Chapter 1: The Beloved Prince and the Jealous King
The scent of lemon polish and old, sleepless nights always hit Amartya first when he entered the Royal Office. It was less a workplace and more a gilded cage for his brother’s ego. Dev’s chair—a monstrous, high-backed throne carved with the scowling faces of traitors from three centuries past—dominated the far end. Amartya’s own smaller desk was tucked near a window, the morning sun illuminating a stack of citizen petitions he’d been reviewing.
“Coffee, Your Highness?” a soft voice asked.
Rukmini glided into the room, a silver tray in her hands. She was the only person who could soften the room’s harsh edges. She set a steaming cup on his desk. “You look like you were up too late playing football again. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Amartya grinned, accepting the cup. The jasmine-scented steam was a balm. “Bhabhi Ma, you have spies on the south lawn?”
“I have eyes, Amu,” she said, using the childhood nickname. Her affection was plain, a warm, steady presence in his life. “Your Bhaiya’s morning mood is… particularly volcanic today.”
The heavy doors swung open as if summoned by her words. Dev Agnihotri filled the doorway, a mountain of dark silk and restless bitterness. At forty-two, he was a man who wore his crown like a sharpened weapon. He didn’t greet his wife or brother; he simply took his throne with a slow, deliberate creak of wood. The air thickened.
“Ah. Both of you. Efficient,” Dev said, his voice a low rumble. He shuffled some papers pointlessly. “Amartya. You have an assignment.”
Amartya sat up straighter, setting his cup down. “Of course, Bhaiya. Is it the drought relief proposals? I have the numbers—”
“Not those. Something more diplomatic. A gesture of goodwill,” Dev interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Our northern neighbour, Afghanistan. There’s a… shifting political climate. King Tariq is feeling… isolated. A show of friendship from a rising prince of India would mean a great deal. A private meeting.”
Amartya felt a small thrill. Real work. A chance to represent his country beyond ceremonial ribbon-cuttings. He leaned forward.“Absolutely. I’ll study the briefing books tonight. Agriculture and water-sharing are potential areas of mutual—”
“No briefing books.Too obvious. Tariq values authenticity. He hates diplomats who smell of stale ink.” Dev’s smile was thin. “You go as yourself. Charming, sincere Prince Amartya. Build rapport. He has a daughter your age, I’m told. An athletic sort. Perhaps you can even find a game of buzkashi to discuss.”
It was a surprising level of consideration from his brother. Usually, Dev’s instructions were blunt, designed to showcase Amartya’s inexperience.
Rukmini stepped closer, a faint line of concern between her brows. “A solo visit, Dev? Without the full diplomatic corps? Is that… safe?”
“Safe? He’ll have a full security detail, Rukmini. A small one. Inconspicuous. The palace guard draws too much attention. Tariq’s region is remote, traditional. They see a parade of foreign soldiers as an insult.” Dev leaned back, steepling his fingers. “This is an opportunity for you, little brother. The people love your face, but the court whispers you are a boy with no real substance. Prove them wrong. Show you can navigate the world beyond our borders.”
Amartya swallowed. The words were cutting, but the offer felt genuine. This was Dev acknowledging his potential. The sting of ‘little brother’ was soothed by the promise of real responsibility. He looked at Rukmini, his eyes bright. “I can do this, Bhabhi Ma. Bhaiya is right. It’s time.”
Rukmini searched her husband’s face. She saw only the stern, imperious mask he wore like armour. She turned to Amartya, smoothing the collar of his kurta. “I’ll have them pack warm things. The mountains are cold, even now. And you must write.”
“Every day,” Amartya promised.
“Good,” Dev concluded, the meeting evidently over. “A car will take you to the airfield in three days. The details will be handled. You need only prepare your mind, and your smile.” He stood, the chair groaning in relief. He paused by Amartya’s desk, his shadow falling across the petitions. “Try not to get too excited, Amartya. It’s just a meeting. Don’t… disappoint me.”
As Dev’s footsteps echoed down the hall, Amartya released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“It’s a real chance,” he said, more to himself than to Rukmini.
“It is,” she replied, but her voice was distant. She was watching the empty doorway where Dev had been. Her fingers tightened on the silver tray. “I just… I wish he had discussed it with the ministers first. Something about it feels… arranged too quickly.”
“Bhaiya is impulsive. But his instincts are strategic,” Amartya said, the old habit of defending Dev rising automatically. He scooped up his coffee, the excitement buzzing in his veins. “I’ll start making lists. Gifts for King Tariq. Something for his daughter, perhaps? Not jewelry. Maybe books? Or high-quality sporting gear?”
Rukmini forced a smile, pushing her unease down. “Sporting gear. Yes, that’s thoughtful. Come, I’ll walk you out. Tell me what else you’re thinking.”
As they left the oppressive office, the weight of Dev’s throne at their backs, Amartya’s mind was already a thousand miles away, in the rugged Afghan hills. He pictured earnest conversations, mutual understanding, a handshake that sealed a new, peaceful chapter. He imagined writing home to Rukmini about the stark, beautiful landscapes.
He did not imagine the cold, calculating eyes of his brother, who was not in his private quarters, but in a secluded salon overlooking the gardens. There, Dev poured a single measure of whisky, a slow, satisfied smirk finally cracking his stern facade. He wasn’t alone.
From the balcony, a figure stepped inside, the scent of expensive perfume and ambition cutting through the lemon polish that lingered on his clothes.
“He accepted?” Zahira’s voice was smooth, like oiled silk.
“Like a lamb to the finest pasture,” Dev murmured, raising his glass in a silent, poisonous toast to the northern horizon. “Three days. Make sure our friends are ready. I want no trace of him, or his irritating virtue, ever coming home.”