𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

79⚚ Bliss

How are you all, my sweets?

.

.

"Minister Rithvik, can I know what is happening with the Western Kingdom?"

The King of Kshatriya spoke, his voice steady, calm, almost casual, as he sat tall on his throne. But that calmness, everyone in the court knew, was more dangerous than fire itself.

Across from him, King Raghav of the Western Kingdom sat, his hands trembling slightly though he tried to conceal it. The hall was vast, filled with nobles, ministers, guards, and yet the silence pressed down heavy.

Beside Raghav, his daughter sat shamelessly, her eyes flicking to Viraj again and again, bold in her audacity. She didn't even bother to hide her admiration—or her lust.

Each glance was like a dagger to the courtiers' patience.

The hall noticed. The ministers noticed. The guards noticed. And every single one of them wanted to roar at the audacity. But they kept silent, waiting for their king.

Rithvik drew in a deep breath, his chest tight. He hated being the bearer of this message, but it was his duty as Foreign Minister.

"Your Majesty," he began carefully, "King Raghav requested funds and grains for his kingdom."

Viraj only tilted his head, expression unreadable. His fingers lazily tapped the armrest of his throne. "And?"

Rithvik's lips pressed together. He hesitated. He could feel his own jaw clenching.

Viraj's brows arched—one look, sharp as a blade. "Speak, Bhai."

That tone. That eyebrow. That was not a request.

That was a warning.

Rithvik inhaled deeply, suppressing the urge to swear aloud. For a fleeting second, he wished he weren't the Foreign Minister, but just the elder brother who could knock sense into his idiot brother.

But duty weighed heavier. He cleared his throat, forcing the words out.

"In exchange, he is willing to marry his daughter."

A long silence.

Viraj's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Marry... his daughter? For?"

Rithvik shut his eyes briefly. Damn him. Damn his obliviousness.

Was he really this dense or was he testing the entire kingdom's patience? He wanted nothing more than to smack Viraj's head against the marble pillars.

With effort, he restrained himself, his voice clipped as he ground out—

"For you, Your Majesty."

The air shifted.

The kingdom held its collective breath.

The guards stiffened, the nobles froze.

A shiver ran down the spines of everyone present, for Viraj's face—his calm, blank expression—was the most terrifying sight in existence. That calmness was not mercy. It was the silence before a storm, the pause before slaughter.

Bhageera moved before anyone else could react.

His blade rang out, unsheathing with a deadly song. In one swift, fluid motion, the tip of his sword pressed against King Raghav's neck. His eyes burned with fury, his jaw locked as he fought to keep from severing the man's head right there in the throne room.

Gasps rippled through the court. The tension rose, thick enough to choke.

Every man and woman present felt it, the storm of rage swirling inside their King. And it wasn't just the King's wrath. It was the wrath of an entire kingdom.