The night was still, save for the faint rustle of wind sweeping across the courtyard gardens of Kuntala's royal palace. The stars shimmered faintly in the black canvas of the sky, but their presence was overshadowed by the constant golden radiance emanating from the palace walls.
From the outer villages, the glow was visible even from miles away, a beacon that stood in stark contrast to the dim torchlights and oil lamps flickering feebly in the homes of the common folk. The palace shone like a deity's abode, while the rest of the kingdom remained in shadows.
In the farmlands beyond the city, peasants and laborers watched the distant light with a mixture of awe and quiet resentment. The palace was now a world apart—distant, unreachable, and almost divine.
A group of farmers sat by the edge of a field, their hands calloused from the day's labor, their faces lined with fatigue. They stared at the faint golden glow on the horizon, murmuring softly.
"Do you think they will ever share their sun with us?" one of the men asked, his voice thick with weariness.
An older man, his hair graying and sparse, spat into the dirt.
"Share?" he scoffed bitterly. "The gods do not share their light with men. They shine above us while we toil in the dark."
A woman clutching her young daughter's hand turned to him, her eyes narrowing.
"Mind your tongue," she hissed. "The queen blessed us with a fair harvest tax. You insult her grace."
The man sneered but said nothing, bitterness gleaming in his eyes. He knew the queen was benevolent—he had no hatred for her—but the light still stood as a reminder of how far removed they were from their rulers.
In the village square, merchants closed their shops, squinting at the distant glow as they extinguished their lanterns. Their lives remained tethered to flame and oil, while the palace had banished the night altogether. It was an unbridgeable gap—one that bred equal parts reverence and resentment.
As the peasants and traders retired to their dim homes, they spoke of the palace with wonder and disbelief. Some called it a miracle, others a dangerous sorcery. And in their hearts, fear began to take root.
---
From the high balcony of the palace, Virendra stood with his hands resting lightly on the stone railing, his eyes distant as he gazed over the kingdom.
Even from here, he could see the faint glimmer of torchlight from the villages beyond the city walls—tiny, sputtering flames that seemed pathetic compared to the palace's unyielding glow.
His jaw tightened. He had once been proud of what he had created—the first sparks of electricity, the golden glow of the palace—but now, he saw the consequences he had not anticipated.
A voice cut through his thoughts.
"You're frowning again."
He turned slightly, seeing Devasena approach him. She was barefoot, dressed in a simple silk robe, her long hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. She came to stand beside him, her slender hands resting on the railing, her eyes soft but observant.
"You're thinking about the villagers," she said softly.
Virendra let out a quiet breath, his eyes fixed on the far-off torchlights.
"I thought it would be a beacon of progress," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "But it feels like I've built a wall of fire instead."
Devasena glanced at him.
"Wall of fire?"
He turned toward her, his brow furrowed.
"Look at it," he gestured toward the palace, the light spilling over the courtyards, glowing as if the sun itself had taken residence inside. "What do you see?"
She studied the glow, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"A marvel," she admitted softly.
He shook his head.
"They see it as something unnatural. The villagers stare at this palace like it belongs to another realm. To them, we might as well be gods walking among men." His voice turned bitter.
"And gods have no need for their prayers or their struggles."
She was silent for a moment, then placed a gentle hand on his forearm.
"They fear what they don't understand," she said quietly. "But in time, they will see that this light is not divine—it's simply… new."
He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair, but he remained unconvinced.
---
Later that evening, the royal family gathered in the palace's solar chamber, where the golden glow illuminated the vast hall. The candelabras and oil lamps had been removed weeks ago—there was no longer any need for them.
Queen Yashodhara sat at the head of the table, her gaze sharp and discerning. Beside her sat Jayvarma, his arms loosely crossed, while Devasena sat near the windows, her fingers tracing absent patterns along the table's edge.
Virendra entered last, and the queen's eyes fell on him immediately.
"You've been brooding," she said matter-of-factly.
He sat down opposite her, leaning forward slightly, his hands laced together.
"The palace's light is… becoming a problem," he said without preamble.
The queen's brow arched slightly, but she gave no immediate reply.
Jayvarma scoffed.
"A problem?" he leaned back, smirking slightly. "You created a marvel and now you think it's a curse?"
Virendra's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Marvels and curses are often the same thing, Jay," he replied flatly.
The queen's eyes sharpened, her expression thoughtful.
"Explain," she commanded softly.
Virendra let out a breath, his fingers drumming lightly against the table.
"The villagers watch this palace like it belongs to another world. They fear it, mother. And the fear is growing."
Yashodhara's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
"The people have always feared power," she said calmly. "That is not new."
He shook his head.
"This is different. They're starting to see us as something inhuman. And the other kingdoms… they think this is either a trick or foolishness."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Let them think that."
Virendra's gaze hardened.
"And when they start to isolate us out of fear or jealousy? What then?"
Jayvarma's casual demeanor stiffened slightly, his fingers curling into a loose fist on the table.
"You think the other kingdoms will become hostile?"
Virendra met his brother's gaze evenly.
"I think they'll either dismiss us as fools or they'll fear us as monsters. Both lead to the same result—isolation."
The room was silent for a moment, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.
---
The night air was crisp and cool, drifting softly through the open balcony doors of Virendra's chamber. He sat in the dim candlelight, the flickering flame barely illuminating the stacks of scrolls and notes scattered across his desk. His fingers drummed slowly against the wooden surface as he stared at the pages before him.
Maps, diagrams, and records of the palace's energy consumption lay unfurled across the desk, but Virendra was no longer studying them. His eyes were distant, focused not on the papers but on the looming problem they represented.
Despite their success in generating and storing electricity, it remained an isolated marvel, limited to the palace's walls. The villagers, the merchants, and even the city nobles still viewed it as divine or dangerous—something that belonged to kings and gods.
He could feel the growing tension with every passing day. The gaping chasm of disparity between the illuminated palace and the kingdom shrouded in darkness was widening, creating unease and division.
His fingers stopped drumming.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
"If they don't understand it," he muttered to himself, "they will always fear it."
He turned his gaze toward the large window, where he could see the faint glow of the palace's lights reflecting on the stone courtyard below. Beyond the palace walls, the city lay in near darkness, save for the scattered torches and lanterns flickering like dying stars.
The people couldn't embrace what they didn't understand.
A thought stirred in his mind—a bold and dangerous idea.
"Education," he whispered.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
If the people were taught the truth, if they were given the knowledge to comprehend this power, the fear would diminish. Knowledge was the only way to bridge the gap between superstition and science.
---
The next morning, Virendra sat across from his mother in the royal audience chamber. The room was bathed in the golden glow of palace light, creating a surreal, ethereal ambiance. The ornate golden mirrors along the walls caught the light, reflecting it back into the chamber and creating the illusion of sunlight trapped indoors.
Queen Yashodhara sat on her throne, her back straight, her expression composed. Her eyes were sharp and calculating, her fingers loosely intertwined as she listened to her son's proposal.
When he finished speaking, the chamber fell silent.
For several moments, she simply stared at him, her face betraying no emotion.
Then, slowly, she spoke.
"You want to educate the commoners," she said, her voice calm but coolly skeptical.
Virendra nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"And you believe that by teaching them this knowledge, they will accept and embrace it?"
"Not immediately," he admitted. "But over time, yes. The more they understand, the less they will fear."
She was silent for a long moment, studying him carefully.
"Knowledge is a double-edged sword, Virendra," she finally said, her voice low but firm. "The moment you give it to the masses, you will diminish your own power."
Virendra's eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze piercing.
"Right now, they look upon this palace and see gods," she said coolly. "But once they understand it, we will no longer be gods in their eyes. We will be… men with tricks."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the arms of her throne.
"Men can be challenged, Virendra. Men can be questioned."
He met her gaze evenly, his expression calm but resolute.
"And gods can be overthrown when their power is built on ignorance," he countered softly.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, but he pressed on.
"Mother, if we hoard this knowledge, the people will always fear it. The gap between us will keep growing. But if we teach them—if we give them the chance to learn and understand—they will not only accept it, they will respect us more for giving them this honor."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze sharp.
"You want to make them our equals?" she asked coldly.
Virendra shook his head.
"No," he replied softly but firmly. "I want to make them grateful."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and deliberate.
"If we allow them this knowledge, it will be seen as a gift, not a right," he explained. "And when they realize how powerful it is, they will be thankful to us for sharing it, rather than resentful of us for hoarding it."
For a long moment, she simply stared at him, her sharp eyes searching his face for signs of naivety or weakness.
Finally, she leaned back slightly, her expression impassive.
"You would gamble our supremacy on the belief that gratitude will bind them to us?"
His eyes hardened slightly, his jaw clenching.
"I would gamble on the belief that respect and loyalty are stronger than fear," he replied quietly.
A heavy silence settled over the chamber.
For several moments, neither of them spoke.
Finally, the queen exhaled softly, her lips pursing in contemplation.
"Who would teach them?" she asked flatly.
Virendra's eyes flickered slightly, the tension in his chest easing just a little.
"I'll start with the palace scholars," he replied calmly. "They already understand the principles. With my help, they can teach the city's officials and nobles first. Then, we will open learning halls for the commoners."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"You expect them to come willingly?"
He shook his head slightly, a small, wolfish smile tugging at his lips.
"No," he admitted. "But curiosity is a powerful thing. Once they hear of this knowledge, they will want it. They will demand it. And when we offer it… they will owe us."
For a long moment, Yashodhara simply stared at him, her sharp eyes measuring the weight of his words.
Finally, she let out a low breath, her expression still guarded.
"Very well," she said softly, her tone carefully neutral. "But only under strict control. I will allow you to open learning halls, but they will be under the crown's protection and oversight."
Virendra's eyes flickered with satisfaction, but he inclined his head slightly, feigning deference.
"As you wish, mother," he said softly.
She rose from her throne, her piercing gaze still locked on him.
"But understand this, Virendra," she warned coldly. "If you are wrong… if this power emboldens them rather than binds them… I will hold you responsible."
Her words were cold and heavy, but he did not flinch.
His eyes remained steady, calm, and resolute.
"I understand," he replied softly.
And he did.
The weight of his gamble settled heavily on his shoulders—but he was willing to bear it.
Because if there was one thing he believed in, it was that knowledge would not diminish their power—it would strengthen it.