Chapter 9: The First Lie
The question came dressed as concern.
It arrived in the afternoon heat, when the palace slowed and even the birds seemed to conserve their breath. Abhinav had been reviewing palm leaves—harmless ones this time, genealogies and trade tallies—when two attendants appeared at his door and bowed in unison.
"The elders request your presence," one said.
Request, again.
The chamber they led him to was smaller than the court and warmer than the temple, its windows shuttered against the sun. Cushions lined the walls. Incense burned low. Three men waited inside: one priest, one merchant, one nobleman. Different robes. Same intent.
They rose as Abhinav entered, not in reverence, but in appraisal.
"Prince Abhinav," the priest began, fingers worry-beads clicking softly. "Your recovery has been… remarkable."
Abhinav inclined his head. "I was fortunate."
"Fortune leaves traces," the merchant said. "Questions have followed you since your illness."
The nobleman smiled without warmth. "Some say you speak as if guided."
There it was.
Abhinav felt the weight of the moment settle into his bones. In another life, he would have argued. Presented evidence. Challenged assumptions.
Here, truth was a liability.
"What do you remember of your fever?" the priest asked gently.
Abhinav closed his eyes, just long enough to make the gesture believable.
"I remember light," he said. "And confusion."
They leaned in.
"And voices?" the nobleman prompted.
"Yes," Abhinav said.
The lie formed fully before he spoke it, complete and irrevocable.
"Not commands," he continued. "Not answers. Only… images. Symbols. As if the gods were reminding me of patterns I had already learned."
Silence followed. A charged one.
The merchant exhaled. "Visions, then."
Abhinav opened his eyes. "If that is the word you prefer."
The priest's beads stilled. "The gods do not waste speech," he said. "What did they show you?"
Abhinav chose carefully. "Balance. That Calicut prospers when paths remain open. When no single hand closes around the sea."
The merchant's interest sharpened.
"And what did they warn against?" the nobleman asked.
"Certainty," Abhinav replied. "Those who believe the future belongs to them alone."
It was a risk. But a measured one.
The men exchanged glances.
"You see," the priest said slowly, "why such matters trouble us. Claims of divine insight have a habit of spreading."
Abhinav bowed his head. "Then I will keep them private."
The nobleman's smile returned, thin as a blade. "You would deny the people guidance?"
"I would deny them confusion," Abhinav said. "The gods speak best through stability."
That did it.
The merchant nodded. The priest relaxed. The nobleman studied him anew.
"Very well," the priest said. "We ask only that you remember your place. Visions do not make kings."
Abhinav met his gaze. "Nor do kings make visions."
When he was dismissed, Abhinav walked back through the corridors with measured steps. Only when he reached the privacy of his chamber did he allow his shoulders to sag.
The lie tasted bitter.
He had used belief as a shield. He had bent truth to survive.
He knelt beside the low table and pressed his palms together, not in prayer, but in stillness.
This is how it begins, he thought. Not with violence—but with compromise.
Outside, the palace continued its rhythms, unaware that something fragile had shifted.
Abhinav rose, knowing with cold certainty:
He would tell many truths in his life.
But this would not be his last lie.