Arya stood at the balcony of the castle, looking down into the pit where fighters trained relentlessly under Ganak's brutal command. The sounds of combat filled the pit—the clashing of weapons, the grunts of exhausted men, the sharp cracks of a whip striking. Fighters pushing themselves beyond their limits in the scorching heat.
Ganak was a merciless master. He walked among the warriors, his sharp eyes catching every mistake. A single misstep, and his whip lashed out, precise and unforgiving. No one dared to resist. The fighters feared him, but so did the slaves. They had been under his command for years, some for more than a decade. Many had forgotten what freedom felt like. Arya observed it all, the harsh discipline, the cruelty, the unbroken cycle of suffering that kept the pit alive.
A frail, malnourished slave stumbled while carrying a sack of grain. The heavy bag slipped from his grasp, and he collapsed onto the dirt. No one moved to help him. The other slaves continued their work, too afraid to draw attention. The fighters barely spared a glance before resuming their brutal training.
Arya didn't think. He moved.
Stepping down into the pit, he walked through the stunned silence, his boots sinking into the dirt. The fallen slave trembled as Arya knelt beside him and lifted the sack off his frail body. Then, without a word, he reached out and helped the man to his feet.
The pit was silent.
The slave's eyes widened in horror as he realized who was standing before him. He recoiled, dropping to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"Forgive me," he whimpered. "Forgive me, master."
Arya frowned. Before he could speak, the air cracked with the sharp sound of a whip.
"GET BACK TO WORK!" Ganak's voice roared across the pit.
The fighters immediately resumed their training, the slaves rushed back to their tasks. The moment of stillness was gone. But Ganak was not finished. He strode toward Arya, his gaze unwavering, his whip hanging at his side.
He stopped only a step away, his imposing presence like an iron wall.
"Do not ever come in my pit and do something like that," Ganak said, his voice low and dangerous. "You have no idea what you have done. Do you want to die?"
Arya stared back at him, his face unreadable. But inside, confusion swirled.
All he had done was help a man to his feet. Why was that an offense?
But he did not show his uncertainty. Instead, he met Ganak's gaze and asked, "Do you mean my pit?"
A flicker of something passed through Ganak's eyes. Surprise. He had expected a boy. A naive ruler who had won a fight but knew nothing of the world. But Arya's words told him otherwise.
Before Ganak could respond, a voice called from above.
Kalanemi.
The old head servant had been watching from the balcony. He rushed down into the pit, stepping between the two men. His movements were calm, but there was urgency in his eyes.
"That is enough," Kalanemi said, placing a firm hand on Arya's shoulder. "Come with me, young master."
Arya did not resist as Kalanemi led him away from the pit, back to the castle. They entered the chambers, the noise of the pit fading behind them. Kalanemi shut the doors and turned to Arya, his expression unreadable.
"Young master," he began, his tone measured, "what you have done is considered an offense here."
Arya did not respond. He only listened.
Kalanemi continued. "People higher up do not just go and help the poor or the downtrodden. That is not how things work in this world. These rules have been in place for generations. Upendra followed them, and the rulers before him did the same. You must understand—if you go around showing kindness, the people will not fear you. And if they do not fear you, it will not be long before they come for you. A ruler who is seen as weak is not a ruler for long."
Arya remained silent.
"There are good men and bad men, but the throne does not care. To rule, you must learn to be above them all. You may have helped a single man today, but the others will not see it as mercy. They will see it as weakness. And the moment you show weakness, the jackals will circle."
A brief pause, then Kalanemi spoke again. "Do you think the people of the city wept when you killed Upendra? No. Some might have celebrated, some might have cursed you, but most did not care. They do not care who sits on the throne. They only care about themselves. If you want to rule, you must understand this truth."
He stepped closer, his eyes dark and knowing. "There are two kinds of rulers, Arya. One who is accepted, and one who rules with an iron fist. In my lifetime, I have never seen a ruler who was accepted. Every ruler makes the people accept them, forces them to bow. Decide which one you want to be."
Arya said nothing. But inside, a storm raged.
To show kindness was to show weakness? To show no mercy was to be powerful?
But wasn't this the life he had always lived? He had spent his entire childhood hating the powerful. He had loathed the rich, the rulers who cared nothing for the people. But had he ever shown kindness himself? Had he ever stopped to lift someone up?
He had never considered it weakness. But now, as he sat in this chamber, Kalanemi's words echoed in his mind.
He was not accepted by the people. That much was true. So what would he do now? Would he turn to power, as every ruler before him had done?
Without a word, Arya rose from his seat and walked away, heading toward his office chambers.
The weight of a decision he had yet to make pressed heavily on his shoulders.