Chapter 6: The Weight of a Cedar Sword

POV: Prince Aditya

The early morning mist still hung thick over the red sandstone courtyard behind the royal armory.

My chest was heaving, sweat dripping from my jaw into the fine dust, my hands slick against the leather wrap of my practice blade. Master Rudra—the King's chief marshal and a veteran of three border campaigns—didn't hold back. We had been at this for over an hour, the sharp crack of wooden swords echoing against the stone walls as I circled him, trying to break through his seasoned defense.

After getting sent off by Mother earlier for making a racket in her chambers with Karna, I had come straight down to the armory to burn off the rest of my energy. But Master Rudra was relentless. His heavy wooden broadsword came down in a sharp, blinding arc, catching my guard with enough force to send a shockwave straight up my forearms.

Clang!

My sword spun out of my grip, clattering across the smooth flagstones.

"Your posture is upright, Prince Aditya," the old marshal grunted, wiping his brow with his thick forearm, his grey beard glistening with sweat. "But you're leaning onto your right heel when you parry high. Keep your weight centered on both feet, or an experienced opponent will use your own balance against you."

"Understood, Master," I breathed, wiping the sweat from my eyes and bending down to pick up the heavy cedar blade.

My shoulders burned with that deep, satisfying ache of a hard morning's work. I loved martial training. While Vardhan spent his mornings buried in scrolls with the tutors, and Karna was down at the stables trying to race the younger colts, my heart belonged out here—to swords, strategy, and foot soldier drills. Father had ensured we all learned history, languages, and court administration, but when I asked for extra hours under Master Rudra, Father hadn't hesitated to give his blessing.

"Enough for this morning," a deep voice called out from the archway.

Father stepped into the courtyard, wearing a simple white linen tunic with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A young palace attendant walked a step behind him, carrying a small wooden tray with two cold clay cups of buttermilk sprinkled with cumin and mint.

Master Rudra bowed respectfully and stepped toward the weapon racks to oil the practice blades. Father took a cup from the attendant's tray and handed it to me. I took a long gulp, the cold drink instantly cooling my parched throat.

"Your footwork is getting steadier, Aditya," Father said, standing beside me and looking out over the misty valley below the courtyard wall.

"Master Rudra says my right side stays exposed when I parry high, Father," I said, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tight muscles. "I want my form clean before the autumn military drills with the border commanders."

Father laid a large, warm hand on my shoulder. His palm was rough, marked by old scars from his younger days along the frontiers.

"A clean form comes with time, my son," Father said gently, his voice carrying that calm, steady weight he always had. "You don't need to master every stance in a single summer. A good leader on the field isn't just someone who handles a sword well—it’s someone who stays clear-headed, watches out for his men, and knows when it’s time to rest. You’ve been at this since before sunrise."

He gave my shoulder a firm, affectionate squeeze.

"Your mother already had the kitchens set aside warm curd and chestnuts for you," Father added with a small smile. "Go clean the dust off. Once you’ve eaten, join Vardhan and me in the council hall. We’re reviewing the new irrigation maps for the southern farms, and I want you there when we look at where the river outposts should go."

I wiped the sweat from my face and smiled back, feeling a surge of pride. "Yes, Father. I'll be there."

POV: King Harsha

I watched Aditya head up the stone stairs toward the royal bathhouse, his stride confident and steady despite his exhaustion.

He was growing quickly—broadening at the shoulders, tall, and carrying a quiet sense of duty that reminded me more of my grandfather every day. Watching him train was a quiet reminder of how fast time moved in the palace; it felt like only yesterday he was running around the courtyards with a toy wooden shield.

"The young prince has real discipline, Your Majesty," Master Rudra commented quietly, stepping out from the shade of the weapon racks as he wiped down the cedar practice swords with an oiled linen cloth. "He doesn't fight out of anger or vanity. He actually wants to understand the art."

"He takes his responsibility seriously, Rudra," I said softly, looking down at the empty clay cup in my hand. "He knows the peace we enjoy along the Emerald River isn't maintained by luck."

I handed the cup back to the attendant waiting near the archway and straightened my tunic. Sumati and I had been fortunate. Each of our children was growing into their own strengths—Aditya with his quiet protective instinct, Vardhan with his sharp eye for figures, and the younger ones finding their own ways as they grew.

"They are well-guided, sire," the old marshal bowed. "You and the Maharani have built a solid home for them."

"A kingdom only stays strong if there is peace inside the royal house, Rudra," I said, looking up at the high carved balconies of the inner palace where morning smoke was rising from the hearths. "If my children grow up knowing they are valued equally, they will support each other when the real weight of governance falls on their shoulders."

The morning sun was rising higher, burning off the last of the river mist over the valley. There were land petitions from the southern farmers to review, grain tariffs to settle with Vardhan and the ministers, and an entire realm to run alongside my queen. I turned back toward the inner corridors, ready for the day's work.