Without a word the general moved forward, drew his sword in one smooth motion, and then, to everyone's shock, planted the blade point-first into the floor before Satya and dropped to his knees. The sound of steel striking stone answered through the hall with a single, bright clang.
Silence swallowed the space.
Pushyamitra knelt, palms on the hilt, head bowed. The tip of his sword buried in the flagstones, his voice was low but steady as he spoke. "Long live His Majesty," he said. It wasn't ceremony. It was something older and harder respect earned by sweat and battle.
Satya felt the surprise like a cold wind. He had imagined confrontation he had not expected this sudden, raw demonstration. Before he could form a thought, Pushyamitra continued, his words tumbling out like someone who had held them too long. An awkward silence settled between them, the kind that smells of histories being measured. Satya stepped closer and offered his hand to the kneeling man. Pushyamitra did not rise immediately he took the hand and let Satya pull him up. When they stood eye to eye, something like an unspoken truce passed between them.
"You need not kneel to me, Senapati," Satya said, voice rough with feeling. "Not here. Not ever."
Pushyamitra straightened, the soldier's posture returning like iron warming to the sun. "Majesty," he said, "the throne must be more than a seat. If you mean to save this realm, you must take power fully not later, not in promise, but now. The ministers will not give it freely. They will slice and whisper until the state is gone."
Satya's jaw tightened. He had come to the same conclusion and said it plainly. "Then I must take control," he agreed. "If I do not bind the reins now, Magadh will rot beneath us."
Pushyamitra listened, then nodded slowly, the motion firm. "You asked the people to trust you," he said. "Now let the army trust you as well. I will stand with the throne when it protects the realm and its people not when it serves the few."