Dharigaon had begun whispering again.
Not of spirits this time, but of shadows. Of masks. Of the boy who walked with a silence that made the elders flinch. The children trailed behind him from a distance, hoping he might turn and tell a tale. Mothers warned their daughters. And the old men at the temple steps rubbed ash on their brows when he passed.
"He wears mud like royalty," someone said.
"He no longer speaks," said another.
"They say he's cursed."
But Arjun remained silent.
His mask—painted with dry blood and the ash from his burnt hearth—covered half his face now. It was no longer just a mark of mourning. It had become a language of power. And Arjun had learned to speak without words.
*In a world of faces, wear one no one can read.* Vishrath had said this once, on a night when owls screeched above and the fire refused to light.
And Arjun had listened.
That night, Vishrath shared a secret from his own past. He pulled out a fragment of silk, worn and gold-inked, its edges frayed like a burned leaf. Upon it was a crowned serpent with twin fangs—the royal sigil of the Eastern Kingdom.
"You were a court advisor," Arjun murmured.
Vishrath did not blink. "I was the second mind behind the throne," he replied. "The first belonged to the prince. A man of beauty, words, and cowardice. He had charm. I had calculation. Together we ruled behind silk curtains. Until she came."
"Who?"
"A dancer named Kaamini."
Her name curled through the air like incense.
"She turned him with her breath, her lies. Said I plotted treason."
"Did you?"
"I did," Vishrath said, grinning. "But only after he believed I had."
He sipped from his clay flask. "I burned the council chamber. Left their truths to rot with their ashes. I took my scrolls, my scars, and fled. Swore never again to serve a kingdom that chooses beauty over truth."
At dawn, a summons came. Not from the council. From the festival committee. Dharigaon's most sacred event—The River Rite Festival—was days away. Every year, it was a stage for wit, strength, and strategy. Fame, grain credits, and the temporary title of *River Voice* were its prize.
Pasha had submitted Arjun's name.
So had Surajmal.
Saanvi would be performing the opening dance.
It was no invitation. It was bait.
"Why enter?" Arjun asked.
"Because this time," Vishrath said, smiling, "you'll write the script."
The festival had three trials. The first, a water maze, where the competitor crossed a shallow river blindfolded, guided only by voice. The second, a grain bartering contest with the villagers. The last, a riddle judged before the entire crowd.
Arjun trained for none of them.
Instead, he sowed whispers. He taught children to say Jagan feared water, that Surajmal once cheated the priest, and that he—Arjun—had trained with monks. He slipped rice packets into the palms of the poor with small scrolls tied around them: *"When I speak, give."*
He spoke to Saanvi only once. She met him at the old well, her anklets silent.
"You're braver than most," she said.
"I'm not brave," he answered. "I'm just tired of being broken."
She looked at him a long time. "Jagan might hurt you."
"Only if he can touch me," Arjun replied.
The morning of the festival, the entire village crowded by the riverbank. Bamboo stages rose over mud, garlands floated in the current, and incense hung heavy in the air. Saanvi danced across the stage like a flame caught in silk. The crowd watched her, entranced.
Arjun did not. He watched the shadows—Pasha bribing judges with sweet-laced silver, Surajmal slipping a scroll to the priest, Jagan tightening oil-soaked cords around his fists.
The first challenge began.
Jagan stepped into the river blindfolded, guided by a cousin shouting directions. He panicked midstream and slipped into a deeper patch. He thrashed, choked, and emerged spluttering to laughter.
Arjun followed. Also blindfolded. But he had walked that river at night—barefoot, alone—until every stone, every ripple was etched into his memory.
He crossed in silence. No guide. No sound.
The crowd hushed. The priest whispered a prayer.
The grain challenge came next. Surajmal wooed the villagers with poetry. Jagan threatened them with fists. Arjun bowed to the poorest, thanked them by name, whispered verses of Chanakya.
"One who remembers the forgotten," he said, "commands the remembered."
The villagers who'd once received his secret gifts now returned it with handfuls of grain. He won by a landslide.
The final trial—the riddle.
Kaasi, a blind old woman wrapped in temple threads, asked: "I speak without a mouth, hear without ears, have no body, but come alive with wind. What am I?"
"Drum," Jagan blurted. Wrong.
"Echo," Surajmal said. Right.
Kaasi smiled. "Then tell me—what is an echo… when there is no voice to begin it?"
Arjun stepped forward.
He looked at her, then the crowd.
"It is silence," he said. "Weaponized."
The silence after his answer was longer than any applause. Then Kaasi laughed. "We have our River Voice."
That night, Pasha sat in his empty storehouse. Surajmal bit his lip until it bled. Saanvi watched Arjun from across the firelight—not with admiration, nor disdain—but with curiosity.
And Arjun stood by the banyan, mask in one hand, bag of grain in the other.
Vishrath joined him.
"You rewrote the story," he said.
"I didn't want their respect," Arjun answered. "I wanted their silence."
Vishrath nodded. "Then hear this next line: *Silence earned through fear echoes longer than applause earned through charm.*"
Arjun opened his ledger and wrote:
*To win is not to be louder. It is to be remembered longer.*
**End of Chapter 5**