The murmurs swelled like a restless wind through the marble hall. Ministers leaned forward in whispered clusters, voices threaded with doubt and thinly-veiled scorn. "What will a child do?" one hissed. "How can he control a kingdom?" another muttered. Someone else spat the word like poison: "He will ruin it." In the hush between their words the name of Kunwar Arjun — smooth-faced, ambitious — passed along like a promise, and several heads nodded: he should be king.
It was time for the coronation.
Inside the private dressing chamber the air smelled of sandalwood and hot metal; attendants moved with practiced, hushed efficiency. Vivaan stood very still as they dressed him. This was not the play of a child — the garments were heavy with embroidered suns and rivers, the cloth a weight of responsibility. A long coat of state, trimmed in gold, settled on his shoulders. Queen Yashvi—her eyes raw but steady—helped place jewels about his neck and wrist. Arish, Reyansh and Vihaan hovered dutifully at his side, lifting a sleeve, fastening a clasp, smoothing a fold. Vihaan's small face lit at the sight; "Bhai, you look like Father," he whispered, proud and simple. Arish and Reyansh nodded solemnly.
Vivaan smiled, shy and small, and rested his hand on his head as if to steady the new weight. Yashvi's lips, tired but proud, curved into a fierce smile of her own. She drew close and placed a hand on his shoulder, that same motherly firmness wrapping around the boy like armor. "Vivaan," she said, quiet but firm, "you are to be Maharaj. Listen to all, but remember: the final decision must be yours. A king hears counsel, but he must do what his heart commands." Her hand moved to the belt at his waist and slid a short, royal knife into his abdomen strap — a last, private emblem of command and of blood remembered.
They were moving toward the great courtroom when a servant rushed in, hair disordered and breath sharp. He handed Vivaan a folded letter with trembling hands. "A message, my lord — from the Princess of Mahair."
Vivaan nodded and called to his brothers and his mother. "Go on," he said. "I'll be there soon." They teased him in the way brothers do — light jibes to mask fear — then left, leaving him a moment's peace.
He opened the letter on the curve of a column, fingers slight but steady. The neat, earnest script spilled across the page:
My dear special friend,I know what happened here. I was very sad to hear it. I know the pain you carry — but do not hold it all in. You are allowed to be sad; you are allowed to cry. I know you will be Maharaj of Vardhana, and that is good. I believe the kingdom will be stronger with you in charge. But please—do not be so busy you forget yourself. I am very worried for you. Please take care of yourself.— Hinaal
One small tear slid from Vivaan's eye and fell on the parchment. He blinked it away and whispered into the cold air, "Thanks, Hinaal." Then he folded the letter slowly, tucking it into his palm like a talisman, and walked into the hall.
The coronation unfurled in slow, glittering ritual. The crown — heavy as dawn — was lifted and settled upon his head. An ancient sword was placed in his small hand; its leather hilt tasted of oil and history. Vivaan rose and, with the uncertain steadiness of the newly-made, he approached the throne. He sat. The gold of the crown glinted in the high windows; for a moment he looked every inch a sovereign — a child ensconced in symbols that had ruled millions.
He drew breath and spoke, voice clear and carrying in the hush. "Today I accept this position. The crown rests upon my head and the royal sword is in my hand. I assure you: I will be the first to go to the battlefield if war comes. I will not leave a single person behind. Those who dream of this throne for themselves — I will make sure those dreams are shattered."
His brothers' faces softened; something like hope, fragile and new, warmed them. The court replied as one voice rose: "Maharaj Vivaan! Long live!" The sound rolled through the hall and for a beat, the kingdom embraced him.
But not all hearts bowed. That very night Kunwar Arjun slipped into a dim corridor and called for the minister who commanded the armies. Arjun's voice was a greasy whisper. "Look at the Maharaj," he said, venom wrapped in false concern. "A child — what can he do? If he drags you into battle, you'll bleed with him and die. Strategy will fail under him." The minister, cautious but tempted, muttered agreement: "Yes, he is but a child." The seed was planted, and Arjun fed it with poison: "If the army turns, the throne will be ours." He smiled the smile of men who taste power before earning it.
And then the unthinkable began.
At dawn the next day, bunkers of steel and oath turned traitor. Orders barked, arms tightened — and the palace's own soldiers rose in a hush of betrayal. Arjun's hand moved like lightning: "Go." The army moved as one and headed toward the queen's chambers.
They surrounded Queen Yashvi's room where she sat with the three younger princes — Vihaan clinging, Reyansh and Arish near, faces pale but defiant. The wooden door thudded open and men filled the corridor like dark fish in a net. Queen Yashvi's gaze did not quail. "What are you doing?" she asked, voice low and cold. "This is treason. You know the punishment."
Arjun and the minister stepped forward, their smiles thin as wire. "Where is the Maharaj?" the minister asked, voice oily.
The queen only pulled the princes closer, her arms a living shield.
Outside, Vivaan saw the lines tightening. He had not been in the room; he had not been taken. He ran — up stone staircases, across terraces, to the palace roof where the air opened, and the city lay glittering below like a spread of jewels. He mounted the highest parapet and blew a horn once — loud, pure, impossible to ignore.
Below, the soldiery froze mid-motion as the note fell like command. The sound traveled: into the queen's chamber, into the ears of Arjun and the minister, into the marrow of every man who had raised a hand against the crown.
A silence settled like a drawn blade, and Vivaan's small figure stood bare against the sky — crown on his head, the sun caught in the gold. He raised his voice, not shrill but iron-born:
"You all know what I wear," he said, voice ringing toward the courtyard and inside the Queen's chamber. "I wear the crown of this kingdom."
He paused so his words could sink in. The wind moved through pennants and banners; the palace itself inhaled.
"You thought because I am small, because my hands are young, I can be broken," he went on. "You believed a child could not lead. You thought you could take the throne while I am made of bone and blood and grief. Do not fool yourselves."
He leaned forward, eyes burning brighter than the morning. "Do you fear for your heads on the battlefield? Fear not. I promised you — I am a warrior. If war comes, I will stand with you. I will not sit on this throne and point from a distance. I will walk into the field and fight by your side. If you accept me as your king, lay down your weapons and live; I will forgive your crimes. If you choose treason, then let the gods be witness."
Up below, armor shifted like a breathing thing. There was a long moment of a suspended world: the soldiers, pikes and shields, eyes to the rooftop where a child-soul spoke as though ancient.
One man hesitated, then another. A metal clink — a dropped spear — then another. The first soldier let his weapon fall to the stone with a ringing thud. A second followed. Murmurs began to ripple through the lines: one officer stepping forward, then another. Finally, the minister himself felt hands trembling and lowered his own sword.
"Forgive me, Maharaj," the minister said, voice hollow. "I thought Kunwar Arjun would be better. I was wrong."
Vivaan let out a breath that was nearly a laugh and nearly a sob. He stepped down from the parapet and, small as he still was, seemed to fill the courtyard with a presence older than his years. He looked directly at the men who had plotted. "I know why you thought so," he said, and there was steel in his smile. "You thought it was for the good of the kingdom. I accept your apology — for the sake of Vardhana, I pardon you."
The soldiers dropped their weapons, one by one — not just obedience but a grudging recognition. The pall of rebellion, for the moment, broke like thin ice.
Arjun's face, once smug and assured, fell into a shade of ruin. The minister, his shoulders slack, bowed his head as if some weight heavier than gold had found him.
Vivaan returned to his mother's side. Queen Yashvi's eyes were only half the color of tears; she forced a tired smile that trembled with relief and an exhaustion beyond sleep. Reyansh and Arish looked at him with something akin to worship; Vihaan clung to him, small and trusting as ever.
The crown gleamed, the sword felt like a true thing in his hand. He had stood with a voice that made men set down metal. For a child who had become a king overnight, it was a small miracle of strength and mercy.
Outside the hall the city breathed — some breathed sighs of relief, some breathed fear receding. Inside, Vivaan placed a hand upon his mother's shoulder, and she returned the touch with a look of fierce, aching pride.
He had not solved all the kingdom's ills. He had not yet met Bheema or met the darkness beyond the mountains. But the palace had listened. The throne, though heavy, sat on his brow. The day's drama closed with a fragile peace — the kind made from choices that might yet steer a nation.
And somewhere, tucked in his jacket, Hinaal's letter warmed his chest like a small, stubborn ember.