: The First Crack
The morning after his return, the Chandrapuri court assembled, expecting to hear tales of Devansh's heroism. He arrived late, his entrance devoid of its usual serene grace. When a minister praised his bravery, instead of a humble acknowledgment, Devansh snapped, "The task is done. There is no need to dwell on it." The sharpness in his tone left the court ."Chapter 63: The First Crack
The Grand Court of Chandrapuri was a spectacle of relieved opulence. Sunlight streamed through the intricate jaali windows, painting dappled patterns on the polished marble floor. The air, once heavy with the scent of medicine and despair, now smelled of fresh marigolds and hope. Every noble, minister, and courtier was present, their faces alight with anticipation. Today, they would finally hear the epic tale from their savior prince himself.
But the Prince was late.
A restless murmur began to ripple through the assembly. Maharaja Rohit sat on the Moon Throne, his brow slightly furrowed. Maharani Revati, beside him, clasped her hands tightly, her knuckles white. Mrinal, standing at her father's right hand, felt a knot of unease tighten in her stomach. He's never late.
Finally, the grand doors swung open. Prince Devansh stood there. He was dressed in his formal royal blue attire, but something was fundamentally wrong. The usual serene light that seemed to emanate from him was absent. His posture was rigid, not gracefully erect. His face, usually a canvas of gentle thought, was a carefully composed mask of neutrality, but the edges were sharp, strained.
He walked in, his footsteps echoing too loudly in the sudden hush. He did not acknowledge the bowed heads or the admiring glances. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the throne, as if the people in the room were mere obstacles.
The Chief Minister, an elderly man named Mantri ji who had known Devansh since he was a boy, stepped forward, his voice trembling with emotion. "Rajkumar Devansh! Your return is a blessing from the gods themselves! The entire kingdom sings of your valor! To venture into the heart of darkness and return with the light of salvation... your tale will be immortalized in our—"
"The task is done."
Devansh's voice cut through the minister's eulogy like a shard of ice. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp, flat, and utterly devoid of warmth. The words hung in the air, severing the minister's sentence mid-flow.
Mantri ji blinked, his mouth slightly agape. "I... I beg your pardon, My Prince?"
Devansh finally turned his head, his eyes meeting the old man's. They were the same shade of blue, but the deep, calm oceans had frozen over. "I said, the task is done. There is no need to dwell on it. We have more pressing matters than weaving tapestries out of past events."
A stunned silence swallowed the court whole. The only sound was the faint rustle of silk as people shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't the humble, self-effacing prince they knew. This was... dismissal. Cold, brutal, and public.
Maharaja Rohit cleared his throat, attempting to steer the proceedings back to normalcy. "Of course, beta. The minister merely wished to express the gratitude that resides in all our hearts. Let us then turn to the matters of restoring trade with Vayupuri and—"
But the damage was done. The first, hairline crack had appeared in the flawless image of the returning hero.
Later, as the court was dismissed, Devansh strode out, the crowd parting for him like water before a ship's prow. A young servant, perhaps fifteen years old and still nervous in the royal presence, was carrying a heavy brass pitcher of scented water to the royal chambers. Overwhelmed by the prince's intense aura, the boy's foot caught on the edge of a rug. He stumbled, and a splash of cold water sloshed from the pitcher, sprinkling Devansh's royal boots and the hem of his angarkha.
Time seemed to freeze. The boy looked up, his face a mask of pure terror, expecting a kind word, a gentle smile, the famous compassion of the Melody Prince.
Devansh stopped. He looked down at the water droplets on his boots, then slowly, his gaze lifted to the trembling servant. He did not speak. He simply stared. His eyes, from the reader's perspective, did not just hold cold anger. For a single, terrifying heartbeat, a faint, crimson glow flickered deep within his irises, like embers stirred by a sudden gust of wind. It was there and gone so fast that the servant, in his panic, surely missed it. But it was a glimpse into something not of this world, a supernatural fury simmering just beneath the surface.
The silent, cold pressure of his stare was worse than any shout. The boy made a small, choked sound, dropped the pitcher with a loud clang that echoed in the corridor, and scrambled away, disappearing around a corner as if the demons of Mayapuri themselves were at his heels.
Devansh watched him go, his expression unchanging. He then glanced down at the spilled water and the fallen pitcher, his lip curling in a faint, uncharacteristic sneer of disgust before he continued walking, leaving the mess behind.
The incident did not go unnoticed. Two court ladies, hidden behind a pillar, had witnessed the entire exchange. They hadn't seen the red glow—that secret was for the reader alone—but they had seen the paralyzing coldness.
"Did you see that?" one whispered, her hand over her heart. "He didn't say a word. He just... looked."
"The Prince..." the other replied, her voice hushed with a new kind of fear. "...he is changed."
The whispers began that day, soft at first, like the first drops of rain before a storm. They spoke of a new hardness in their prince, a strange and unsettling absence of the gentle soul they had all loved. The crack was no longer hairline; it was widening, and through it, a chilling darkness was beginning to seep into the very heart of the moonlit palace. The hero had returned, but a part of him had been left behind in the shadows of Mayapuri, replaced by something that wore his face but had forgotten his heart. And only the reader knew the terrifying truth—it was not just his heart that was changing. Something far more sinister was taking root.