Mahananda Great Hall, Northern Vardhana.

The air was heavy with the scent of sweat, the murmurs and anticipation of the crowd leaving the great hall with no room for peace. Though the war had finally subsided, the fear it had sown continued to linger. The fear of another attack, of another betrayal. None of the southern powers alone could match the mainland's behemoths of steel and flame. They were loud, rough and destructive, far from what the farmers and traders of the Peninsula knew. 

The kings rejoiced at the end of chaos, but the people demanded for more. A treaty, a change in the system of blood and massacre. The Kings had rallied the common folk for decades, spilled their blood and claimed victory for themselves. They had committed atrocities in the name of honour, pride and conquest with nothing spared but nameless freedom to the soldiers that got martyred.

Thus laid two choices in front of them from their masses— agreement to the treaty for unity and peace or ruthless mutiny. 

The Vardhana king seated on his throne, slumped back in exhaustion. His scars were still bright red, some healing while others oozing infected pus. He was reluctant for the summit to take place in his Kingdom, but being the prime leader of the troops against the mainland’s forces, he refused being dragged to another’s Kingdom to sign a peace treaty. 

Peace. Something so fragile yet sought after by the strongest of devils. Him and his ancestors had themselves been the one to pursue it, failing miserably and sacrificing hundreds. But after twenty years of his reign, he had started feeling the chains he had gotten entangled with during his relentless pursuit. He renounced it as soon as he declared to have been enlightened with a new purpose, and embraced a life of bloodshed rather than of silk and luxury. Honour, he called it, was his goal and not peace. But it came with its costs too, for no dream can be achieved without sacrifice. 

His calloused fingers tamed his flowing beard, brushing through meticulously and untangling any messes, but his eyes held a distant haze, murmurs enveloping his ears but not deciphering any. He was the oldest of them all, the wisest by his own claims, but his words were rather taken as threats than wisdom by the people. So he had decided to stay silent for now. The Vardhanas had fought for too long and now was the time for some rest. He thus sat on his throne, unmoving and unflinching at the chaos unfolding.

“ Peace has been sought after for decades, and the people are at the ends of their wits. The treaty is simple, as inked down verbatim by the learned scholars of the Peninsula, upon the ceaseless pursuit for safety by the common folk” the mediator announced to the people present, filling the halls with their murmurs and doubts. “ The basis of the treaty is as simple as it gets— none of the major powers of the Peninsula, viz. The Vardhana, The Chalukya, The Suryakshi and The Kautilya are allowed to wage war on each other. And if any one of the Kingdoms breaks the treaty, they shall be met by the force of the other three as a united font. The powers together, with no internal conflicts dividing the Peninsular Quadrumvirate, will serve as a great shield against the mainland’s assaults”.

Hums of agreement filled the court, the galleries seeing an overwhelming support to the treaty. A slight reluctance spread among the dignitaries present, but they too couldn’t help but appreciate the cause. Especially when they had suffered losses in the wars led by Vardhanas too. The treaty had come at a time when the battle had already been won, and the Kings couldn’t grasp a better time to put forth a shield as such from Vardhana’s increasing military prowess.

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The Vardhana Kingdom had dealt with major blows of the mainland Kingdom’s pursuit to the Peninsula for years, and had to ask for aid from its neighbouring monarchs. The other Kingdoms in response had put no concession in sending their own soldiers as a token of contribution, hoping to leverage such acts as benevolent precaution whenever Vardhana would decide to move its focus towards them instead of its enemies up north.  

The discussions and doubts took the sun from its zenith to the horizon, the chill of evening slowly creeping into the halls. The servants scurried by the creeping darkness to light the lamps, while the common folk shivered by the cold floors and unlit galleries. But no one dared to leave, they had to see the treaty signed in front of their eyes ensuring the start of a new era of peace.

The Vardhana King yawned once the commotion settled down. It had been hours since he had been seated at the prime throne of the court. Even distracted, his mind was sharp enough in his fifties to realise that the meeting was coming to an end. His eyes refocused onto the silver plate carrying a feather quill and ink pot. Only one for all the signatures. No place for mistakes, nor foul play.

His gaze by reflex went to the slave, scrawny, weak and balding. He had never seen the slave, but it wasn’t just his face that looked new. The Vardhana court was known to be one of the most efficient, and none of the slaves had the time to carry hopes and dreams. Their hands worked like wheels, their work imbibed within them as if they were destined for nothing else. Even the sweepers worked with the efficiency of military troops, their eyes focused on the task and their bodies waiting to be punished for even a breath spared without a cause. But in this slave, the king saw what he had never expected— a raised head. He looked eye to eye with the King, challenging him to pick up the quill and sign the treaty. 

A chill ran through the warrior King, a defiance scaring him in a way a blade has never. His hand reached out for the quill, his signature being the first of many on the treaty. 

The treaty of Peace, “Sarvadharma” as the common folk had named it.

The reluctant King signed it, and waited for the mediator to place the treaty in front of the next King, hailing from Suryakshi. The ink was yet to dry, but the Suryakshi king signed the treaty in a blink of an eye. He wasn’t going to be an antagonist to the people’s cause, not like the rest of the Kings. He took pride in his justice, in his name and legacy. Moreover, there were reparations to be made, to the soldiers he had sold off to Vardhana to win the war and manage the weeping widows and orphans. He had to motivate them again to serve the nation, build more bodies to use and sacrifice in the name of the nation.

Next the treaty slid towards the leaders of Chakukya, the herald of deities and divinity. The pioneers of the treaty. They had every intention to sign the treaty, it kept them safe from the warmonger Kingdom of Vardhana and the justice blinded Suryakshi. They had a religion to expand and a land to till, to sow the seeds of their influence. Their multiple signatures demanded more time, but it didn’t matter to the last King, ruler of Kautilya.

He waited patiently, and let the minor Kings put their approval before taking the treaty into his own hands. He had made it a point to reread the treaty, even though it had been spelled and explained by the mediator thoroughly, and only after being satisfied with its contents, he placed his signature at the end. 

Thirty four signatures were collected that evening, and by dawn all of those thirty four had left Vardhana, for their own safety. A glaring truth was apparent to all, even the common folk who had pushed for the treaty— it was only a matter of time till it got broken. A Sangram, the learned scholars had termed it, where the chaos would reach its peak and the treaty would be as bare as a carcass. And much to everyone’s shared knowledge, they could only suffice that Vardhanas would be the harbinger of such chaos yet again.

The Kautilyas left to their western coast, the Chalukyas to their central Kingdom of vast forests, while Suryakshis returned to their eastern Ghats, determined in keeping Vardhanas in check from the shadows. Kings ruled one after the other, and the tensions seemed to dilute with the passage of time. But the Sangram awaited its call.