The morning sun rose with an unfamiliar brilliance, as if it too understood that this was no ordinary day.
Across the capital, something had changed.
Laughter echoed where silence once lived. Children ran through the streets with flowers in their hands. Elders spoke with lighter hearts. Faces that had long carried exhaustion now wore fragile smiles.
Today was Mahashivratri.
A sacred day.
At dawn, people moved toward temples, carrying pots of milk, believing that by bathing Lord Shiva's symbol, they could wash away darkness from their lives. It was a day of devotion. Of hope. Of beginnings.
The Shiv Temple
Far from the city, atop a rocky hill, stood an ancient Shiv temple. On most days, the place remained quiet, almost forgotten.
Not today.
The usually silent paths were crowded. Devotees gathered around the temple grounds, whispering excitedly, waiting for someone special.
Their wait ended when the sound of approaching footsteps broke through the chants.
Surrounded by four guards, King Satya appeared.
He walked calmly, holding a copper vessel filled with milk in both hands. No crown. No royal armor. Only simple ceremonial clothes, fitting for a devotee rather than a ruler.
The guards escorted him up the steps and halted at the temple entrance, forming a protective line.
Inside stood a structure carved from white marble, glowing softly in the morning light. Tall pillars surrounded the inner sanctum. At the center rested the Shivling, beneath an opening in the ceiling where sunlight poured down like a divine spotlight.
Incense smoke curled through the air, giving the temple a dreamlike stillness.
Satya stepped inside.
The guards remained at the threshold, alert, unmoving.
Near the Shivling sat the priest, an elderly man with long white hair and thick mustaches. His eyes reflected decades of wisdom.
"Maharaj," the priest said gently, "please be seated. We shall begin the worship."
Satya nodded and sat beside him.
The priest tied a sacred thread around Satya's right wrist and began chanting ancient mantras. His voice echoed softly against the stone walls.
But Satya's mind was elsewhere.
Beyond the Sanctum
Among the crowd outside, not everyone had come to pray.
A man stood unnaturally still, his gaze fixed on the temple entrance. While others folded their hands in devotion, his eyes searched, measured, waited.
Farther away, hidden among thick branches, another figure crouched atop a tree.
A bow rested against his shoulder.
Slowly, carefully, he adjusted his grip. An arrow slid into place. His breathing steadied as his eyes locked onto the temple.
Every movement had been calculated.
Every second rehearsed.
Inside the Temple
Unaware of the eyes watching him, Satya sat silently before the Shivling.
The chants continued.
The incense thickened.
And somewhere between prayer and destiny, Satya's thoughts drifted not to gods, but to the empire he carried on his shoulders.
Outside, faith and conspiracy collided.
On this hill, under the same sun, sides had been chosen.
And by the time the milk touched the stone
Destiny would make its move.