Taimur rode hard toward the capital. By nightfall, he would reach it—no more than half a day’s ride remained.Ahead of him rose Gulamabad.The City of Slaves.That was what Taimur called it. What many called it. It was said that the blood of tens of thousands had been spilled to raise its walls, that the city’s foundations were laid not with stone alone, but with broken backs and severed lives. Gulamabad had not been built—it had been paid for.Taimur rode at the head of fifty royal guards, their horses moving in disciplined silence. They wore gray armor dulled by dust and travel, cloaked in matching mantles that bore the banner of their house—Ekatvam.The sigil was stitched in dark thread: two hands reaching from opposite sides, clasping firmly at the center. Unity, bound by force if not by will.It had not always been so.Before Gulamabad fell, their banner had been a simple thing—a brown bear devouring a fish. Strength. Hunger. Dominion. But Taimur’s grandfather had cast it aside after the conquest. When the city was taken, when its people were chained and its name rewritten, he declared a new truth.We are not conquerors, he had said. We are unifiers.And so the banner changed.Now it flew from cloaks and spears, from the tall standards carried by two horsemen riding ahead of the column, snapping softly in the wind as Gulamabad loomed closer with every step of the horses.Taimur’s gaze never left the city.Jalal rode up beside his brother, his horse stepping lightly despite the churned road. He wore blue silk that shimmered even under the dust, expensive fabric weighed down with rubies stitched into the collar and sleeves. He looked painfully clean for a man riding through half a battlefield’s worth of dirt.He wrinkled his nose and smiled.“This dust makes me sick, brother. Doesn’t it trouble you as well?” He tilted his head, studying Taimur’s face. “You look… bothered.”The grin that followed was lazy. Stupid.Taimur spat onto the road.“You know exactly why I’m upset, Jalal. No wine at the last camp. No whores.” He scowled. “I feel like half a man. And then—by the king’s order—you make me leave my men behind.”Jalal placed a hand over his heart in mock sympathy.“Oh, my sweet brother,” he said. “A hero is returning to the capital.”His grin widened.“A hero who put traitors to death,” Jalal went on lightly. “Even if those traitors were children. Women. Old, weak men.”Taimur’s hand twitched. For a moment, he genuinely considered breaking Jalal’s teeth.But Jalal wasn’t finished.“It’s the word traitor that matters,” he said, tapping his temple. “Not who they were. That’s what the people care about.” He leaned closer. “And a hero should not arrive drunk on wine, rubbing his temples, half-asleep because he spent the night buried in whores.”He gestured vaguely toward the road ahead.“Nor should he arrive with a pack of brutal men—no offense to your soldiers, brother. A hero arrives high and mighty. Head held proud. Leading the line.” His eyes gleamed. “And escorted by honorable royal guards. And truly—who is more honorable than them?”Taimur barked out a laugh.“For fuck’s sake,” he said. “They call me a drunk killer behind my back—but they can’t see me drunk.” He shook his head. “What kind of irony is that?”He spat again.“Go,” Taimur said at last. “Bring me my war hammer. At least I’ll have something familiar in my hands when I enter that piss hole of a city.”Jalal dipped his head, amused.“As you wish, my brother.”He turned his horse and rode back toward the wagons where Taimur’s war hammer rested, polished and waiting.By nightfall, Taimur stood before Gulamabad with his war hammer resting in his hand.Jalal was at his side, silk dulled by dust at last, and behind them stood the royal guard—fifty men in gray armor, motionless, their cloaks heavy with the banner of EKATVAM. Two hands reaching toward one another, fingers nearly touching. Unity, forged in blood.Outside the capital, there was nothing.No villages. No farms. No scattered lights in the dark. Just open land, scraped bare by decree and fear alike. Gulamabad did not tolerate neighbors. It fed on them.The city walls loomed ahead—nearly fifty feet high, thick as a fortress should be. They said thousands had died trying to breach them. That only a handful had ever succeeded. Taimur believed it. Stone like that was built to endure screams.A horn sounded from above—long and deep, echoing across the empty plain.The signal of the royal family.Taimur snorted.“You really think those rats would be waiting outside to welcome me at night?”Jalal smiled faintly.“if not that horn gave them no choice.”Taimur shrugged, tightening his grip on the hammer. The weight of it steadied him. Steel he understood. Walls, men, and fear—those he understood too.With a groan like something old and wounded, the massive iron gates began to move.Thirty feet of blackened metal pulled inward, chains rattling, hinges screaming in protest. Torchlight spilled through the widening gap, casting long, trembling shadows across the ground—shadows that reached toward Taimur as if the city itself were stretching out to claim him.Gulamabad was awake.Taimur passed through the gates of Gulamabad—and the city swallowed him whole.People lined both sides of the road, packed so tightly there was barely space to breathe. Torches hung from balconies and walls, their flames dancing in the night wind. Lanterns were held aloft in countless hands. Every house burned with light—candles in windows, oil lamps on doorsteps—so that inside the city, night seemed to have been driven away entirely.Petals fell from above.Roses—red and pale—rained down on Taimur and the royal guard, crushed beneath hooves, clinging to armor and cloaks. The air smelled of smoke, oil, and flowers. Taimur had never liked roses. They reminded him too much of graves.But the sound—The sound he enjoyed.They chanted his name. Over and over. A roar that rolled down the streets like thunder trapped between stone walls. Then the chanting turned to song—old, fierce, and proud.It was a song about a man who had lived a thousand years ago. A butcher of traitors. A name spoken only in legends now. "When the oath was broken and the realm stood torn,"He rose with iron and wrath reborn.No plea was heard, no mercy shown,The traitor’s head met the judgment stone.Sing his name, the faithless fear,Blood-bound steel, the end is near.One hand falls, the realm stands tall—Traitors kneel, or traitors fall. "They sang it for Taimur.They made him that man.Taimur felt it then—the pull of it. The heat. The hunger in their voices. He didn’t care for the flowers, but the song crawled into his chest and stayed there.Beside him, Jalal leaned closer, silk shimmering even under torchlight.“Raise the hammer,” he murmured. “Let them see what crushed the skulls of traitors.” His lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Enjoy your glory, brother. This moment belongs to you.”Then Jalal was gone, slipping away down a side street with a handful of guards, already vanishing into shadow and purpose.Taimur lifted his war hammer.The crowd erupted.The ground seemed to scream with them—voices bursting from thousands of throats, shaking the stone beneath his horse’s hooves. As far as Taimur could see, the streets were filled with people, faces lit gold by firelight, eyes fixed on him as if he were something carved from legend rather than flesh.Every house burned with light.Above it all, rising at the far end of the city, stood the castle.Built centuries ago by King Gafar—the man who had shaped Gulamabad into what it was now. A fortress of stone and ambition, towering over the city like a watchful god. Tonight, it was drenched in light, every tower and wall glowing against the dark sky.Taimur stared at it, hammer raised, roses crushed beneath him, the city chanting his name.And Gulamabad loved him.It was a long ride through Gulamabad.The crowd broke formation again and again, spilling into the road despite the shouts of the royal guard. Hands reached for Taimur—fingers brushing his boots, his stirrups, the haft of his war hammer. They wanted to touch him, as if skin could borrow glory.One man pushed too close. He dropped to his knees and clutched Taimur’s leg, sobbing, calling him savior.Taimur didn’t even look down.He kicked the man hard in the stomach. The man folded, gasping, as the royal guard surged forward, dragging him away and closing ranks around their prince.Taimur exhaled through his nose, furious—not at the man, but at everything. A week on the road. Dust in his lungs. No wine. No sleep worth remembering. All he wanted now was a bed and silence.At last, the castle gates closed behind him with a deep iron groan, sealing the noise of the city outside.He dismissed his guards with a wave and handed his horse to a stable boy and Warhammer to one of the servant. The animal’s sides heaved, sweat darkening its coat. Even the beast looked relieved to be free of Taimur’s massive weight—and the war hammer strapped across its back.Taimur walked on alone.The inner grounds of the castle stretched wide and orderly, almost offensively so. Gardens lined both sides of the stone path—trimmed hedges, silent fountains, flowers that smelled too clean for a city built on blood. Beyond them rose massive towers, each one housing royal guards, council members, or servants who spent their lives whispering instead of fighting.Ahead stood the heart of it all: Gaffar Mahal.The main castle was built of red stone hauled from distant Irania, its surface darkened by age and smoke. Four enormous towers anchored its corners, rising like spears into the night sky. Taimur had always thought them useless—symbols meant to impress fools, not walls meant to stop an army.He hated this place.His home was outside these walls—under open sky, in camps that stank of sweat and fire. Killing. Drinking. Fucking. Living. Here, he had to pretend. Had to sit straight. Had to speak carefully. Had to be royal.He thought of his wife. Of his seven children. Noise. Demands. Expectations.Only one of them mattered to him.Tahir.His eldest. Strong. Sharp-eyed. Born to rule.Taimur smiled faintly at the thought. Tahir would inherit the throne—not because Taimur was firstborn, but because fate had cleared the path. His older brother had never recovered from his first wife’s death. Never remarried. Never produced an heir.When Taimur became king, he swore silently, he would not rot behind walls.He would conquer all four realms—like Changez of the Four Winds—and place them at Tahir’s feet.A kingdom earned in blood was the only kind worth ruling.As Taimur reached the front gate of Gaffar Mahal, he found no guards waiting.Jalal stood there instead.A faint smile played on his lips. “The king wants an audience.”Taimur stopped short. “What the fuck does he want now? I want to sleep. Tell him tomorrow.”Jalal’s smile didn’t fade, but his voice cooled. “Mind your language, brother. This is the royal castle. And this”—he gestured lightly toward the towering stone around them—“is his place. You don’t say no to him.”“He leaves for Irania at first light,” Jalal said. “If he wants to see you, it’s now.”Taimur scoffed. “He and his stupid travels. Can’t he sit still in one damn city?”Taimur exhaled sharply, then waved Jalal aside. “Out of the way. I’ll hear whatever he has to say.”Jalal stepped back, opening the path. “Perhaps he wishes to reward you for your bravery,” he added lightly.Taimur didn’t answer.He pushed open the inner gate and entered the palace halls. Torchlight lined the walls, casting long shadows across stone polished by centuries of power. Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light dimmer now, leaving much of the corridor in half-darkness. Doors passed by on either side—most closed, most silent. The palace felt hollow at night, like a monument that had outlived its purpose.He passed the throne room and slowed for just a heartbeat.The Sun Throne sat empty—golden, heavy with rubies, obscene in its wealth. Taimur held its gaze for a moment longer than he intended, then looked away with a quiet snort.His brother’s chambers lay on the third floor.He climbed the stairs, cursing under his breath the entire way. Each step echoed in the silence, as if the castle itself listened. At last, he reached the door—taller than most, carved thick with useless symbols of lineage and divinity.He pushed it open.The room beyond was vast. Too vast. A massive bed dominated the center, draped in silks. Five tables stood scattered about, each cluttered with maps, scrolls, goblets, or half-burned candles.A waste, Taimur thought. Who needs five tables?A chandelier hung overhead, its crystal catching the torchlight in lazy glimmers. Tall windows lined the walls, and beyond them, a wide balcony stood open to the night air.Taimur walked straight toward it.King Maqbool stood at the edge of the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at the stars above Gulamabad. He wore simple clothes—dark, unadorned, almost plain for a king. His skin was weathered and brown, his massive beard streaked with gray, his long black hair pulled back, white creeping in at the edges.He was a tall man, nearly six feet, broad in the shoulders even now.And yet, he always looked tired.The weight of the realm clung to him like a second skin.His brother was singing softly.Low, almost to himself—an old tune, slurred by time and mockery rather than drink. “Gold on the throne, fear in the hall,Steel at the gate, but the king won’t call.Let the walls stand, let the brave men die,The piss-king hides while the city cries.” Maqbool turned at last, his eyes heavy, rimmed with fatigue. A faint smile tugged at his beard.“Do you know the song, Taimur?”Taimur frowned. He stayed awake for this?“My lord,” he said carefully, “it’s about the king who ruled before us. I’ve heard it… in brothels and at feasts.”Maqbool gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, you’ve heard it, that’s certain.” He began walking slowly toward the bed. “But do you know why the realm gave him that name?”Taimur remained silent.“King Fankar,” Maqbool continued, “once held half of Hind. A descendant of King Gaffar—the founder of this city.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “But Fankar died of illness.”Maqbool passed Taimur and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.“His son took the throne,” he went on. “And within a year, he lost half the kingdom. Weak blood, weak spine.” He shook his head. “Our grandfather saw his chance. House Ekatvam—unity.” His eyes flicked to Taimur. “He believed the realm could only be whole if it was taken.”Maqbool rose again, his steps slow but deliberate.“The siege lasted four months. The walls held. Brave men fought and died. The city starved.” His voice hardened. “And where was their king?”He patted the bed.“Here. In his rat hole.”Maqbool walked past Taimur toward the far end of the chamber, toward the massive bathroom.“He never sent the royal guard. Never rode out. So the people of Gulamabad broke.” He paused at the bathroom. “Not for gold. For survival.”He pushed the door open.“They opened the gates themselves. Led our grandfather straight to this room. The royal guard was slaughtered—every last one of them.”He turned his head slightly. “All except one child.”Maqbool stepped inside the washroom, then gestured toward a dark corner.“When our grandfather burst in,” he said quietly, “the king wasn’t on his throne. He was here.”His voice dropped.“Cowering like a worm. Sitting in his own filth.”Maqbool walked back out and stopped at the balcony, the night air stirring his hair.“Our grandfather dragged him out,” he said, resting a hand on the stone railing. “Brought him right here.”He looked over the edge.“And before he threw him down,” Maqbool said, his voice cold and certain, “he told him one thing.”Maqbool walked to Taimur.“You are not the king of Hind,” he said softly.“You are the king of piss.”“What do you think,” Maqbool asked,“am I becoming a piss-king, brother?”Taimur’s jaw tightened.“Who told you that?” he said.“No one,” Maqbool replied. “And everyone.” His eyes stayed on Taimur. “Many think I’m becoming weak. Like Father.”A flicker of anger crossed Taimur’s face. “Did Jalal say something about me, your grace?”Maqbool smiled faintly. “Jalal only says what I need to hear.”He walked back toward the balcony, hands clasped behind his back.“The truth is simple,” he continued. “I fought when it was necessary. Now there is peace.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And people always mistake a peaceful king for a weak one.”Maqbool stopped and turned fully toward him.“But strength isn’t measured by how often you swing a sword,” he said calmly. “You pick up the blade only when it’s needed. Hold it too long, and it buries you early.”He tapped the stone railing once.“The same is true in reverse. If you refuse the blade when the moment demands it, someone stronger will come and take your place.”Taimur opened his mouth to speak.Maqbool raised a hand. Silence.“As for why I don’t openly crush the rebels,” Maqbool went on, “I imagine Jalal has already explained.” His tone sharpened slightly. “People need someone to hate. That hatred keeps them quiet.”He turned back to Taimur.“You killed many innocents,” Maqbool said evenly. “And jalal propaganda turned that into heroism.” A pause. “It saved us from outrage.”Taimur stiffened.“And yes,” Maqbool added, “that was good. Very good.”He sighed and rubbed at his temple.“But understand this—I like that boy, Fazel. I fought beside his father. He was my teacher. Like an uncle to me.”Maqbool’s eyes hardened.“As long as Fazel and his rebels don’t endanger the realm, I’ll let them dream. Let them pretend.” His voice dropped. “But if he grows too bold, I’ll deal with him.”He met Taimur’s gaze.“As I dealt with my teacher. And my father.”The words hung in the air.“They were weak,” Maqbool said simply. “Fazel is insignificant—for now. Let him keep his hopes.”He stepped closer.“But you,” he said quietly, “will be king after me—if you survive long enough.”Maqbool lifted a hand and tapped two fingers against his own forehead.“You’ll need that hammer of yours,” he said, “but you’ll need this more.”He lowered his hand.“Use it.”Maqbool turned away and lay down on the bed.“I’m leaving at first light,” he said, already closing his eyes. “You’re dismissed. Go rest.”Taimur left without another word.The door closed softly behind him.Shame burned in his chest.Anger burned hotter.

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