At the center of Dharigaon lay more than homes and stalls. It held a maze of invisible lines—factions, rivalries, debts unpaid and favors too dear to be named aloud. For every face Arjun saw smiling in the square, he could now see two shadows trailing behind it.
There were the Council Loyalists—elders bound by ritual and tradition, suspicious of Arjun's youth and Vishrath's foreign tongue. They held no weapons, only time-hardened customs and quiet threats spoken behind walls.
There were the Grain Lords, led by Pasha, who had fattened their stores by starving others. Their control was practical: food, money, muscle.
The Craftsmen's Circle, quiet but numerous, whispered with Surajmal's pottery guild. Their strength was in their hands—the work that built homes, carts, the temple stones. They could slow the village to a crawl with a shared nod.
And there were the Daughters' Circle—silent, elegant, invisible. Women who met under Saanvi's influence in courtyards and riverfronts, veiling politics in marriage talk, trades of oil and silk. Arjun did not know all their names. But he could feel their eyes.
Vishrath showed him how to trace the fault lines between these groups. And more importantly—how to make them believe he stood between chaos and peace.
"Make them imagine what happens when you disappear," he said. "Fear is not just what you inspire—it's what they think they'll face without you."
Arjun began to move like shadow and myth. One day here. Another day missing. Messages sent by silent boys. Gossip curated like garden vines.
Then came the fire.
A hut burned at the edge of the market. It belonged to Nanda, a weaver who had recently joined Arjun's fold. No one claimed responsibility.
But someone left a mark—a palm print in ash.
A warning.
Arjun stood before the blackened hut and said nothing. But by evening, every child in Dharigaon had heard a new story: that the River Voice had once walked through a city of flame, and the fire had bowed to him.
Arjun's mask grew heavier that week. Not just with soot—but with memory.
He dreamed of Kaamini again. Not as Vishrath described her, but as a shape that moved through power like smoke in a palace: unseen until it choked you. She stood behind thrones. Whispered in the ears of kings. Made men destroy each other for the chance to kiss her hand.
And in the dream, she looked at Arjun.
"You will not be loved," she said. "But you will be followed. That's enough."
When he woke, his hand was already writing.
"A true crown is made of ash. It burns those who wear it, but no one dares to remove it."
And so began Part II: The Forge.
Where Arjun would test not just others—but the fire within himself.