: The Guardian's Concern
The training grounds of Chandrapuri were a symphony of disciplined motion. The rhythmic thwack of wooden practice swords, the sharp commands of sergeants, the grunts of exertion—it was a language Alok understood perfectly. It was clean, honest, and predictable. A problem could be met with a block, a parry, a well-placed strike. It was a world away from the unsettling, silent war being waged within the palace walls.
From his post near the armory, Alok's eyes, sharp and perpetually vigilant, were not on the sparring soldiers. They were fixed on the solitary figure of Prince Devansh, who stood at the far end of the grounds, away from the regimented chaos.
Devansh was not training. He was… listening.
His head was tilted, his eyes closed, his body perfectly still amidst the activity. In his hands, he held Vani, though he did not play it. His fingers merely rested on the strings, as if taking its pulse. The silken shroud was gone today, and the ancient wood of the veena seemed to drink the sunlight, reflecting a dull, ominous sheen rather than its usual warm glow.
A cold knot, one that had taken permanent residence in Alok's gut since their return from Mayapuri, tightened. He remembered the journey back. The silence. The way the Prince had ridden ahead, his posture rigid, the very air around him crackling with a tense, unnatural energy. And he remembered the cave.
He remembered the sensation—a psychic shriek of wrongness that had made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He remembered the faint, bloody aura he had seen clinging to the Prince for just a moment, a visual echo of the dissonance he had felt. It was the same dissonance he felt now, watching him. A melody that was fundamentally broken, a chord that threatened to snap at any moment.
As a bodyguard, his duty was to protect the Prince from external threats. But what if the threat was internal? What if it was coiled around his very soul, humming through the strings of the instrument he held?
His duty, as defined by the King, was clear: protect the Prince. And this… this felt like the gravest threat of all.
His hand went unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. Wrapped around the leather-bound grip, almost invisible, was a simple cord woven from dried sage and sandalwood. Tied to it was a small, smooth river stone, dark grey and etched with a single, ancient rune for 'protection'. It was a talisman. A simple thing, given to him by a mountain mystic years ago after a different battle, a different brush with a darkness he didn't understand. The mystic had called it an 'Anchor'—a focus for positive energy, a ward against spiritual decay. Alok had always worn it more out of habit than belief. Until Mayapuri.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, he crossed the grounds. His approach was silent, but Devansh's eyes snapped open before he was ten paces away. The Prince's gaze was instantly wary, sharp, as if Alok's mere presence was an intrusion.
"Rajkumar," Alok began, his voice low and respectful, folding his hands into a formal 'anjali'.
"What is it, Alok?" The reply was curt, devoid of its former warmth. "I am occupied."
"I… I wished to speak with you, My Prince. About Vani."
A flicker of something dangerous crossed Devansh's face. His grip on the veena's neck tightened. "What about it?"
Alok chose his words with the same care he would use defusing a trap. "In Mayapuri… and even now… I sense a… a dissonance from it. A vibration that feels… wrong." He gestured vaguely, struggling to articulate the intangible. "It is not the pure energy it once held. It feels aggressive. Cold. I fear that some residue from that cursed place, from the Masked Man's magic, may have… tainted it."
He took a half-step closer, his concern overriding his caution. "Perhaps we should consult the Raj-Guru? Have the instrument purified? There are rituals—"
"Enough."
The word was a whip-crack. Devansh's eyes narrowed, the blue in them seeming to harden into ice. He took a step forward himself, and as he did, Alok's talisman, resting against the hilt of his sword, gave a faint, almost imperceptible pulse. A soft, silvery light, no brighter than a firefly's glow, emanated from the etched rune on the stone for a single heartbeat.
It was nothing. A trifle.
But the effect on Devansh was instantaneous and violent.
He recoiled.
It was a sharp, jerky motion, as if he had been physically struck. A hiss of pain escaped his clenched teeth. His hand flew up, not to his eyes, but to his chest, as if the tiny, pure light had burned him. The look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated revulsion, mixed with a flash of primal fear.
The reaction lasted less than a second. Then, his features contorted into a mask of fury to cover the brief, exposed vulnerability.
"You…" he seethed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. He was not looking at Alok's face, but at the now-dormant talisman on his sword. "You dare…?"
"My Prince, I meant no—" Alok started, bewildered by the intensity of the reaction.
"You are a bodyguard, Alok," Devansh spat, cutting him off. The words were laced with a contempt so deep it felt like a physical blow. "A sword arm. A shield. Your duty is to walk three paces behind me and intercept steel. Not to prattle about energies and dissonances you cannot possibly comprehend."
He took another step forward, and this time, the air around him seemed to grow heavy and cold. The faint, sickly-sweet scent of ozone and decay that Alok remembered from Mayapuri teased his nostrils. The red aura did not manifest, but its presence was a palpable pressure in the space between them.
"You are not a mystic," Devansh continued, his voice low and deadly. "You are not a priest. You are not my confidant. You are a tool. A finely honed one, I grant you, but a tool nonetheless. And tools do not offer opinions. They do not sense 'vibrations'. They obey."
He looked Alok up and down, his gaze stripping him of his humanity, reducing him to his function. "So, I will say this only once. Stick. To. Your. Duties."
The dismissal was absolute. It was a brutal, surgical severing of the unspoken bond that had formed between them in the trenches of Mayapuri. It was a rejection not just of Alok's concern, but of the very skills and instincts that had saved them all. The loyalty, the silent understanding, the shared burden—all of it was cast aside as worthless.
Devansh held his gaze for a moment longer, the silent threat hanging in the air. Then, he turned, the movement sharp and final. He strode away, not towards the palace, but towards the darker, secluded paths of the palace gardens, Vani held tightly in his grasp, a dark maestro retreating with his corrupted instrument.
Alok stood frozen, the Prince's words echoing in the sudden silence. The cold he felt had nothing to do with the evening breeze. It was a chill that seeped into the marrow of his bones, a chill of profound dread.
He looked down at his talisman. The little stone was inert once more, just a piece of rock and twine. But it had reacted. And the Prince had reacted to it.
His prince was not just changed. He was infected. And he was actively, violently, pushing away the one thing that seemed to cause that infection even a moment's discomfort.
Alok, the loyal soldier, the unwavering shield, felt a new and terrifying duty crystallize within him. He was no longer just protecting the Prince from external threats. He was now a warden, watching a prisoner who was slowly being consumed by his own cell. And he had just found a key. A small, fragile, glowing key.
The question was, how could he use it without his own charge destroying him first?