The golden sun lingered lazily over the western hills, its dying embers painting the skies of Kuntala in hues of crimson and violet. The palace, surrounded by gentle slopes and fertile fields, glowed under the soft light. Far beyond the ramparts, farmers guided their oxen along dusty trails, their silhouettes dark against the blazing horizon. The faint ringing of temple bells from distant villages carried on the evening breeze, a lullaby of devotion drifting through the open palace windows.
Within the palace walls, the day's hum of activity had begun to wind down. Servants moved about with purposeful steps, lighting lamps and preparing the evening meal. The rhythmic clang of wooden training swords echoed faintly from the courtyard, where young noble sons sparred under the watchful eyes of seasoned guards. Yet among all the sounds and movements of the palace, one pair of eyes remained far too sharp for their years, quietly observing everything.
Seated beneath the sprawling branches of the palace banyan tree, Virendra, now four years old, sat cross-legged, his small hands sifting through the cool, damp earth. His face, though youthful, was solemn—his dark eyes thoughtful, bearing the quiet weight of an old soul. With each passing day, the strange, unnatural power within him grew more defined. It was no longer fleeting intuition or mere suspicion. It was a certainty—a voice in the very marrow of his bones that whispered when he was being lied to.
And he was learning how to use it.
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The first time he had consciously recognized this strange ability, it had caught him by surprise. During one of his afternoon lessons, his tutor, Manohar, a minor noble and scholar, had been lecturing him about Kuntala's trade policies. The man spoke smoothly, his voice steady, his eyes calm. But as he described the value of a recent grain trade agreement with the merchants of Panchgani, Virendra felt it—a subtle tug at the edges of his consciousness.
A faint but distinct sensation crawled over his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. It was like hearing a sharp note that didn't belong in a song—a discordant hum beneath Manohar's pleasant words. And in that moment, Virendra knew with irrefutable certainty: the man was lying.
He said nothing at first, allowing the man to continue, but he began to pay more attention. He noted the slight tremor in Manohar's voice when he spoke of the trade figures, the briefest flicker of his eyes when asked a direct question. After the lesson ended, Virendra quietly ordered one of the palace scribes to retrieve the trade records.
As he examined the scrolls by the dim candlelight in his chamber, his young fingers tracing the lines of ink, he saw the deception laid bare. The trade yields were far less than Manohar had claimed. The tutor had deliberately inflated the numbers to impress the palace officials. It was a small deceit, inconsequential to most, but to Virendra, it was proof—proof that he was not imagining this power.
From that day on, he began to test it.
---
As the weeks passed, Virendra's ability to discern truth from falsehood grew sharper. It extended beyond mere words—it became an innate sense, an instinct woven into his perception. He could tell when his brother, Jayvarma, exaggerated the details of his adventures to impress the palace guards. He knew when the kitchen servants, upon sneaking extra sweets for themselves, feigned innocence.
At first, it was simply a passive observation. But soon, Virendra realized he could use this power strategically.
One afternoon, he and Jayvarma stood on the sun-warmed sandstone tiles of the palace courtyard, their wooden swords in hand. Jayvarma, now seven, was broad-shouldered for his age, his limbs already gaining the rough strength of a young warrior. Virendra, though smaller, was faster and more cunning—his body leaner, his steps quieter.
They faced off, circling each other under the watchful eyes of the palace guards.
Jayvarma, grinning with boyish confidence, feinted to the left, aiming a wide sweep at Virendra's ribs. But even before his older brother's wrist moved, Virendra knew. He could see the honesty in Jayvarma's gaze—the pure intent behind the attack. The momentary clench of his knuckles, the slight shift in his footing—it was enough.
Virendra dodged easily, stepping to the side with preternatural grace. His wooden sword flashed upward, tapping Jayvarma lightly on the wrist before the older boy could recover.
"Ah! You're getting lucky," Jayvarma grumbled, shaking out his arm. "Again!"
But it wasn't luck.
Virendra could read him. Every time his brother tried to bluff or feint, Virendra knew. Even when Jayvarma attempted to surprise him with a sudden thrust, the boy prince could sense the sincerity of the movement before the attack even came.
After three rounds, Jayvarma stood panting, his face flushed with exertion.
"Are you a sorcerer?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "How do you always know?"
Virendra only offered a faint smile, saying nothing. But the guards who watched from the shade of the courtyard's pillars began to exchange glances. Some of the senior retainers noticed the uncanny precision of the young prince's movements—the way he seemed to anticipate his opponent's strikes. They spoke of it quietly in the barracks, murmuring of the younger prince's sharpness, of his eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
---
As the years stretched on, Virendra began to apply his power beyond sparring matches. Though still a child, he attended palace court meetings alongside Jayvarma and their mother, Rani Yashodhara. The queen often kept her youngest son close during these sessions, admiring his sharp mind and calm demeanor.
It was during one such meeting that Virendra first glimpsed the true underbelly of Kuntala's politics.
The ministers, dressed in fine robes, sat on either side of the marble hall, their faces composed in practiced neutrality. Yet when Minister Harikesh rose to speak, Virendra's gaze sharpened. The man's words were honeyed, his tone soft and measured. He spoke of boosting grain exports, promising greater profits for the kingdom.
But the moment he spoke, Virendra felt the familiar, sour pulse of deception. The man's voice rang false, his eyes too steady.
He is lying.
Virendra's small fingers tightened around the armrest of his seat, but he remained silent, merely observing.
As the days passed, he kept his eye on Harikesh. The man frequently held private meetings with merchants in the lower district, meetings that were unrecorded. On more than one occasion, Virendra quietly slipped into the garden hall overlooking the chamber where the man conferred with wealthy traders. Through the ornate screens, he listened.
The bribes were small at first—subtle favors in exchange for trade routes. But the corruption was growing.
Virendra did not confront him. He was still too young for such authority. Instead, he planted seeds of doubt.
He casually mentioned discrepancies in the trade numbers during one evening meal with his mother. Innocent questions—subtle but sharp—enough to stir curiosity.
Within a week, Rani Yashodhara ordered a quiet inquiry into Harikesh's dealings. The minister was removed from his position with little fanfare. He was not executed, nor was he disgraced—his dismissal was framed as a retirement for health reasons. But in truth, it was Virendra's quiet maneuvering that had sealed his fate.
---
One evening, after a court session, Yashodhara sat on the terrace with Virendra, watching the moon rise over the palace gardens. She gently brushed his hair, her fingers moving slowly, soothingly.
"You knew about Harikesh, didn't you?" she asked softly.
Virendra, though only four, remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the far horizon.
"I only asked a question," he said simply, feigning innocence.
His mother smiled faintly, but her eyes were watchful. She recognized something deeper in her son—a sharpness beyond his years. Her youngest child had become a quiet observer of men, seeing through masks that even seasoned nobles could not.
And she knew, in her heart, that one day he would wield far more power than the sword in his brother's hand.
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