Chapter 1: The Soul in the Wind

The wind that once swept across the Deccan plateau for four centuries now draped itself over the rugged slopes of the Aravalli hills, carrying the legacy of the twenty-third year of the radiant Gupta Empire.

Even the breeze—warm, heavy with the scent of neem blossoms and wild jasmine—seemed to slow as it passed over the timeworn stones of Bharat. It drifted through palace courtyards, stirring up echoes of ancient heroics and betrayals, a restlessness woven into the air. Old men at the bazaar would sometimes say, if you stood motionless at dusk, you could hear the past itself breathing between the temple bells and the distant call of the chaiwala, mingling with the tang of frying samosas.

Samrat Vikramaditya—whose banners once fluttered in defiance of the Shakas, who commanded respect from every kingdom—had finally reached the twilight of his strength. The years had swept by like monsoon and drought, and now the wounds and illnesses of youth had caught up with him.

His fingers, once as steady as an archer’s, now trembled as he traced the faded scars on his arm—living reminders of battles won and friends lost. Courtiers, loyal and wary, kept their distance; the palace lay silent, save for the distant clang of a temple bell and the soft shuffle of attendants in silk dhotis. The air was thick, heavy with longing and the hush that comes before the monsoon, as if the whole palace awaited a reckoning.

In his mind, blades and swords still flashed. Suddenly, a wry smile tugged at his lips: “So be it—this life, I have no regrets. If there is another, I will still lay the foundation of an empire, I will still cleanse the world for the people.”

He remembered the priests chanting at his coronation, the joyous cries of women during festival processions, and the quiet moments at his mother’s feet—memories sharp and sweet as amla, threading through his mind. He muttered softly, almost as if speaking to the lamp flickering before the household gods, “Let me return, even if just once more, for my Bharat.”

At that very moment, a wisp of wind from four centuries past drifted into the Hanuman Hall of Kamal Mahal.

It glided over the red sandstone floors, making marigold garlands flutter. The air tingled with a sense of something otherworldly—a subtle chill despite the afternoon’s heat, as if the gods themselves paused in their celestial abodes to watch.

Emperor Vikramaditya closed his eyes.

A faint, contented smile touched his lips. His final breath mingled with the distant call of a peacock. The court physician murmured a shloka, while outside, a pair of mynahs startled from the neem tree, sensing destiny’s turning wheel.

1

In the city of Kaveripur, twenty-one-year-old King Arjun opened his eyes.

He awoke to the aroma of sandalwood, the soft rustle of silk sheets, and golden sunlight slanting through intricately carved jharokhas. The city’s morning din—the shouts of vendors hawking jalebi and fresh flowers, the clang of the temple bell—felt oddly distant, as if muffled by time. Somewhere, a koel’s song wove itself into the moment, blending with the distant call of a chaiwala.

This wind had crossed four centuries, carrying the soul of Samrat Vikramaditya into the body of the future King Arjun. As for Arjun... well, perhaps he was off chasing Raja Prithviraj with Jaichand by his side.

It was the sort of story only the village storytellers could explain, sitting cross-legged as children gathered around. Here, inside the palace, an uncanny silence prevailed, as if the ancestors themselves held their breath. Somewhere, incense smouldered, its smoke curling upwards—a silent offering to the unknown.

In short, when Vikramaditya opened his eyes again, he found himself in a strange palace. Suddenly, Arjun’s memories flooded in:

A dizzying rush—a montage of scents and sights: the tang of river mud at Hastinapur’s ghats, the orange glow of Mathura in flames, the thunderous cheers as Kaveripur’s gates swung open. The two rivers of memory—his own, and Arjun’s—merged, surging through his heart until tears pricked his eyes. For a moment, the world spun, blurred by past and present.

Countless fragments from the past overlapped in Vikramaditya’s mind: the chaos at the riverbank in Hastinapur, the siege flames of Mathura, the triumphant laughter as the army entered Kaveripur—all of it condensed into two silent tears outside the ‘Rajya Prastav.’

The silk curtain fluttered in the breeze, and the flickering lamp threw long shadows across the marble floor, dancing like the ghosts of old battles. The taste of loss lingered on his tongue—familiar, yet in this new body, heartbreakingly fresh.

These memories washed over Vikramaditya’s heart, leaving him in turmoil:

Arrey yaar, I’m alive again.

He almost wanted to pinch himself. He looked at his hands—young, strong, unmarked by time. The urge to laugh, cry, and shout all at once overtook him. Somewhere in the palace, a crow cawed, mocking the absurdity of it all.

I’m only twenty-one, still forced every day by that big-moustached, long-armed uncle to practice swordplay and archery.

He could almost see the old man’s stern face, twirling his moustache, barking orders. The memory made him want to groan, but also, for some reason, he grinned at fate’s mischief.

Hai Ram, I’ve actually become Arjun.

A wave of disbelief washed over him, followed by a wild, reckless exhilaration. He muttered, scratching the back of his neck—just like he did as a boy when Amma caught him sneaking out—“Bhagwan knows what’s next. Ab toh jo hoga dekha jayega.”

Arjun Vikramaditya sprang from the bed like a fish leaping from the Ganga:

He felt a crisp surge of energy, the kind that only comes with youth—or the first rays of hopeful dawn. His feet touched the cool marble, sending a shiver up his spine, as if the river herself was blessing his return.

His eyes sparkled, his spirit soared.

He let out a short, incredulous laugh, almost childlike in its joy. A palace maid peeped in, startled, quickly pulling her dupatta over her head, eyes wide. Somewhere, the beat of the nagada signaled the start of another day in the king’s court.

That day, a rumor swept the palace: the king had gone mad. A perfectly healthy man had jumped up, laughing for no reason, babbling nonsense, pointing at the sky and earth, and declaring, “Since I am here, if loyal ministers still weep in the autumn wind, if schemers usurp Dharma, and the land of Bharat is plunged into misery, then I am not called Vikram!”

At the palace gate, the old guards exchanged worried glances, muttering prayers to Hanuman-ji. In the kitchen, cooks banged their pots a little louder, trying to drown out the sound of a king touched by gods—or something else. Whispers and speculation spread faster than the morning’s masala chai.

Kabir…

Kabir said, “Your Majesty, you were never called Vikram to begin with.”

He stood with a slight stoop, clutching a roll of parchment in his pale hands. His kurta was spotless, but his eyes betrayed sleepless nights spent over ledgers. His voice, though respectful, carried the affectionate teasing of a younger brother for an elder who’d lost his way.

After speaking, Kabir coughed twice. Arjun waved him off. “That’s not the point. Why are you here?”

Kabir looked down, a faint smile twitching at his lips as he suppressed another cough. He cleared his throat, as if rehearsing lines from a play he’d performed a hundred times. In the background, a pigeon landed on the window sill, pecking at a stray grain of rice.

Kabir paused, then replied, “Your Majesty, I am the Palace Attendant (Mahamantri). Isn’t it normal for me to be in the palace?”

His words were gentle, but his eyes flickered with concern. He kept his hands folded, the hint of a gold bangle peeking from his sleeve—a quiet reminder of family tradition and the weight of service passed down generations.

Arjun gave two absent-minded ‘hmm’s, then said, “I forgot, I forgot.” He laughed again, wild and bright as scattered sunlight—yet when it settled in his eyes, it became an indomitable blade.

Kabir watched the change in Arjun’s face, almost holding his breath. The room seemed brighter, sunlight lingering on the king’s cheekbones, catching his restless smile. Even the shadows dared not move.

This smile left Kabir dazed. Something was different about the king today, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He tugged at his angavastram nervously, glancing sideways at the smiling Arjun, wondering if some fever had finally loosened the king’s senses, or if this was a fleeting madness. The palace itself seemed to wait.

Kabir lowered his head, coughed twice more, and a sickly flush crept onto his face.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He dabbed it with a corner of his scarf, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. In the corridor, the sound of anklets faded, as if the world itself hesitated to intrude on this strange moment.

Arjun raised an eyebrow. “You’re so young—why do you look like you’re on your last legs?”

He tilted his head, half-grinning, unable to decide whether to scold or tease Kabir. His voice was playful, like friends bantering in the akhada.

Kabir’s face grew even paler. He forced a bitter smile. “My health has always been like this, Your Majesty need not worry… This is the frontline military report I received. I have come to present it.”

He extended the scroll with a trembling hand, the paper still warm from the messenger’s grip. He looked down, trying to hide the anxiety coiling in his chest. The faint scent of ink mixed with the sharper tang of fear.

Arjun’s gaze sharpened. He took the report and scanned it: General Dev’s decoy troops had pinned down Commander Raghav at Jitpur, the Prime Minister’s main force had marched north from the Aravallis, three districts had responded, the Gangetic plains were in turmoil, and, with Malwa left unguarded, Tanshree had already been captured.

The names and places leapt out at him, sparking memories—some his, some Arjun’s—of night marches beneath unfamiliar stars, whispered councils over chai, and the taste of both victory and defeat. Responsibility settled on his shoulders, heavy as a steel breastplate.

Though the usurper Raja Virendra had come to Indraprastha and General Singh had brought reinforcements, the Prime Minister still said His Majesty need not worry.

The words felt heavy, like stale puri left uneaten. He could almost hear the Prime Minister’s voice—calm, patient, reassuring, but hiding more than it revealed. Such was the way of those who played the great game of power.

The Prime Minister reported that Manoj had already set out for Jaitpur. Jaitpur was easy to defend and hard to attack; as long as it held for a few more days, the three districts would surely be recovered. Then, with the main army engaging the enemy, they could cut off reinforcements and Malwa would collapse without a fight.

The strategy was sound—on paper. But Arjun’s mind raced, seeing not just lines on a map, but the tired faces of soldiers, restless horses, and anxious prayers of mothers at home. He tapped the scroll with his thumb, thinking.

Arjun…

Arjun thought: Bas karo na, it’s over.

He let out a long, weary sigh. In his heart, a familiar cynicism flickered—so many plans, so many words, yet destiny played its own games.

Arrey, Manoj has already gone to Jaitpur—what’s the use now?

He muttered, not caring if Kabir heard. The words were half-prayer, half-resignation, like a man cursing fate when the last bus leaves and the rain begins to fall.

Staring into the distance, Arjun felt gloom sweep over him and tossed the military report back to Kabir.

The gesture was careless, but his eyes were sharp as a blade, as if he could already see smoke rising over distant fields. The air thickened, the taste of impending loss mingling with the morning’s first cup of chai. Arjun stared into his half-finished kulhad, the tea gone cold.

This fellow, naturally, didn’t know about Manoj’s blunder at Jaitpur; he was just excited, his eyes shining for once. He said, “Who would have thought? Just a few years ago, after the late king passed, the people of Kaveripur were in panic, rebellions everywhere, no food, no money, no men. In just five years, who could have imagined Prime Minister Chaturvedi could bring such order to Kaveripur and even push the northern campaign this far?”

Kabir’s voice trembled with pride, recalling the hunger and fear that once haunted every lane. He clutched the report to his chest, as if it were a sacred text. The memory of burning lamps during Diwali—the city rising from darkness—lit his words.

Arjun glanced at him. The poor kid still didn’t know the northern campaign was about to fail.

He almost pitied Kabir, the innocence in the boy’s eyes. Arjun remembered his own first taste of disappointment and felt the urge to warn Kabir, but bit his tongue. Sometimes, it was better to let hope linger.

Looking at Kabir, Arjun seemed to see the setting sun of great Bharat, distant victory songs fading into the autumn wind by the Yamuna.

He stared through the lattice window, glimpsing the distant river, golden under the sun. The music of the past mingled with hawkers’ cries below—an ancient symphony of hope and heartbreak.

Arjun’s smile faded. He beckoned Kabir closer and asked, “From here to the frontline, how many days does it take for a military report to arrive?”

His voice was quieter, more measured, each word weighed like gold. Kabir stepped forward, uncertain, sensing this was no ordinary question.

Kabir, still in high spirits, was stunned. In the past, no matter the news, the king would glance at it and never ask questions. Upon receiving a victory report, he would simply be happy.

Kabir blinked, fumbling for words. “Three or four days, Your Majesty,” he finally stammered, his certainty flickering like a lamp in the wind. The gravity of the question began to dawn on him.

Today was different.

A silence settled, thick as monsoon clouds. For the first time, Kabir felt something fundamental had shifted—that the air itself was charged with possibility and dread.

But Kabir still had to answer. “Three or four days.”

He shuffled his feet, anxious to please, but the king’s eyes bored into him, relentless. Kabir swallowed, wishing he could retreat into routine, but the palace held no such refuge today.

Arjun raised his eyebrows. “The roads in Kaveripur are so bad—can it really be that quick?”

There was a hint of mockery in Arjun’s tone, like an old-timer recounting the last monsoon’s potholes. The memory made him chuckle, despite himself.

Kabir replied, puzzled, “Hasn’t it always been this fast? When the late king traveled from Malwa to Kaveripur, post stations and dharamshalas were set up along the four hundred kos. All used fast horses, and the Prime Minister made it a punishable offense to delay transmission, so the reports are naturally quick.”

Kabir’s words carried the pride of a man whose world, for all its flaws, ran by the rhythm of duty. He remembered the dust rising from the hooves of messenger horses, the clatter of metal as tired riders dismounted—a network binding the land together.

Arjun suddenly sighed:

The affairs of the old kingdoms flow like water, all reduced to selfish calculations for one’s own clan.

He thought of endless intrigues, nights spent plotting over weak tea, sacrifices made and betrayed. For all the grand speeches, in the end it was always family first, clan first—the rest left to fate.

Having seen too many who muddle through, Arjun, seeing now the officials of Kaveripur—who, no matter how poor or desperate, never forget to prepare for the northern campaign—couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotion.

His eyes prickled, pride and despair crashing together. Even in the face of ruin, these men clung to duty like a talisman, stubborn as the banyan tree that refused to die.

Arjun stared at Kabir, enunciating each word: “The late king’s ambition has not yet faded, unyielding, and the Prime Minister’s devotion to duty, dying only after exhaustion, is truly admirable.”

His words rang strong and clear, echoing off the stone walls. For a moment, Kabir looked up, hope flickering in his tired eyes, the burden on his shoulders a little lighter.

Kabir understood the sentiment but was still puzzled. “Shouldn’t Your Majesty call him ‘Pitaji Maharaj’? Why do you also call him ‘the late king’?”

His tone was cautious, almost apologetic, afraid to offend by pointing out the oddity. But the question lingered.

Arjun…

Arjun coughed twice and said, “I always feel that calling him ‘Pitaji Maharaj’ somewhat belittles the late king.”

He flashed a sheepish grin, the awkward smile covering deeper wounds. Kabir blinked, caught between respect for old ways and the strange new king before him.

Kabir: “Ah… ah.”

He nodded slowly, as if deciphering a riddle. The lamps flickered, casting odd shapes on the wall, like shadows of old ghosts refusing to leave.

Before Kabir could react, Arjun had already approached, speaking rapidly: “No matter how fast, three or four days is still too late. By the time this report arrives, Manoj will already be at Jaitpur. The late king already said: Manoj is all talk, always theorising, lacking the resolve to hold out to the death, yet eager for merit. He will never camp honestly under the city. And General Singh is a true master of war—how could he give Manoj any chance?”

His words poured out, urgent and forceful. Kabir stepped back, stunned by the clarity and confidence. Outside, crows in the mango tree erupted in noisy debate, as if echoing the king’s warnings.

“In the battle of Jaitpur, Manoj will certainly be defeated, and the Prime Minister’s entire plan for the northern campaign will be ruined by this.”

The certainty in his tone cut through the air. The palace seemed to shrink, fate pressing in. Kabir shivered, feeling the future close in, as inescapable as summer heat.

Perhaps Arjun’s tone was too assured, or perhaps the early spring sunlight too dreamlike, but it made Kabir feel the king’s judgement was correct.

For a moment, Kabir forgot his doubts. The king’s conviction filled the room with strange hope. He found himself nodding, almost against his will.

Arjun looked at Kabir and said, “Now, sending a report to the frontline is already too late. What do you think we should do?”

He fixed Kabir with a steady gaze, like a teacher with a nervous student. Kabir swallowed, wishing for safe answers, but sensing old ways no longer sufficed.

Kabir seemed to awaken from a dream. He smiled bitterly. “Your Majesty, isn’t this a bit too much speculation? The Prime Minister surely has his own plan…”

He trailed off, old excuses sounding hollow. The sunbeam crept forward, urging him to speak his truth.

“The Prime Minister is also human. The Prime Minister can make mistakes. If there really is defeat at Jaitpur, how can the northern campaign be saved?” Arjun cut him off, turning to write.

His words were sharp as a chisel, breaking through tradition. The scratch of his quill on the scroll sounded loud, a declaration of intent.

Kabir asked in confusion, “If even the Prime Minister is defeated, what could I possibly do…?”

He looked lost, certainty draining from his face. For the first time, he seemed less a servant and more a son, fearful of letting down his father’s memory.

Arjun, with his back to Kabir, suddenly said, “Don’t you want to avenge your father?”

The words hit Kabir like a slap. He stiffened, pain flashing across his face. He remembered funeral pyres, mourners, the vow whispered over burning sandalwood.

Kabir straightened up as if struck by lightning, then slumped. “My father’s revenge is my private matter. Now, Raja Virendra is the true enemy. I must not forget public duty for private vengeance…”

He choked, torn between duty and desire. The debate raged within, old and bitter as neem. His fingers twisted in the hem of his kurta, knuckles white, as he stared at the floor.

“So your heart is troubled, and your health declines day by day. If this northern campaign succeeds, you might yet see the day when the army marches east to Bengal and your revenge is fulfilled in your lifetime. If the campaign fails, you’ll probably die of heartbreak. Isn’t that so?”

Arjun’s words were gentle but relentless, stripping away Kabir’s defences. Old wounds bled anew, the dream of justice burning bright. Kabir could not meet the king’s eyes.

Kabir fell silent.

A heavy hush settled, like after a funeral. In the distance, a dog barked, and the sound of temple bells drifted in, faint but insistent.

At this, Arjun turned, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry. Since I am here, this northern campaign will not fail. I promise you: within five years, I’ll let your father’s spirit in heaven see the villains beheaded and Bharat united.”

The words rang with conviction, Kabir’s heart leaping despite himself. He thought of his father and all who had fallen—pictured their spirits beneath the peepal tree, watching and waiting. A strange comfort settled on him, as if the old gods nodded in approval.

In the sunlight, deep within the palace, Kabir gazed at Arjun’s confident smile, and a phrase echoed in his mind:

If not me, who?

The words rose like an old bhajan from memory, pulsing in his veins, stronger than the blood of fear. Past and present melded in that instant.

The previous king never had this youthful spirit of ‘If not me, who?’

Kabir was at a loss, unsure whether to urge caution or grit his teeth and follow the king forward.

He shifted from foot to foot, searching for wisdom in the marble patterns, but all he found was uncertainty. Still, something in Arjun’s gaze drew him onward.

Arjun laughed. “Chal, let’s go save Bharat together.” He clapped Kabir on the shoulder, grinning.

Kabir wanted to say, ‘Forget it, you’re only twenty-one. How can you question the Prime Minister? If you act so rashly, people will say you’re just trying to make a name for yourself at your age. In the end, you’ll be left making empty boasts, a laughingstock.’

He chewed his lip, elders’ admonitions echoing in his mind. But his father’s eyes, full of hope and pain, silenced his doubts. The words he’d meant to say melted away, lost in the heat of the moment.

But looking at Arjun’s smile, three words slipped from his mouth before he realized: “Main manzoor karta hoon, Your Majesty.”

The words surprised him. He blinked, squared his shoulders, as if donning armor for the first time. The future, uncertain and terrifying, beckoned.

Arjun laughed heartily, slapped the written edict onto Kabir’s chest, and said, “Quick, go find Meera, Ravi, and Shyam. I’m going to Jitpur—no time to argue with them. Leave those folks to you.”

The slap resounded, more a blessing than an order. Kabir clutched the scroll to his chest, the weight of destiny settling on his shoulders. The names—Meera, Ravi, Shyam—became a mantra, a promise to gather what allies he could.

Kabir didn’t know what force was driving him, but for once, his blood boiled.

He felt a surge of wild energy. He straightened his kurta, tugged at the knot of his sash, and found himself stepping in time with the king’s quickening pace. For a brief, wild moment, he believed.

He watched Arjun stride out and subconsciously followed a few steps. “Your Majesty is going to Jitpur? General Dev’s troops there are just a decoy. Aside from some light cavalry, the rest are all garrison troops—they can’t stand against Raghav’s main force.”

Kabir’s voice trembled with worry and awe. The king’s courage—or recklessness—was infectious. He clutched the scroll tighter, the paper creasing under his grip.

Arjun didn’t pause. “If I go, even the decoy troops become the main force. I want to stand at the gates of Indraprastha and see if Raja Virendra dares face me.”

The words rang like a challenge hurled at the gods. The palace guards straightened, eyes shining with pride. For a moment, all the old doubts scattered like crows before a storm.

Kabir could only watch Arjun stride into the sunlight, not knowing what madness had possessed him, but actually feeling that this back was supporting the heavens and carrying the sun and moon.

He watched the king’s silhouette, framed by the arched doorway, golden and bold. Kabir’s heart pounded—he felt, for the first time, the possibility of miracles.

At that moment, Kabir even thought: It doesn’t matter if the king is unreliable. Once at Jitpur, General Dev will be there to hold the line.

He muttered a quick prayer to his family’s kuldevi, asking for strength and luck. His doubts melted in the sun’s glare, replaced by a strange exhilaration.

No one expected that in this battle at Jitpur—later called the turning point of Kaveripur—the white-haired Devendra, following Arjun who led the army in person, would charge more fiercely than anyone.

In the chaos and clangour of battle, with dust rising and war cries echoing, it was said Devendra’s sword flashed brighter, his roar louder, as if the years themselves had fallen away. Old soldiers wept to see him fight, and balladeers would later weave his deeds into songs sung at every village mela.

In a single day, they cut through twenty years of time.

By nightfall, the legends had already begun to grow, tales swirling around the campfires—of lost youth reclaimed, of impossible odds overcome. It was said even the moon lingered over the battlefield, unwilling to miss a moment of history remade.

Kabir watched, breath caught, as the king’s laughter echoed down the empty corridor—a sound that would change the fate of Bharat.