The dawn light spilled over Dharigaon, soft and smoky, brushing rooftops with gold and stirring up dust from the slumbering lanes. Arjun sat beneath the ancient banyan, cross-legged, the cold bark at his back, his eyes on the village that had begun to accept his presence not with affection—but with caution. That was enough.
Trust was a rare thing in Dharigaon, rarer still when power began to shift. And yet, somehow, in the shadow of the River Rite victory, Arjun had found what seemed to be an exception: Rishi.
He had arrived from the next village, lean and sharp-eyed, with a laugh that didn't stick and a tongue made for twisting words. During the festival, Rishi had been instrumental—convincing merchants to part with their grain, murmuring Arjun's praises in just the right corners. When it was over, Rishi stood by Arjun's side, saying, "You saved my family's granary. I owe you everything."
So Arjun let him in. Into the plans. Into the ledger. Into the circle of silence where only he and Vishrath had ever existed.
They met by the old well each morning. Counted grain slips. Plotted which families to approach, which elders to sway. They drew invisible lines through Dharigaon, carving alliances into air. Arjun felt—for the first time since his father's death—that someone walked beside him who understood the game.
But something scratched at the edge of his mind. Vishrath's voice. A line scribbled in the margins of his book:
*"Even your own shadow deserts you in darkness."*
The idea clung like a thorn. Rishi's smiles were too perfect. His devotion too immediate. And Arjun, shaped by suffering, knew nothing came so cleanly.
So he set a test.
One evening, under the low hum of crickets, Arjun gave Rishi a whisper to spread. A rumor: that Pasha would double grain prices after harvest. The goal was chaos—a squeeze on the merchant class, a return to balance through fear. Rishi grinned.
"That'll break them. They'll come begging."
"Spread it," Arjun said, voice like flint. "And tell no one where it came from."
By sunrise, the rumor had bloomed like poison in the market. Villagers began hoarding sacks of rice. Merchants tightened their belts. Pasha grew pale and furious, barking at his guards.
But chaos is never one-sided.
That night, Rishi's home was raided. His family's granary torn open. Their bowls smashed, grain scattered across the floor like bones.
At dawn, Rishi stumbled to the banyan tree, blood on his shirt, lips trembling.
"They came at midnight. Said I was working for you. Said you were using me. It was Surajmal—he saw me speaking to the blacksmith. He said I'd be safe if I gave you up."
"You gave me up?"
"I told them what you told me to do. They beat me anyway."
Rishi dropped a sack at Arjun's feet. Inside were torn ledgers, a few coins, a cracked token of Arjun's seal.
"I took it to buy silence. I didn't know what else to do."
Arjun looked at him, and for a long time, said nothing. There was no anger in his eyes. Only something colder.
"You had a choice."
"I had no way out."
"There is always a way. But it costs."
Rishi's face crumpled.
Arjun stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I will not destroy you," he said, voice barely above the wind. "But you will never stand beside me again."
Rishi flinched.
"Take your family. Leave Dharigaon. Go far. Pray the path never circles back to me."
Rishi stood. Wounded, ashamed. He turned and vanished into the morning haze.
Later, beneath the same banyan, Arjun opened his ledger and wrote:
*"Allies can become wolves at your table. Trust only that which you can burn and rebuild."*
The village knew nothing. Only that the grain panic had subsided, and the River Voice had met with Pasha behind closed doors. Whatever passed there, Pasha walked out quieter. Surajmal avoided eye contact. Even Saanvi—so often present, teasing—kept to her shadows.
When Vishrath arrived that evening, he said nothing for a long time. Then, softly:
"You've tasted the cost of dominion."
"I have," Arjun replied. "And I've buried warmth beneath it."
"Good," Vishrath said. "Now you begin to rule."
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**Portraits in Verse: Masks of Power**
**Saanvi – The Whispering Flame**
She danced with eyes that never closed,
A smile etched in candlelight,
She kissed the edge of every lie,
And wrapped it in a voice so slight.
Not love, nor lust, nor longing's game,
But strategy behind the veil.
To hold her gaze was to lose your name,
And follow her through every tale.
**Pasha – The Grain King**
He fed with one hand, clenched the other,
Measured dreams by sack and scale.
He ruled not with sword, but hunger's tether,
And bought obedience without fail.
Gold on his fingers, rot in his grain,
He smiled as crops withered slow.
And if you dared to speak his name—
You'd learn how deep your roots could go.
**Surajmal – The Potter of People**
His hands were clay, but words were fire,
He shaped men's thoughts with quiet breath.
Each nod a promise, each touch a snare,
He spoke of life but dealt in death.
To trust him was to hold hot stone,
To follow him, a spiral maze.
He built his throne from broken bones—
And ruled through masks and careful praise.
---
**End of Chapter 6**