Chapter 6: Royal Friendship — Part 3: Vīra's Prophecy Connection

Paradise Empire: The Land of Ten Rivers

Chapter 6: Royal Friendship — Part 3: Vīra's Prophecy Connection

Scene: Routine Ascent

The impossible had become routine.

Rangayya had been right. The three men from Manūru—a farmer, a trader, and a chief’s son—did not die. Instead, they ascended. Every morning, as the sun kissed the golden gopurams of the City, Vīra’s red sandalwood chariot rolled through the palace gates, waved through by guards who now recognized them on sight.

Their stall in the market was empty, not because they had abandoned it, but because they had nothing left to sell. Every item—the jewelry, the tools, the cottons—had been bought by the Palace servants and nobles, eager to own something crafted by the "Royal Friend." And the Princess herself purchased many of Vīra's clay dolls.

Inside the palace, the barriers of class were dissolving, brick by brick.

Scene: The Lessons

Beneath the shade of a mango tree in the private gardens, Princess Nīlavēṇi sat on a silk mat. Vīra sat beside her, his posture stiff.

Nīlavēṇi held a parchment and a peacock-feather stylus.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "No, Vīra. Not like a plow handle. Hold it gently. Like a flower stem."

Vīra looked at his hand. It looked clumsy against the delicate instrument.

Vīra: "My hands only know how to ride, how to labor, how to win contests—not this, Princess."

Nīlavēṇi didn't scold him. She simply reached out. She placed her soft, cool hand over his. She guided his fingers, adjusting his grip.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "Your hands make art from clay, Vīra. This is only wet clay. Let it flow.”

She guided his hand across the parchment. Together, they formed the intricate letters of the Elite Language—the script of the court, forbidden to commoners, now being taught to a farmer by a Princess.

Vīra watched the ink flow, but he felt only the warmth of her hand on his. He looked at her profile—her focus, her patience.

Vīra (Internal Monologue): "Why? Why do you touch me like this? Why teach me words I will never need?"

Scene: The History of Kings

Later that afternoon, in the Great Hall of Ancestors, Prince Raghavendra walked with Tim’mayya and Rangayya. Vīra walked slightly behind them, listening.

Raghavendra pointed to a massive mural depicting a war of elephant and lightning.

Prince Raghavendra: "This was the Battle of the Pēdda Nadī River. My great-great-grandfather stood alone against a thousand invaders. He didn't have an army that day. He had only his courage and the blessing of Vīrayya."

Tim’mayya’s eyes were wide as saucers. "A thousand, Your Divine Grace?"

Raghavendra laughed, clapping Tim’mayya on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Yes! And he won! You see, my friends, a King is not made by his crown. He is made by his will. Just as a farmer is made by his harvest."

He looked at Vīra.

Prince Raghavendra: "History is not just for nobles, Vīra. It belongs to anyone brave enough to make it."

Then Vīra's eyes widened.

Scene: Nīlavēṇi's prince

Princess Nīlavēṇi stood by a large polished bronze mirror. She turned to Vīra, who was standing awkwardly by the door in his simple cotton tunic.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "Vīra, do you ever wear a dress? Royal attire?"

Vīra lowered his eyes. "No, Princess. Such clothes are not for people like me. I would stain them."

Nīlavēṇi smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She clapped her hands. "Servants! Ready him."

Before Vīra could protest, three male servants ushered him behind a screen. Minutes later, he emerged.

The transformation was absolute.

He wore a dhoti of emerald-red silk, edged with gold thread. A sash of deep cream crossed his broad chest, pinned with a ruby brooch. His unruly hair had been oiled and combed back, revealing the strong, noble lines of his face.

Nīlavēṇi’s breath hitched. She stared at him. The dust was gone. The farmer was gone. Standing there was a warrior. A king in waiting.

Vīra looked at himself in the mirror, then at her. He gave her that same shy, humble smile.

Vīra: "I look... different."

Nīlavēṇi walked up to him. She reached into a velvet box and pulled out a simple bronze circlet—a crown for a minor noble.

She reached up and placed it gently on his head.

Princess Nīlavēṇi (whispering): "Here comes my prince."

She smiled. Vīra looked at her, his heart hammering against the silk sash. For a moment, they were not in Maniyanūru. They were in a storybook.

Scene: Kondayya’s Satram (That evening)

Back in their humble room, Vīra removed the bronze circlet, holding it in his hands like a fragile bird.

He looked at Tim’mayya and Rangayya.

Vīra: "I can’t believe my life, Tim’ma, Ranga. It’s… completely different. It is as if the gods themselves have blessed me. Maybe that dream I had—maybe it was about this.”

Tim’mayya smiled, leaning back on his cot. "It is a miracle, Vīra. A true miracle."

Rangayya watched Vīra carefully. He saw the change.

Rangayya (Internal Monologue): "The Vīra we knew... Wake before dawn. Work the fields until sunset. Tend his aging father. Care for his mother. Wrestle to save the village’s honor. He never played. He never had many friends—only responsibilities."

Rangayya spoke up softly. "You deserve this, Vīra. You missed your childhood carrying the weight of the world. Now... in this city... it feels like the years you lost are coming back to you."

Vīra nodded, a tear glistening in his eye. "I feel... free."

Scene: The Royal Training Grounds

The sun beat down on the dust of the arena. Prince Raghavendra stood by his chariot, checking the harness of his two magnificent white horses.

He waved Vīra over.

Prince Raghavendra: "Vīra! I heard that you won the riding contest in your village every single year. Is it really true?"

Vīra bowed. "Yes, Your Divine Grace. My bulls are swift."

Raghavendra frowned playfully. "Stop that. 'Divine Grace.' It makes me feel old. Call me Raghavendra."

Vīra froze. To call the future King by his name? It was impossible. His tongue refused to form the word.

Vīra: "Raga....Ragha.."

He took a breath. He found a middle ground—a respectful, affectionate address used for someone close.

Vīra: "Rāghavayya."

The Prince blinked. Then, a wide grin split his face.

Prince Raghavendra: "Rāghavayya! I like it! It sounds respectful, but close. Like family. You gave me a good name, Vīra."

He pointed to the track.

Prince Raghavendra: "So... can you ride with me? Or will your bulls be too slow for royal horses?"

Vīra’s competitive spark flared. He smiled. "My brothers are never slow, Rāghavayya."

The Race:

Princess Nīlavēṇi, Tim’mayya, and Rangayya stood on the high palace walls, looking down.

"GO!"

Dust exploded.

Two chariots tore across the grounds. One was gleaming bronze and gold, pulled by galloping white horses. The other was dark red sandalwood, pulled by two thundering white bulls.

The speed was terrifying.

To the shock of the soldiers and the delight of the Princess, Vīra was not losing. His bulls, muscles rippling, matched the horses stride for stride. Vīra stood balanced on his platform, looking not like a farmer, but like a charioteer born to the art.

They completed one round. Two rounds. Three rounds.

They were neck and neck.

As they thundered down the final stretch, Prince Raghavendra laughed, the sound lost in the wind. He extended his hand across the gap between the speeding chariots.

Vīra saw the hand. He reached out.

For a glorious second, they clasped hands—the Prince and the Farmer—speeding toward the finish line together, equals in speed, equals in spirit.

They crossed the line at the exact same moment.

It was a memory etched in gold.

The festival was approaching. Their goods were sold. They should have returned to Manūru. But they couldn't leave. Not yet. They sent a message home: We will return after the Main Festival.

Scene: Kondayya’s Satram (A few days later)

Vīra was resting in his room. The exhaustion of the high life was settling in. Tim’mayya and Rangayya and Kēsavu and his other servants were counting their coins.

Suddenly, Kondayya, the lodge owner, burst into the room, looking flushed and panicked.

Kondayya: "Vīra! Get up! It's a call from the Royal Palace again!"

Vīra opened his eyes, sighed, but got up immediately. He went to his chariot.

Kondayya watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief.

Kondayya: "What did you guys do? Did you bewitch them? Why do you keep going to meet the Royal Family again and again?"

Rangayya and Tim'mayya leaned back against the wall, Rangayya tossing a grape into his mouth.

Rangayya: "Yeah. You should ask the Divine Royal Family that same question. We are just following orders."

Scene: The Palace Courtyard: The Ride

Vīra arrived with his chariot. Princess Nīlavēṇi was waiting for him. She wasn't wearing her usual heavy silks; she was dressed in a simpler, more practical riding outfit, though still undeniably royal.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "You rode that unique chariot with my brother. I saw you holding hands. It looked... exhilarating."

She walked up to the bulls, stroking their noses fearlessly.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "I want to ride it too. Can you teach me?"

Vīra stared at her. Is this a dream or what?

Vīra: "But... Princess... it is dangerous. These are bulls, not horses. And the protocol..."

Nīlavēṇi stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was both a command and a plea.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "I want to ride it. That is a Royal Order."

Vīra lowered his head, defeated by her will. "As you wish."

The Journey:

Minutes later, they were moving. Vīra stood behind her, his hands covering hers on the reins to guide the bulls.

Vīra: "Princess... where are you taking me? This is the path out of the city."

She looked back over her shoulder. Her beautiful blue eyes locked onto his. They were so close he could feel the warmth of her skin. He almost fell from the chariot.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: “Don’t worry. I am not kidnapping you, nor will I do anything to you. Trust me—do you trust me?”

Vīra looked into those eyes. "I do."

They rode out of the Higher City, past the guards who bowed low, and out to the far side of the plateau. They stopped near a secluded, crystal-clear lake, shaded by a massive, ancient tree.

Vīra jumped down and held out his hands. Nīlavēṇi placed her hands in his, and he swung her down gently.

She led him to the tree.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "This is the place where I used to come when I am happy or sad. It is my sanctuary."

She sat on the grass beneath the tree. She tapped the ground beside her.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "Sit."

He sat.

Vīra: "Are you happy or sad today? Why did you bring me here, Princess?"

She smiled, looking out at the rippling water.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "I am happy."

Then she continued

"But—you know, in stories the prince carries the princess to a beautiful place. Here, it’s the opposite. I brought you, not the other way around.”

Vīra chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know the city well enough to take you anywhere. The only place I know is my village, Manūru.”

Nīlavēṇi turned to him, her expression suddenly intense.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "You can take me to your village."

Vīra was stunned. "How can that be possible? You are the Divine Princess. How...?"

She leaned closer. "It's possible. You can. If..."

She smiled and

She stopped herself, looked away.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "I’m talking too much. You should speak, Vīra. What do you think about what is happening? About us? About these days?”

Vīra’s face shifted. The playful shyness vanished, replaced by a deep, weary gratitude that seemed to age him.

Vīra: "What I feel... about all these days... is one word: Thank you."

He looked at his hands.

Vīra: "Responsibilities take everything when they fall on you. They fell on me when I was just a child—fifteen, maybe sixteen. My father grew weak. The land needed me. All I knew was work—caring for my family. Nothing else.”

He looked at the lake, his voice trembling.

Vīra: "I had no time for love. I had no free time. No time for myself.”

Tears welled up in his eyes.

Vīra: “But these few days—being with you, with the Prince, with Tim’mayya and Rangayya—those days weren’t about selling or working. They were about being free. Just being Vīra.”

A tear rolled down his cheek.

Vīra: "I realize now what I lost all those years in the village. It took me twenty years to see it—I'm almost twenty now. I understand the cost of not having someone’s company without other thoughts. Thank you for that.”

He added, with a quieter pride: “But I’m also proud I never neglected my duties. I did my best. I never gave up on my family or on my friends.”

Nīlavēṇi’s heart broke for him. She saw the boy behind the strength.

Without saying a word, she slowly leaned in. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him.

Vīra froze. The scent of jasmine filled his lungs. The warmth of her royal body against his shocked his system.

Slowly, tentatively, he raised his arms and hugged her back.

They stayed like that for a long moment, two souls from different worlds finding solace in each other.

Then, Vīra realized what he was doing. He pulled back.

He saw her face, inches from his. The Divine Princess. In his arms.

His face went pale. The emotion, the sudden release of years of suppressed burden, the proximity to the woman he loved but believes he could never have... it was too much.

His eyes rolled up.

He slumped forward, falling unconscious right into her arms.

Nīlavēṇi gasped, catching him. "Vīra?"

She saw his peaceful, pale face. She stopped trying to wake him. She gently adjusted him, placing his head on her lap. She stroked his hair, looking down at him in the moonlight.

Scene: The Royal Court (Night)

King Manirāja Dīrākṣa sat on his Golden Throne, his face like a thunderhead. The court was in an uproar.

A senior Minister stood up, his voice trembling with indignation.

Minister: "Your Divineship! What is happening around us? We must speak! Those fools—those peasants—are coming to the Royal Palace as if it is their own home! The Prince and Princess are spending time with them—mostly with that Vīra! And there are rumors! Rumors about the Princess and that boy!"

King Manirāja shot up from his throne.

King Manirāja: "HOLD YOUR MOUTH!"

The shout echoed like a cannon blast, silencing the room instantly.

King Manirāja: "Are you saying my children... my daughter... would do something inappropriate? Something that would bring dishonor to the Divine Lineage? You should care about your own sons and daughters before pointing a finger at my daughter!"

The Minister shrank back, sweating, but he pressed on.

Minister: "Then tell us, Lord! Why? Why did the Divine Royal Family have to make friendship with someone like Vīra? What need do we have to do such a thing? Just a few days before the Royal Coronation of the Prince? It looks weak! It looks desperate!"

The Queen looked at her husband, her eyes wide. She knew. She nodded slightly.

King Manirāja looked at his court. His anger cooled into something far more terrifying—absolute certainty.

King Manirāja: "Do you want to know why? Do you all remember the Divine Prophecy?"

A collective gasp went through the room. Faces turned pale. That prophecy? That same prophecy —the one kept locked in the archives?

King Manirāja continued, his voice dropping to a whisper.

King Manirāja: "And do you remember my daughter's visions when she was eight?"

The Ministers looked at each other, horrified.

Minister: "What... what do you mean by that, Your Divineship? That horrific prophecy? And Vīra? What connection does a farmer have with the fate of the civilization ?"

King Manirāja’s eyes burned.

King Manirāja: "He is the connection. And he is the only one."

The court fell into a stunned, terrified silence. Even the Queen, who knew, shivered at the King's aggressiveness.

Scene: The Lake (Night)

Vīra was still unconscious, his head resting on Nīlavēṇi’s lap.

She looked down at him. In the moonlight, his face was beautiful. It held a strength and a vulnerability that made her chest ache.

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

Suddenly, her world tilted. Her vision blurred. The lake vanished.

The Vision:

She saw a boy. It was Vīra. But he was not dressed in silk or cotton. He stood on his chariot, shirtless, his body glowing with sweat and power.

He was holding not a whip, but a massive plow that shone like a divine weapon.

Before him, the sky was consumed. Dark, black thunderclouds boiled on the horizon. They were not natural clouds. They writhed with malice. Inside the clouds, she saw Someone. A shape. A face of pure darkness. An unseen force coming to devour the world.

The clouds rushed toward the city of Maniyanūru.

But Vīra stood there. Alone. Between the city and the darkness. He raised the plow. He was the shield. He was the wall.

Reality:

Nīlavēṇi gasped, blinking back to the present. Her heart raced so fast it hurt.

She looked down at Vīra’s sleeping face. The peaceful boy on her lap... was the warrior in the vision.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "That same vision... from my childhood?! It was you?"

She touched his cheek, her hand trembling.

Princess Nīlavēṇi: "Who are you, Vīra? What is the meaning of that vision?!"

She looked at him once more, fear, love, and destiny mingling in her eyes.

The camera pans out, rising above the lake, showing the solitary figures of the Princess and the unconscious farmer, illuminated by the moon, bound together by a fate that was about to shake the foundations of the world.

(End of Chapter 6)