II The Beginning

"Hail Samarth, the Lionheart! May your name forever be etched in the annals of our kingdom's history!"

A deafening roar erupted from the ranks of Samarth's warriors. The air reverberated with thunderous applause, echoing off the battle - scarred landscape as Samarth stood triumphant, his armor battered but unbroken. A warm smile spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with pride and relief, as he gazed out upon the sea of faces that had stood by him through the trials of war, and blurred was the sight for him, of the ocean of dead bodies lying across the land, bathing in blood and cut limbs of the rivals. 

His comrades, a diverse band of seasoned veterans and young recruits, cheered and wept and laughed together, their faces etched with exhaustion and exhilaration. 

They had fought for three long months, sacrificing comfort and security, leaving behind loved ones and the familiar rhythms of home. Yet, in this moment, all their hardships seemed worth it, as they basked in the glow of victory, their bond forged in the fire of battle stronger than ever.

Samarth's gaze swept across the crowd, his eyes meeting those of his loyal lieutenants, who had stood by him through thick and thin. There was Raj, his grizzled old friend, who had fought alongside him in countless battles. 

Their eyes met and they shared a silent communion of hearts which made them realize how close they were to each other. Like brothers. Even more than brothers. 

The battleground thundered with the triumphant roar of the soldiers, as if the very earth itself was rejoicing. The once - calm dust, now stirred by the tumult, swirled into the air, dancing on the winds that carried the echoes of Samarth's praise. 

King Agnil stood at a distance, a faint, enigmatic smile on his battle - weary and wrinkled face, smeared with the blood of his vanquished foes. His helmet lay discarded, his sword sheathed, and his armor bore the gruesome testament of the day's carnage – crimson splatters that seemed to intensify the aura of danger surrounding him, despite his advanced years.

Yet, the king's thoughts were not on his own battered state, nor the triumph that was his. Instead, his mind wandered to the young warrior whose name was on everyone's lips – Samarth. A glimmer of curiosity flickered in Agnil's eyes as something clicked in his mind regarding the young man. 

King Agnil's gaze lingered on Samarth, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and fascination. "Seth, who is this young warrior?" he asked his armor bearer, his voice low and contemplative. "There's something familiar about him, like the face of someone I've known for years."

Seth's eyes scanned the blood-soaked battlefield before coming to rest on Samarth, who was basking in the adoration of his comrades. With a reverence that bordered on awe, Seth replied, "That, my lord, is Samarth, the eldest son of our chief commander." His voice echoed with a hint of admiration, as if the mere mention of Samarth's name commanded respect.

The mention of the chief commander sparked a memory in King Agnil's mind, and he recalled the face of his loyal servant, Kenaz. As he gazed at Samarth, he noticed the striking resemblance to his father. The young warrior's rugged features seemed chiseled from the very stone of battle, exuding raw power and danger. His meadow-green eyes, sharp as a hawk's, gleamed with a fierce intensity that commanded attention.

Samarth's chiseled beauty was undeniable, and King Agnil couldn't help but be impressed. The young warrior's charisma was reminiscent of his father's, whose subtle strategies had consistently brought their enemies to their knees. It was no wonder that Samarth, with his impressive prowess and commanding presence, was Kenaz's son. 

"Kenaz' son," King Agnil whispered to himself, his eyes still fixed on Samarth. 

In that instant, their gazes met, and for a fleeting moment, they locked eyes. It was as if Samarth's ears had picked up the whispered words, and his attention had been drawn to the king like a magnet.

***

"So, dear comrade," someone called in a singsong manner, grabbing Samarth's attention. 

Samarth, who was busy gazing at the beauty of the full moon, didn't turn even slightly to acknowledge who stepped into his tent. He knew, by the voice, who he was; his younger brother, Izhar. The familiarity of that voice carried warmth of home which no outsider either could define or feel.

Izhar wasn't bothered by his older brother's rudeness, or say focused behaviour which made him ignore his younger brother. He had grown accustomed to Samarth's introspective nature, and he knew that his brother's silence wasn't a reflection of his feelings. With a quiet smile, Izhar made his way into the tent, his footsteps soft on the worn fabric.

He came and quietly sat beside his brother, his movements mirrored by the gentle lapping of the lake's waters against the shore. The tent's opening framed the serene landscape before them, a breathtaking vista of calm waters and moonlit skies. The face of the moon, a silver crescent in the dark canvas of the night, was reflected perfectly on the lake's surface, occasionally troubled by the stirring of water through the calm and chilly breeze of the night.

"Still wakeful, brother?" Izhar asked, his voice tinged with concern, as he turned to face Samarth.

Samarth's response was curt, his eyes fixed on some distant point. "Pray, tell me, Izhar, what brings you to my tent at this late hour? Speak your mind, and be done with it."

Izhar's gaze met Samarth's, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. Yet, Samarth's rigid demeanor remained unyielding.

"And, by the light of the moon," Samarth muttered, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of perfume wafting from his brother's person, "you do reek of a woman's essence. Don't tell me, Izhar, that you have…"

"Ah, you're right, brother," Izhar admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked away, his fingers absently tracing the curve of his neck. "Among the captives, I saw a woman... and I took her into my tent. The king was this benevolent, and we... took our pick." 

He shrugged, his eyes darting sideways to gauge Samarth's reaction, but his brother's expression remained impassive, like a mask carved from stone.

"And did our father bear witness to your... indulgence with a captive woman?" Samarth asked, his voice tinged with disdain.

Izhar's lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Aye, she was a submissive lass and very tight," he murmured, his voice low and husky. The memory of her seemed to stir something within him, and his smirk deepened.

Samarth's scoff was like a burst of cold wind on a winter's night. "Pray, take your leave, brother. I desire some solitude." 

Samarth's gaze turned inward, his mind troubled by the thought of his brother's cavalier attitude towards women. Did Izhar's heart truly belong to the woman he professed to love, or was she merely a passing fancy? 

As Izhar departed, the soft rustle of his clothing and the creak of the tent's fabric served as a reminder of the tension between the two brothers. The night air, heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant tang of smoke, seemed to vibrate with unspoken words.

***

The triumphant news of the soldiers' victorious return from war resonated throughout the land, unleashing a cacophony of joy. People from all walks of life gathered in public squares, their faces aglow with happiness, as they shared stories and celebrated the bravery of their returning heroes. The sound of laughter, music, and cheers filled the atmosphere, creating an electric sense of jubilation that echoed across the entire nation.

Mothers' hearts swelled with longing as they eagerly awaited the return of their sons, while wives' eyes shone with anticipation, yearning to be reunited with their husbands. The air was throbbing with joy, as the sweet scent of victory wafted through the streets.

The flag of triumph fluttered proudly in the breeze, a symbol of the soldiers' bravery and sacrifice. But victory was not the only spoil; a vast treasure trove of plunder followed, seized from the foe. 

The king had distributed the spoils equally among the soldiers. 

Virgin maidens from across the kingdom gathered to pay tribute to the triumphant king and his soldiers. With tambourines and harps providing lively accompaniment, they danced and sang in joyous harmony, their melodious voices filling the air.

Among the revelers were the king's own daughters, born to his various queens. They twirled and leapt with abandon, their laughter and music intertwining in a vibrant celebration. The king, seated upon his majestic steed, gazed upon his daughters with paternal pride.

One daughter in particular caught his eye, and he found himself dismounting from his horse, his fatherly affection getting the better of him. With a warm smile, he approached his precious child. 

She was the apple of his eye: Inayat, the cherished daughter born to him and his beloved Queen Diana. 

The king's gaze met Inayat's, and she smiled softly, her eyes shining with joy at his return. Her beauty was a testament to her lineage, for she was the daughter of the most beautiful queen the king had ever known. Yet, Queen Diana was no more now, leaving behind only memories and the precious gift of their child.

"Hail, noble sire! Welcome home, our mighty and fearless king!" Inayat's words were infused with the warmth of joy, her bright honey eyes aglow with sweet delight. "May our gracious Lord Jesus smile upon your triumphant return, and bless our realm with your wise and just rule." Her full lips curved into a radiant smile, illuminating her entire countenance. "Your people bless you, our illustrious king!"

The king's face creased into a warm smile as he gazed at his daughter. "Amen and Amen!" he declared. 

The horses behind him, sensing the joyous atmosphere, neighed in unison, their voices carrying high into the air. The royal stallion, a majestic black beast with a gleaming coat, let out a particularly loud whinny, causing Inayat to giggle. 

She walked closer to the stallion, reaching out a hand to stroke its sleek neck. The horse nuzzled her gently, its eyes calm and intelligent. 

Inayat's gaze remained fixed on the royal stallion as she stroked its neck, her attention unwavering. 

However, a subtle stir among the soldiers behind her did not entirely escape her notice. Though she refrained from looking up, her modesty and decorum guiding her actions, she was aware that one face in particular stood out among the sea of unfamiliar ones — Izhar's. 

His horse had edged forward, its movements a testament to its rider's eagerness to catch a glimpse of the young princess.

Inayat's lips curled into a secret smile, her teeth grazing her bottom lip. Her father, the king, observed the exchange with a knowing glint in his eye. "Blaze has a special affection for you," he remarked. Inayat's response was a soft, barely audible murmur, her eyes cast downward.

Just then, she slipped away, hiding behind a cluster of maidens to tease Izhar. Her disappearance was not lost on him, and he let out a stifled hiss, his frustration palpable. 

His brother, standing beside him, caught the sound and shot him a warning glance, a low, silent growl that cautioned Izhar to rein in his emotions. 

Izhar's voice was barely audible as he apologized, "Sorry, brother," his eyes cast downward in a show of deference. He then scanned the crowd, his gaze roaming in search of Inayat.

Samarth's expression remained stoic, his jaw set behind the mask that concealed his emotions. Yet, his eyes gleamed with a soft, unexplainable intensity, their gaze drifting over the sea of faces until it found the one that had captivated him. For an instant, his eyes locked onto Inayat, and his very heartbeat seemed to falter in response.

Surely, she was his younger brother's choice but did he care? Well, no. 

His eyes were already set on her, and he wanted her. 

As if sensing the weight of his gaze, Inayat's eyes instinctively fluttered towards the source, her search ending abruptly when they collided with Samarth's piercing stare. Though his face was partially shrouded in shadow, courtesy of the hood cast over his head, the sharp lines of his jaw and the resolute set of his lips were unmistakable, illuminated as they were by the brilliant sunlight that bathed the city.

She couldn't help but look away.