Night wrapped the world in a thick, breathless black. A cave outside the city smelled of smoke and iron torches winked, throwing skeletal light over men wrapped in black cloth. Their faces were hidden. Their hands rested on steel. The mood was all edge quiet, measured, ready.
At the center, a man in shadow spoke to another who moved like a courtier in the dark. The voice was low, practiced.
"When he leaves the palace tomorrow," the man said, "we strike. One ambush, no witnesses. The puppet must be cut out so order can return."
A rustle. The courtier no, the Prime Minister pressed his palm forward and took the leader's hand. Their grips were brief and cold. They exchanged small, satisfied smiles, the kind that seal a bargain.
Outside, the palace glowed under the moon, a silent gilded beast. Inside a tall window, Satya stood, watching the sky. Stars were sharp as flint; the air tasted of rain and iron. His silhouette was still, hands folded behind his back. Whatever plans stirred in his head, they were quiet and shaped.
Footsteps in the corridor. A soldier comes in room and then says, "hail the king, a good news has come from the border, Senapati Pushyamitra has won."
Satya turned with surprise, "what."
Then he thinks, "I had forgotten about Senapati Shunga. According to our history, Senapati Shunga killed King Bhridhatha during an army inspection and became the new king himself."
Let's see how interesting this guy is.