CHAPTER 1: THE DUST OF ARROGANCE

The sun reeked into the practice grounds of Vajrangar—the legendary fortress of Maharaj Karnaveer Vaajra, where the very stones had drunk the blood of a thousand battles. The golden light of late morning poured down like molten honey, turning the dust into floating embers that danced between clashing swords.

The air was thick. Heavy. Alive.

Sweat bloomed like morning dew on the brows of soldiers who circled the arena, their breaths ragged, their eyes fixed on the two figures at the center—two figures who had become the axis around which the entire kingdom's tension revolved.

Clang!

The rattle of steel echoed off the stone walls.

Clang! Clang!

Faster. Harder.

Yuvraj Krivansh Vaajra, Crown Prince of the Vaajravansh dynasty, lunged forward with a snarl—his hazel eyes blazing like wildfire. His long, jet-black hair flew behind him like a war banner, wild and untamed, escaping the leather cord that had once held it together. A few strands stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat, but he didn't care. He couldn't care. All he could see was him.

Senapati Dhurvavindra Dev.

Standing there. Calm. Unmoved. Those honey-brown eyes watching him like he was a child throwing a tantrum.

Clang!

Their swords met again. Krivansh pushed with all his strength, his muscles screaming, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"You old bastard!" Krivansh's voice ripped through the air, sharp enough to cut glass. "You think you can do whatever you want? Challenging the Yuvraj! Challenging ME—Krivansh Vaajra—to a sword fight?!"

The rattles grew louder. More vicious. The soldiers around them had stopped training entirely, their eyes glued to the spectacle. No one dared to intervene. No one could. This was not a spar. This was a war—fought with steel and spite and twenty years of buried resentment.

Dhurvavindra parried the blow with infuriating ease. His long, dark hair—streaked with threads of silver like lightning across a night sky—swung gracefully as he sidestepped. Unlike Krivansh, not a single strand was out of place. He moved like water. Like a man who had been doing this since before his opponent was born.

And he had.

"Yuvraj..." Dhurvavindra's voice was low. Steady. A river flowing over ancient stones. "I did NOT challenge you. YOU wished to fight with me."

Krivansh's eyes widened—then narrowed into dangerous slits. His grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.

"ME?!" He laughed—a bitter, broken sound that echoed off the walls. "NOW you are blaming ME?! Senapati Dhurvavindra Dev! How DARE you say that!"

He swung again. Wild. Angry. Desperate.

Dhurvavindra stepped back. Just barely out of reach. The blade whistled past his face, close enough to cut a single strand of silver-streaked hair.

Krivansh stumbled forward from the momentum, his boots kicking up clouds of golden dust. He spun around, chest heaving, his beautiful face contorted with rage—and something else. Something he would never admit.

"You pointed out ME as WEAK!" Krivansh's voice cracked, just slightly. He hated that crack. He hated that Dhurvavindra heard it. "And EXPECTED ME—ME—to NOT take it as a CHALLENGE?!"

The Senapati said nothing. He simply stood there, sword loose in his grip, his honey-brown eyes studying the Yuvraj like a scholar examining a particularly difficult manuscript. His beard—full, rugged, streaked with the same silver as his hair—hid the ghost of a smile. Or was it a grimace? Krivansh could never tell.

That was what infuriated him the most. He could never read this man.

"You—" Krivansh charged again, his battle cry tearing from his throat like a wounded animal.

SWISH—

Krivansh didn't even see the move.

One moment, he was lunging. The next, his sword was flying—spinning through the air like a bird with broken wings—before clattering to the ground with a sound that echoed through the silence.

Clatter.

The dust settled. The soldiers held their breath.

Krivansh stood frozen, his arm still extended, his hand empty. His long hair fell across his face, hiding the flush that crept up his neck. He stared at his sword—lying there in the dirt—as if it had personally betrayed him.

Dhurvavindra lowered his blade. Slowly. Deliberately. He didn't sheathe it. He simply... waited.

Then, with the grace of a man who had fought a hundred wars and survived them all, the Senapati bowed.

It was not a mocking bow. It was correct. Perfect. The exact angle. The exact depth. A bow that showed proper respect to a Yuvraj—and yet somehow, somehow, it felt like the deepest insult.

"Yuvraj..." Dhurvavindra's voice was soft. Almost gentle. But his honey-brown eyes held a glint that could only be described as... amusement. "It looks like you need to train more."

He straightened. His long hair cascaded down his broad back like a waterfall of midnight and silver. The muscles in his shoulders rippled beneath his leather armor—stupid, unnecessary muscles, Krivansh thought bitterly—as he turned slightly, looking away.

"Perhaps..." Dhurvavindra continued, his gaze drifting toward the horizon, as if the Yuvraj was no longer worth his full attention. "You should use your sword..."

He paused. Let the silence stretch like a blade between them.

"...as sharp as your tongue."

Silence.

The kind of silence that screams.

Krivansh's face went through a war of emotions—shock, rage, embarrassment, and then... something dangerous. His hazel eyes darkened. His jaw tightened. His fists clenched at his sides.

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. A few glanced at each other, silently communicating: "Run. We should run."

But Krivansh didn't explode. Not yet.

Instead, he did something that shocked everyone—including Dhurvavindra.

He smiled.

It was a beautiful smile. Cruel. Sharp. The smile of a man who had just found a new way to hurt someone.

"Train more, you say?" Krivansh walked forward slowly, stepping deliberately on his own fallen sword—crushing it further into the dust. He stopped inches away from Dhurvavindra. Close enough to see the silver flecks in his beard. Close enough to smell leather and sweat and something woodsy that made Krivansh's stomach flip—which he immediately hated.

He tilted his head, his long black hair spilling over one shoulder like ink.

"Perhaps, Senapati, you should train your tongue." His voice dropped to a whisper—only for the older man's ears. "Perhaps then you'd know when to KEEP IT SHUT."

Dhurvavindra's expression didn't change. But his honey-brown eyes flickered. Just barely. A crack in the mask.

Krivansh saw it. And it thrilled him.

"And perhaps..." Krivansh stepped even closer, invading the Senapati's space, forcing the taller man to look down at him—exactly where he wanted him. "You should remember who I am."

He reached up—slowly, deliberately—and placed a single finger on Dhurvavindra's chest, right over his heart. The leather armor was warm. The muscle beneath was hard.

Krivansh leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Dhurvavindra's ear.

"I am your Yuvraj." His voice was silk wrapped around a blade. "And one day... I will be your MAHARAJ."

He pulled back. Smiled that cruel, beautiful smile.

And then he turned—his long hair whipping across his shoulder—and walked away without looking back.

His boots crunched against the dust. The soldiers parted like the sea before him. Not a single person breathed.

Dhurvavindra stood still for a long moment.

His honey-brown eyes followed the Yuvraj's retreating figure—that proud back, those broad shoulders, that ridiculously perfect waist, the way his hair swayed with every step.

"Brat," he muttered under his breath. So quiet that no one heard.

But his chest... his chest was warm where Krivansh's finger had touched.

And Dhurvavindra hated that.

From the highest balcony of Vajrangar, Maharaj Karnaveer Vaajra watched the entire scene unfold.

His weathered face was carved from stone. His hands gripped the railing so hard his knuckles whitened.

Beside him, his chief minister whispered nervously: "Maharaj... the Yuvraj and the Senapati... their hatred grows deeper every day. This is not good for the kingdom."

Karnaveer said nothing.

His eyes followed his son's retreating figure—then shifted to the Senapati, who still stood in the practice grounds, sword in hand, watching the dust settle where the Yuvraj had been.

The Maharaj's jaw tightened.

"Hatred," he murmured to himself. His voice was old. Heavy. "Pure, burning hatred."

He watched Dhurvavindra finally sheathe his sword. Watched the Senapati's shoulders drop—just slightly—as if releasing a breath he'd been holding.

Karnaveer's stomach churned.

For twenty years, he had raised Dhurvavindra like a son. For twenty years, he had tried to make Krivansh proud. And now... these two men—the most important in his life—despised each other with a fire that could burn the kingdom down.

"This is a disaster," the Maharaj said quietly. "And I have no idea how to fix it."

He turned away, his royal robes sweeping behind him.

The sun continued to beat down on Vajrangar.

The dust continued to dance.

And somewhere in the palace, Yuvraj Krivansh Vaajra threw his ceremonial dagger at the wall—and screamed.

END OF CHAPTER 1

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***