"And call me Uncle, just like Chandra does," he said with a soft smile, his gaze moving from Aniket to Ipsha. "There are already plenty of people here to call me Sir or My Lord."
***
"There will be time for words later. For now, eat—you must be hungry," Hi'um added, turning toward Dhritiman.
With a small nod, Dhritiman gave a quiet instruction to the maids standing at the corners, their heads slightly bowed.
"Bring the food."
Moments later, the maids entered silently, carrying wide bronze platters and earthen bowls. One by one, they laid the dishes upon the table: bowls of mansodan[1], fragrant with spices, ghee, and a sweet floral note; freshly roasted yams, their charred skins split open to reveal steaming, golden flesh glistening softly under the lamplight. Alongside them came simple lentils, seasonal vegetables, freshly cooked flat breads, and the pungent aroma of axone[2]; the layered aromas and homely warmth soothing the children's fatigue.
As the children began to eat, the earlier tension faded into the comfort of shared food and quiet conversation.
Midway through the meal, Hi'um noticed Ipsha's plate, and how little food lay upon it.
In a gentle, offhand tone, he said, "Don't be shy. You three are still young—you should eat well. Here, have some more."
Before the young girl could even respond, her plate was already filled, piled high enough to rival that of a grown warrior.
Witnessing this, Chandra and Dhritiman let out a soft laugh in unison, while the maids and guards standing nearby could only watch as their king behaved just as any man would among his family.
Meanwhile, Aniket was lost entirely in the world of food—until, suddenly, the mountain of rice before him grew larger.
"Ah?!"
He turned toward the spoon.
There stood Chogyal Hi'um, his lips stretched into a wide grin.
"Hehe. Eat till your bellies are full."
"These few days before the harvest festival are the last time you'll taste meat this year. You'll have to wait until after the rains. So don't hold back."
"..."
***
Midway through the meal, Hi'um glanced at Chandra and asked casually, "So, how long do I get to keep you here?"
"Umm… Father didn't say anything about that," he replied honestly.
"But I do need to return soon, for the blessing ritual."
"Mm. It can't be helped."
After a moment of silence,
Turning to Dhritiman, Hi'um asked,"The festival in Khalingla began yesterday, right?"
"Yes, the festival commenced yesterday and will last till full moon, or till Prince Chandra's blessing ritual," the old steward replied.
"There is still more than a week for the blessing ritual."
Hi'um thought to himself for a moment.
"In that case, I will go myself rather than sending Tushnim alone—and the children can experience the festival as well."
"You three must be full,"
He turned toward the children, who now sat quietly, their plates nearly untouched.
The three nodded in unison.
"A festival?" Chandra asked, his eyes widening with excitement.
"Yes, the one in Khalingla. But to reach there we would have to depart before dawn, and for that to happen, you children should rest well," Hi'um replied plainly.
"Sir Dhritiman, please make arrangements for our travel."
"As you wish, my lord."
"Hm. Now, before it gets any darker, you children should head to bed. And if you need anything, look for Grandpa Dhritiman—his chambers are nearby."
Soon after, the three children left for their quarters, accompanied by the old steward to ensure they didn't lose their way.
Meanwhile, Hi'um remained seated. His gaze stayed fixed in the direction the children had gone, his eyes blinking slowly as a soft, mellow smile formed across his lips.
After making sure the children had settled in safely, Dhritiman returned.
Seeing him, Hi'um straightened slightly, settling into a composed posture.
"Have the children settled well?"
"You may rest assured, my lord. I have ensured that the young prince and his friends will face no inconvenience during their stay," Dhritiman replied as he took his seat.
"That's… a relief."
"You seem happy, my lord," Dhritiman remarked, though he was already aware of the reason.
"How could I not be? ... I met my nephew after so many years—and he even brought friends with him."
He continued, his eyes gleaming and lips curling into a calm smile. Then he turned toward his old teacher with a playful grin.
"You wouldn't understand. You're single and have never had a child."
Hearing the words meant to tease him, the old man was caught slightly off guard.
He raised an eyebrow.
"On that matter, we are in the same boat, my liege," he replied with an awkward smile. Then he added, his words carrying a quiet pride.
"And even though not my own, I have been blessed enough to raise—"
"I am happy," Hi'um said, almost to himself.
A bittersweet smile had now replaced the earlier grin on Hi'um's face. His eyes seemed dull and tired.
Noticing the shift in the king's expression, the old steward chose to remain silent and listen carefully.
With a deep breath, Hi'um continued.
"I am happy … that brother is no longer angry and wishes to invite me to the harvest festival," his voice dimmed slightly.
"…"
"Do you remember those times when you had to drag my brother and me back from the festival because neither of us wanted to return to the castle?"
"I remember, my lord. How could I ever forget? It was exhausting trying to find you and Lord Desma."
A chuckle escaped his throat as another memory surfaced.
"But I must say, I still had it easier than the guards. They had to endure a scolding from both the late Queen Irawati and Commander Tenzing."
Heh—
Hi'um let out a soft laugh as he whispered to himself,
"I miss those days."
His voice carried a silent longing.
"I am aware, my lord," Dhritiman replied in a warm tone. "Time spent with our loved ones is a treasure we may cherish for a while, yet can never keep forever. Once it slips away, only memories remain."
By the time the old man finished speaking, the warmth in his voice had dulled, and his gaze had grown distant.
Sigh.
Pulling himself from his thoughts, Dhritiman turned toward Chogyal Hi'um once more.
"But now that Lord Desma no longer harbors anger, I believe… things may finally be at peace."
"…"
Seeing the king fall silent, Dhritiman chose to redirect his thoughts.
"About tomorrow," he began gently, "...it would be wise to depart before dawn. Shall I have the guards prepare a chariot by the riverside?"
"Yes, Sir Dhritiman. Please do."
"And ask the cook to prepare something for the children to eat along the way."
"As you wish." Dhritiman paused, then added with quiet concern, "It has grown quite late, my lord. You should get some rest as well."
Hi'um, with a deep breath, rose from his chair and walked toward the doorway.
"You should rest, Sir Dhritiman," he said over his shoulder.
"I still have a few unfinished documents to attend to."
With that, he left the dining hall, his footsteps slowly fading into the corridor.
Meanwhile, Dhritiman remained behind, instructing the servants to clear the table.
The warmth of laughter had faded, replaced by the hollow quiet of the vast hall. Only the clatter of dishes and the soft brush of feet disturbed the silence.
Then—
A sharp tap of sandals against cold stone echoed through the hall.
"Looks like you are enjoying your evening obligations, Sir Steward."
A heavy voice came from behind.
It was a voice Dhritiman had known for years. His expression tightened, just slightly.
"Finish your tasks and leave," he instructed the servants without turning.
"Huh? Not even offering me water?"
"You there—stop."
The man called out to a servant carrying a liquor jar and a glass.
"Give it to me. You may go."
"But, sir—" the servant stammered.
"What? I said go."
The knight's stern gaze fell upon him. Intimidated, the servant glanced helplessly at Dhritiman.
The old steward gave a small gesture.
Leave.
The servants withdrew.
"Lingpa," Dhritiman finally spoke, turning toward him.
Lingpa stood there, half Dhritiman's age, broad-shouldered beneath dark leather armor. A sword rested at his waist. His thick beard and the long scar that cut from his forehead down past his eye gave him the look of a man carved by violence.
"What are you doing here?"
"Oh, nothing serious, I merely wished to see how our great Sir Dhritiman manages… kitchen affairs."
His tone dripped with mockery.
"Be serious. You were stationed near Khalingla. You have no reason to be here."
Lingpa sighed theatrically.
"I heard the prince of Shailantara arrived. With friends. I came to see him."
He pulled back a chair and sat without invitation.
After a moment's hesitation, Dhritiman sat opposite him, his gaze steady, but guarded.
Lingpa noticed. His lips curled.
"And among them," he continued casually, "I heard there is the sister of that Aabir. And how attentive he was toward her."
He poured liquor into the glass and sniffed.
"Oh? Strong."
"Tch. I forgot another glass."
"No fun drinking alone. Here, the honorable steward should have this."
He slid the glass across the table.
Dhritiman did not touch it.
Lingpa's earlier words lingered in his mind.
His face darkened.
"What are you planning?"
Lingpa paused mid-drink, then lowered the jar slowly.
"Planning? Me?"
"Nothing at all. I came to look at them. Do you distrust me?"
He replied, wiping his mouth with his forearm.
"You know exactly what I mean. Do not pretend ignorance, Lingpa. You and I know each other too well."
Hah-
"No. I am not the one pretending... It is you, Sir Steward."
He leaned forward slightly.
"After living among them for so many years… have you begun to believe you are one of them?"
Dhritiman said nothing. He was at a loss for words, unable to understand the reason behind Lingpa's arrogance.
Lingpa's voice lowered.
"Have you abandoned the oath you swore? ... Or have you abandoned your mother and what happened to her?"
"No," Dhritiman replied quietly. "I have not. I simply refuse to drag children into this river of blood."
Lingpa laughed openly now.
"River of blood?" he scoffed. "Serving this petty mountain kingdom has made you soft."
He rose slowly from his seat.
"What is this nonsense about 'refuse to drag children'?"
His voice sharpened.
"You were the one who pushed children like me, and countless others, into this plan of yours."
He stepped closer.
"Whose hands do you think are stained with their blood?"
A bitter smile spread across his face.
"Tenzing's? Aabir's?"
"No. Yours."
"..."
"So do not dare play the saint now, Dhritiman. At least, not in front of me."
Silence.
Dhritiman's jaw tightened. For a moment, it seemed he might respond.
Instead, he rose abruptly and walked toward the doorway. Lingpa's words unsettled him more than he let on.
"At least finish this," Lingpa called lazily, lifting the glass.
"Fine. I will finish it myself."
He emptied it in one swallow and slammed the glass onto the table.
The sharp crack echoed through the hall.
[1] Mansodan literally means “meat rice.” The rice is slowly cooked with meat, ghee, black pepper, long pepper, ginger, salt, and ketaki (screw pine) flowers.
[2] Axone, a fermented soybean paste with a sharp, pungent aroma.