There is power in silence.
But even greater power lies in the word that *breaks* it.
The air in Dharigaon had grown strange. Smoke from cooking fires seemed thicker. Shadows stretched longer than they should. Ever since Arjun had been crowned the River Voice, villagers carried themselves like dancers over glass—watchful, hesitant, and waiting for a sound that would shatter everything.
That sound came, not as a shout, but as a whisper.
It started with a cough in the potters' quarter—a child, then another. Three families grew afraid. The fever spread quickly, and with it, fear. Fingers pointed before healers could arrive. No one trusted their neighbor.
"Pasha is hoarding poisoned grain," someone murmured.
"Surajmal's clay holds a curse."
"The River Voice… his mask hides sickness."
The rumors bloomed like mold beneath stone floors. They needed no proof, only fear. And fear was plentiful.
But Arjun did not panic.
He had watched these patterns before—in men, in beasts, in flames. Vishrath had taught him long ago: **speech is not just noise—it is a weapon.** Wielded well, it cuts deeper than any sword. And Arjun was now ready to wield it.
He summoned the children. Not for lessons, but for *plays*. He gave them stories—fantastical, absurd, and dangerous.
"If you smell the wind from the north," he whispered to one boy, "you'll lose your mind."
"If Saanvi's tears fall into milk, it turns to blood," he told another girl.
"Pasha eats meat when no one is looking."
The children giggled. But they obeyed. By morning, the streets were full of these lies, dancing from ear to ear like wildfire.
The truth was irrelevant now. Even Pasha's fat guards began to glance at their master's plate with doubt. Even Saanvi, though silent, found fewer garlands on her doorstep. Surajmal's clay remained unsold at the market.
And Arjun? He walked among them without saying a word. His silence became more dangerous than their noise.
Vishrath, ever watching, confronted him one night under the banyan.
"You've started a fire."
"I know," Arjun said.
"Do you control it?"
"I lit it. That is enough."
Vishrath said nothing. But his silence was not approval.
The fever spread. Mothers burned clothes. Elders blamed gods. A council was called—urgent, public, and sharp with fear.
Pasha arrived with trembling fists. His voice thundered through the meeting square.
"This child has turned whispers into weapons! My stores are empty. My name is rotting."
Surajmal, standing behind a veil of calm, said nothing. But his eyes flicked once to Arjun. Just once.
Even Saanvi was there, cloaked in her usual stillness. Her eyes met Arjun's and did not look away.
The priest raised his staff.
"Let the River Voice speak."
So he did.
But not with defenses. Not with facts.
He told a story.
Of a fisherman who blamed the river for stealing his boat, until they found he'd tied the rope too loose.
Of a girl who claimed her tears brought thunder, but wept *after* every storm.
Of a village that cursed the moon for a flood, until someone noticed the dam had cracked weeks before.
He looked out at the crowd.
"You want someone to blame," he said. "Blame the one who listens to whispers over witnesses."
The words were simple. But the effect was thunderous. Heads turned. Accusers shrank. Even Pasha's rage thinned beneath the weight of the crowd's shifting mood.
Arjun had given them a mirror. And in it, they saw themselves.
The trial ended without punishment. But something had changed.
By evening, the fever had begun to fade—not because of cures, but because no one wanted to be the next name on a stranger's tongue. The rumors died, their roots scorched by shame.
Arjun's name spread further. Not as a hero. Not as a villain.
But as a **force**.
Vishrath returned that night with an old clay seal. He handed it to Arjun without a word. It was cracked, ancient, bearing a symbol of two tongues curled into fire.
"Do you know what this is?"
"A lie?" Arjun guessed.
"No," Vishrath said. "A truth shaped so carefully, it becomes shield and spear."
He paused.
"You've passed the test. But remember this: *a tongue that sets fire to others will one day taste ash itself.*"
Arjun closed his hand around the seal.
Ashes, he thought, still leave heat.
And sometimes, heat is all the power you need.
**End of Chapter 8**