It began with laughter.
Not the crude kind that echoed from the drinkers near the cow shed. Not the hollow chuckles of the council. This was different.
A silver, lilting sound.
It came from behind the broken stone wall of the temple bathhouse—where the village girls gathered at dusk to fetch water and talk of things boys were not meant to know.
Arjun heard it and paused.
He had been carrying firewood back to his hut, Vishrath's latest task. "Power must not beg," the old man had said. "Even kings must carry burdens—until they can make others do it."
The laughter came again.
Curiosity won.
He peeked around the wall.
And saw **her**.
Mud streaked across her legs like paint. Her cotton shawl clung to her wet skin. Eyes like dusk, mouth curled in amusement as she molded mud into shapes and whispered jokes to her friends.
But when Arjun's eyes met hers—she did not look away.
She **smiled.**
And in that moment, Arjun's spine forgot how to hold him upright.
---
**Her name was Saanvi.**
Daughter of Surajmal—the village potter, and a man quietly allied with Pasha.
She was not the prettiest girl. But she was the one no one could touch—not even with their gaze. Because she didn't just walk through Dharigaon… she played it like a flute.
That night, Arjun found her waiting by the banyan tree.
"You're the council boy, aren't you?" she asked, eyes flickering.
"I'm just learning," Arjun said.
She stepped closer. "That's what makes it fun."
He flushed. She laughed again.
"You blush like you still believe in right and wrong. That's adorable."
She reached out and touched his cheek, leaving a streak of mud. "Lesson one," she whispered. "In this village, dirt is more honest than people."
---
Over the next week, she came often. By the temple, by the bathhouse, even near his hut. Soft glances. Small gifts. A mango, a note, a song sung just loud enough for him to hear.
Vishrath noticed.
"She is wind, boy. Beautiful and dangerous. You do not trap wind. You brace against it."
But Arjun ignored him.
Because Saanvi looked at him like he mattered.
No one had done that before.
---
Until the trap closed.
---
It happened on the day of the **River Rite**—a village ritual meant to bless the harvest. Saanvi asked him to walk with her, barefoot through the shallows.
"They say if two people walk together without slipping," she said, "they're fated."
She took his hand.
Arjun felt something melt in his chest.
Until—he saw the glint of silver under the water.
Too late.
He slipped. Fell. Mud splashed into his mouth.
The village boys burst out laughing. So did the priest.
So did Pasha.
And Saanvi?
She walked on, dry, untouched, smile vanishing like smoke.
Arjun stumbled to his feet, drenched and shamed. Then he saw it—Pasha whispering into Saanvi's ear, slipping her a cloth pouch.
She didn't look at Arjun again.
---
That night, he sat under the banyan, fists clenched.
Vishrath said nothing for a long time.
Then:
"You mistook softness for sincerity. She is not cruel. She is clever. Her father wants you out of the council. What better way than to make you look like a fool?"
Arjun whispered, "I liked her."
Vishrath sighed. "And that is why she succeeded."
He pulled out an old, torn parchment—so delicate it cracked when opened.
"I too once loved a girl who danced in power's shadow," he said. "She was a courtesan in the court of the Eastern King. Her laugh could make ministers forget policy."
Arjun looked up.
"What happened?"
Vishrath's eyes darkened.
"She chose the prince. I gave her my heart. She gave him my secrets."
He stared into the night.
"And so, I burned the court."
---
Silence.
Then Vishrath looked back.
"Do not hate Saanvi. Thank her. She has shown you what beauty is used for. Not love. But leverage."
He handed Arjun a knife.
"Now go. Cut mud from the riverbank. Tomorrow, you will craft your first mask. Not for ritual. But for *you.*"
---
And so, Arjun did.
He cut clay in silence. Let it dry by firelight. Painted it with blood and ash. A face with no smile, no blush, no innocence.
When he wore it the next dawn, the village children screamed.
He didn't remove it.
Because now, he understood:
> *"The one who wears the mask first—writes the rules."*
---
**End of Chapter 4**