Rohak entered the Jangal Mandala. At the outskirts of the forest, he saw guards patrolling everywhere—silent, watchful figures moving between tree trunks, their armor faintly glinting through the mist. Before he could take ten steps, two guards approached him and blocked his way.
"State your name and reason for visit," one guard demanded, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his weapon.
"I travel from the capital city, Suryagadh. I have business with the local vendors in the city of Padmapur. You can check my permit and the seal of Lady Rankriti on the letter," Rohak replied calmly, pulling out a folded document.
The guard took it with a skeptical look. After glancing at the seal, he scoffed. "This Mandala doesn't recognise that seal anymore. This territory is completely under his lordship Sarthak. We advise you return right away."
"What? Why? What happened? When I left the capital two weeks ago, everything was fine! If I don't get to the market, I lose all my business. My family depends on this. Why does this always happen? These overlords change the rules and we suffer. What am I going to say to my father now?" Rohak said, raising his voice slightly as if on the verge of panic. He shook his head and clenched his fists, beginning to pace.
The guards exchanged glances. One of them gestured for him to calm down. "Keep your voice down. We understand, but the rules have changed. You're not getting through."
"You don't understand," Rohak pressed. "I cannot go back without the trade. I have to collect the monthly payment from these vendors. Please, I beg you, this isn't just about money—it's survival. Just because a new ruler came to power doesn't mean me and my family shouldn't eat. I'm sure even you didn't want to be stationed in a damp, wet forest, away from your families, guarding and protecting those in power. You're patrolling this forest while they sleep in their comfortable beds. Do you think this is fair to us?"
Rohak was about to fake tears when one of the guards sighed and motioned for him to follow. "Come with me," he said. He took Rohak to a small guarding station—an open tent with wooden poles and a tattered canopy. A supervisor sat at a crude desk, his muscular frame hunched over a stack of papers. A long scar ran down from his brow to his cheek.
The guard pulled Rohak inside the tent. "Sir, this man is from the capital. He has a permit and a ruling seal. He says he's a visitor to Padmapur for a small trade."
The supervisor didn't even look up. "Didn't you ask him to go back? No one is allowed inside anymore. We do not recognise your ruling. This territory belongs to Sarthak."
"I know," Rohak said, bowing low. "But if you don't allow me to enter, I will lose everything I have put into this trade. Please let me pass. I only have to collect the dues and leave. My family needs this money."
The supervisor finally looked up, squinting at Rohak as if measuring his worth. "You must pay the taxes to enter Padmapur. Twenty percent of what you collect. And a guard will accompany you the entire time. No exceptions."
Rohak faltered for a second. "Sir, I'm a poor man. If I give you twenty percent, I will barely have anything left for my family."
"I've had enough of this," the supervisor snapped. "Send him back. Don't let him near the border again."
"Please, sir! I'll pay the taxes, but let me pass through," Rohak pleaded as the guard took him by the arm.
The supervisor paused, then smirked. "All right. Pay the taxes and go."
"I only possess a few mudras right now. You can have them. I'll give you a signed letter confirming the full payment once I return. You're sending a guard with me anyway—I won't run."
The supervisor leaned back, clearly enjoying the negotiation. "Fine. Hand over however much you have right now. On return, you will pay me in full. Sign here." He scribbled on a rough scrap of paper.
Rohak took the pen and signed without hesitation. As he handed over a small pouch of coins, the supervisor's gaze fell on the hilt of his sword.
"Oh also, Mr. poor trader," he said with mocking politeness, "I would like to have your beautiful sword as a precautionary measure. I don't want you to cut yourself on your trade deal. Please collect the sword once you are back."
Rohak hesitated. "This is just a show sword—a gift for my business partner in the city."
"Don't worry," the supervisor replied, grinning. "Your gift will be safe with me. Get your partner to the border and collect it."
Rohak knew then that the supervisor had seen through his lie. But he nodded and handed over the blade. Inside, his heart raced. He would have to be careful.
He was now accompanied by a guard. His goal was simple: enter Padmapur and find the mark. The hardest part—crossing the border—was done. But the mission had just begun.
They walked for nearly an hour, the forest thickening before thinning out again as they approached the outer limits of Padmapur. The city's wooden gates stood open, but guards lined the walls and walkways, watching every movement.
And yet inside, the city thrived. The streets were alive with purpose. People worked at shops, some hammered metal parts, others operated machines Rohak had never seen before. The clanging of tools and rhythmic humming of strange equipment echoed through the lanes. He had expected wilderness. What he found was something else entirely.
He had never seen such harmony. Humans worked shoulder to shoulder with Kaalraths, their mechanical arms moving with practiced precision. Kshoniraajas barked out orders near the loading yards. Ashvaraths calmly sorted raw materials into giant woven baskets. The sheer order and cooperation stunned him.
But then something else caught his eye—a figure unlike any he had seen before.
A dark-skinned man emerged from a shop, carrying a wooden crate the size of a table, brimming with fruits. His skin shimmered with a deep reddish hue, and tattoos like crackling lightning ran across his arms and neck. His hair was the colour of embers—dark red glowing faintly in the sunlight. His eyes glowed ever so slightly.
He carried the crate as if it weighed nothing.
Rohak stared. And then he saw others—women draped in saree-like garments made of iridescent cloth, some in tight-fitting shirts and trousers, their movements fluid and confident. They wore ornaments made of polished stones he couldn't identify—gleaming in colors his eyes had never caught before.
The air felt different here. Charged. Purposeful.
Rohak could hardly take it all in. "This place... it's nothing like the rest of Bharatvarsha," he thought.
"Which street do you want to go to?" the guard asked, breaking Rohak's trance.
"Huh...?" Rohak blinked. "Oh yeah... I'm not sure. I'll need to check the details. This is my first time here. I came a long time ago with my father."
The guard narrowed his eyes slightly but said nothing.
Rohak had entered the city. But he didn't know where to go yet. He needed to find a way to shake the guard off—without raising alarms. Somewhere ahead was the temple of Aghorvan. And somewhere, hidden in plain sight, was the mark of the two-headed eagle.
And now, time was running out.