete. The guards turned and walked out of the hall, one by one.
Arya was now part of the fortress. The wall. The sword.
He had fought his way through blood, doubt, and silence.
Now, he stood as one of the ten.