Prince Aryaman and Sanjaya rode into Arang just as the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon. The cool morning air was thick with the scent of dew-covered grass, and the chirping of early birds filled the silence of the waking city. Aryaman’s heart felt heavy, burdened by the images of desolation and ruin of the border city. As they approached the palace, the familiar sight of its towering spires and majestic gates provided little comfort.
The palace courtyard was bustling with the early morning activities of servants and guards. Aryaman dismounted from his horse, his muscles aching from the long ride, but he barely noticed the discomfort. His mind was consumed by the haunting memories of the border city, now reduced to ashes and echoes.
"Sanjaya," Aryaman said. “I’ll go brief His Majesty. You can take the day off. You’ll need the rest.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Sanjaya bowing and left with both the horses.
Aryaman made his way through the palace corridors, the rich scent of incense and polished wood mingling with the faint aroma of morning meals being prepared in the kitchens. The usually comforting smells did little to ease Aryaman's tension. As he entered the King’s chamber, the room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the rising sun. The King sat at a large, intricately carved desk, poring over a stack of documents. He looked up as they entered, his eyes immediately locking onto Aryaman's troubled face.
"Father," Aryaman began, bowing to pay his respects.
The King’s concern turned to wariness as Aryaman recounted the desolation they had witnessed. He spoke of the charred remains of homes, the eerie silence that hung over the ruins, and the accounts from the nearby village. As he described the green fire that had engulfed the city, a shiver ran down his spine.
“It’s possible it’s done by yakshas,” said the prince.
“Yakshas?!” The king repeated, his eyes widened and alert.
Aryaman nodded.
“The Kapala Chief had escaped during the Battle of the Northern Mines,” said the prince. “I have a foreboding feeling that this is his doing.”
“You think he is a yaksha?” asked the king.
“I have no proof, it’s merely a conjecture for now,” said the prince. “I need to look into the palace archives, they may hold some clues. A priest from the village suggested they might.”
The King’s brows furrowed and the room seemed to grow colder as they discussed.
"This is a grave matter,” the King said, his voice grave. “The implications of a rogue powerful yaksha does not bode well for the Dayita kingdom.”
“Yes, father,” said Prince Aryaman.
The king was silent for a moment as if debating whether or not to mention something to the prince. But he finally gave in.
“Arya,” said the king, his voice gently but tired. “The palace archives contain many manuscripts from ancient times, it also contains the history of the Dayita kingdom since its inception a few hundred years ago.”
Aryaman did not immediately understand what the king was getting to.
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“Every kingdom has secrets, Arya,” said the king. “And some of them are preserved in the restricted section of the palace archives. Should you need to access that wing, do remember that the past is not as rosy as you were raised to believe.”
Aryaman nodded trying to process what secrets that kingdom withheld that made his father, the fearless and righteous king wary. The thought unsettled him, but his resolve remained firm.
“I understand, father,” he said with a serious tone.
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Prince Aryaman stood at the entrance of the palace archives, a grand hall filled with ancient manuscripts, scrolls, and palm-leaf manuscripts that held the wisdom of the ages. The dim light of oil lamps flickered, casting dancing shadows across the dusty shelves. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and incense, creating an atmosphere both reverent and eerie.
He stepped inside, his footsteps echoing softly in the vast, silent room. The musty scent of old parchment mixed with the faint, lingering aroma of incense enveloped him, wrapping him in the whispers of the past.
"Your Highness," came a voice, soft yet clear. Aryaman turned to see Gopala, the elderly keeper of the archives, approaching him. The old man's eyes were sharp despite his advanced age, and his movements, though slow, were deliberate.
“How may I be of service to you?” Gopala asked, his voice a gentle murmur in the quiet hall.
“I want to know more about the history of the Dayita kingdom and all the information we have about yakshas and their powers,” Aryaman said.
“Yakshas?” Gopala repeated, his brows lifting in surprise. “Haven’t really heard anything about them in a while.”
With a nod, Gopala turned and began to walk towards a neat row of wooden shelves that housed the manuscripts. The sound of their footsteps echoed softly.
“You can learn the general history of the Dayita kingdom from the manuscripts on these shelves,” Gopala said, pointing to a particular section lined with thick, leather-bound tomes and carefully rolled scrolls. “These documents chronicle the journey from the kingdom’s humble beginnings to its current glory.”
Aryaman’s eyes scanned the shelves, taking in the centuries of history preserved in the delicate scrolls and heavy volumes. He could almost hear the clanging of swords and the cries of victory, the whispers of treaties and the hum of bustling markets that these documents encapsulated.
“The scrolls related to yakshas are in the restricted section,” Gopala mentioned quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as if the very word 'yaksha' carried a weight too great to be spoken aloud.
“I have permission from the King to enter it,” Aryaman said, showing the seal his father had given him. “Let me go through these documents first.”
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Aryaman settled at a large mahogany table, the rich grain of the wood gleaming under the soft light. He selected a thick, ancient manuscript and began to read. The pages, yellowed with age, detailed the founding of the Dayita kingdom by a young nobody who would later be known as King Dayita the Great.
In the shadow of the Northern Mines, this young man had discovered veins of precious gems and metals. With courage and relentless determination, he rallied a group of followers, forming a settlement that grew into a thriving town. Over time, this town became a fortified city, and King Dayita was crowned its ruler.
The manuscript detailed how the kingdom expanded, its borders pushing outward as alliances were forged and enemies vanquished. The harsh northern landscape was tamed, and the wealth from the mines funded the construction of grand palaces, temples, and schools. Trade routes were established, bringing prosperity and new knowledge.
Under the reign of Aryaman’s grandfather, the kingdom experienced a golden age of trade and culture. Markets buzzed with activity, filled with exotic goods from distant lands. Art and scholarship flourished, and the kingdom’s influence spread far and wide.
Aryaman’s father, the current King, had continued this legacy. His wise rule and strategic alliances ensured peace and stability, allowing the kingdom to prosper even further. The scent of spices and the sound of merchants haggling were as much a part of the kingdom’s identity as its military might and rich history.
As Aryaman absorbed the chronicles of his ancestors, he felt a renewed sense of pride and responsibility. The weight of their achievements pressed upon him, mingling with his determination to uncover the truth about the yakshas.
After hours of reading, Aryaman set the manuscript aside and rose, his back stiff from sitting. He turned to Gopala, who had been quietly working nearby.
“Gopala,” Aryaman said. “I need to see the scrolls on the yakshas.”