The wind swept across the balcony, sharp and uninvited.
Queen Clasida paused.
The moon hung low—white, clean, indifferent.
She stepped forward and rested her hand against the quartzite stone railing, letting the cold bite into her skin long enough to remind her that she was still awake.
She wore a simple yet luxurious ivory soft-silk saree, its fabric bordered with intricate gold thread work that continued along the pallu.
The pale ivory contrasted beautifully against her soft, milky complexion.
Her long face held an ethereal quality.
Almond-shaped, chestnut-brown eyes watched the waxing moon with quiet contemplation.
Her long, slightly curled, waist-length hair danced gently in the breeze, carrying with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the two trees growing near the balcony.
The night was quiet and serene.
For a moment, the fifth Monarch of the Mannan Kingdom allowed herself a rare moment of peace.
Tap.
The sound did not belong to the night.
The Queen blinked in astonishment and instantly turned around.
A neatly rolled, brownish paper lay on the balcony floor.
Questions came rushing through her mind.
“At this hour?” she exclaimed, shock and confusion crossing her face.
The elegant Queen, standing at five feet seven inches, crossed the balcony and bent to pick up the paper roll.
Beneath the pale wash of moonlight, she carefully unrolled it.
Then she walked toward the long, arched balcony door, where an oil lamp cast a warmer glow across the stone floor.
Her eyes moved steadily across the writing at first.
Then they slowed.
By the final line, her fingers had tightened around the page, creasing the paper in her grip.
The night remained still.
Her heart did not.
By morning, the Queen was already dressed for rule.
Her maids worked in practiced silence, drawing her brownish-black hair into a precise bun, secured with a pearl-and-red-ruby jeweled clasp.
A golden saree, edged with intricate motifs, settled over her frame.
A twin-layered necklace rested against her collarbone with quiet weight.
Her double-layered gold tiara, studded with gemstones, sat upon her head with regal pride.
Gold kadas and bangles adorned her wrists, accompanied by several orange crystal bangles that caught the morning light.
At her waist, an intricately designed gold kamarbandh was fastened securely around her.
Queen Clasida rose from the mirror, composed and unreadable.
In Mannan, and across the kingdoms beyond it, her word was law.
A maid wheeled in a three-tiered stand and placed it beside the mirror.
The upper tray held a simple royal breakfast; below it, two glass jars—one filled with water and the other with orange juice—caught the morning light.
“My lady, shall I serve?”
“Yes,” the Queen replied, her gaze still fixed on her reflection.
Another maid entered quietly.
“My lady, the Prime Minister is here.”
Queen Clasida turned.
“Let him in.”
Mervil entered with an easy bow, his right palm resting against his chest.
He possessed a striking, aristocratic, warrior-like appearance—the kind of face that could look both dangerously charming and quietly intimidating.
Standing at five feet nine inches, he carried himself with effortless confidence.
His black attire, embroidered with gold, amplified the contrast between his nobility and the danger beneath it.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
She inclined her head and gestured toward the table.
“Am I given a choice?” he asked, already moving toward his seat.
A faint smirk touched her lips.
“Have you ever been?”
The maid placed another plate before him and withdrew.
Mervil’s amber-brown gaze shifted toward the window.
“The weather feels gloomy today.”
“It’s quite bright,” the Queen replied, watching sunlight spill across the floor.
“Still,” he said, his eyes returning to her, “something weighs on the air.”
Queen Clasida exhaled slowly.
She said nothing.
Silence fell between them as they quietly finished their breakfast.
Then—
“Reopen the case file on former Queen Amaranda’s mysterious death.”
Mervil tilted his head.
Faint sunlight fell across his angular face, sharpening the sculpted line of his jaw.
“May I have the honor of knowing why all of a sudden?”
His gaze remained fixed upon her.
The Queen recounted what had happened the previous night.
She told him about the letter.
Mervil listened attentively, without interrupting.
When she finished, Clasida stood.
“Don’t ask me the contents of the letter.”
Mervil rose and followed her toward the door.
He stepped ahead and knocked.
The door opened.
Inside the Queen’s office, Mervil updated her on the topics scheduled for the upcoming royal proceedings.
The meetings continued until lunch.
Afterward, Queen Clasida rode in her royal carriage, pulled by four horses, toward the farmlands on the periphery of the royal plateau.
She inspected the irrigation facilities that were under construction.
The Tarankan Clan had divined a season of low rainfall and extreme heat, leaving many of the farmers anxious.
The Queen and Prime Minister made sure every concern and query raised by the farmers was addressed to their satisfaction.
Queen Clasida was strict about policies concerning food, clothing, shelter, education, and other basic infrastructure.
Any form of negligence was beyond her tolerance.
She wanted every citizen of her kingdom to live with dignity and pride.
Later that evening, the Queen entered the royal library.
She sat down and opened a book.
Mother of the Mannan Kingdom: Biography of Queen Amaranda.
At the Royal Security Quarters,
Chief Sendrav was busy with his work.
Stacks of papers covered his office table.
A royal guard knocked.
“Come in,” Sendrav said, still engrossed in his reading.
“Chief, the Prime Minister has come to visit you,” the royal guard announced.
“Let him in.”
Mervil walked in, observing the mountain of papers around him.
“Looks like someone is busy. I wonder if that someone has any time for this poor fellow.”
Sendrav chuckled.
“Poor you? A man whose wits can drive anyone to insanity? Spare me.”
He gestured for Mervil to sit.
Chief Sendrav was heavily muscular in build, though his demeanor carried a more laid-back charm.
His face was angular, elongated, and well-defined, with a sharp, sculpted jawline.
His hair was neatly combed in a military style.
Despite his imposing frame, there was something approachable about him.
“You’re right,” Mervil said.
“Honestly, it’s been a while since I drove someone to insanity.”
Sendrav leaned back, narrowing his black eyes.
“Fortunately, now I might have the opportunity to do something similar very soon,” Mervil added with a smirk.
Looking at Mervil’s gleaming eyes, Sendrav grew tense.
“Hope I’m not that victim,” he said with an awkward smile.
“Oh, I’d love to,” Mervil replied.
“But not this time.”
His smile remained.
“We have a royal obligation to complete.”
“And what could that be?” Sendrav asked, his expression turning serious.
“Her Majesty wants to reopen the case file of the mysterious death of our former Queen Amaranda.”
“Spill the beans.”
Sendrav leaned forward, his eyebrows arching.
Mervil recounted the events that had unfolded the previous night.
Sendrav’s expression changed.
He rose from his chair, leaning forward with both hands pressed against the table.
The six-foot-two giant stared at Mervil with widened eyes.
“A letter… on the balcony… of Her Majesty’s chambers?”
Horror was evident in his voice.
“Welcome to the club, brother,” Mervil replied.
A faint, almost knowing smirk formed on his face rather than a full smile.
He remained unmoved.
Sendrav stared at him.
“I hate that smirk of yours,” he muttered.
He took a deep breath, walked toward the window, and spoke in a tense voice.
“This is a serious problem. How was this even possible?”
Mervil nodded.
“Whatever it is, the fact that this event has led to the reopening of a death mystery is equally mind-boggling.”
Sendrav pressed his lips together.
“Tomorrow morning, I will re-inspect all the security settings of the royal residence,” he said seriously.
Mervil nodded.
Resting his elbow on the table, he leaned his temple against his curled fingers.
“For someone to infiltrate the Nag Kavach placed upon the main royal residence, the intruder should be someone of a high rank, with all the outer gates opened.”
He paused.
“Along with some knowledge of forbidden practices.”
Sendrav shook his head.
“But that would still trigger the Kavach, leaving a visual mark around the space as a warning.”
“The only way to enter safely would be to initially fuse your blood with the Kavach through a ritual.”
“And that ritual is a royal secret,” Sendrav said.
“That’s why I said forbidden knowledge.”
Mervil’s expression grew thoughtful.
“As I am aware, there are certain practices that can break such protections. But they require initiations to activate and use.”
He paused.
“It isn’t easy. Practicing such mantras can be fatal for humans.”
Sendrav stood quietly for a moment.
“Let’s see what I can do from my end.”
He took a breath and steadied himself.
“You find some ways to strengthen the Nag Kavach.”
Mervil stood.
“But above all, we have to attain the death mystery that has been buried for decades.”
He looked toward Sendrav.
“And I have a feeling…”
A faint smile returned to his face.
“…we’re in for quite a ride.”