The dinner

His pov

By the time we reached the palace, the last light of evening had softened into a muted gold, settling quietly over the stone walls and high arches. The gates opened without delay, and we were led inside with a precision that spoke more of discipline than display.

At the entrance stood Prince Vimokasha.

He greeted us with a composed nod, his voice even. “Welcome. I trust your journey was comfortable.”

“It was,” I replied.

There was no flourish in him, no unnecessary courtesy wrapped in sweetness. His gaze was direct—assessing, but not intrusive. He gestured lightly for us to follow, and we moved through corridors lit with steady lamps, their glow warm but controlled.

He showed us the guest chambers one by one, each prepared with care, though nothing felt excessive.

“If you need anything,” he said, pausing briefly at the doorway, “the attendants are available at all times.” His tone remained the same—clear, unembellished. “Please take some rest. We will meet again at dinner.” We inclined our heads in agreement. And just like that, he left.

For a moment, the room settled into silence. Hriday exhaled first, glancing toward the closed door. “Straightforward.” I gave a faint nod, walking further inside. “No extra generosity. No unnecessary charm.”

He leaned slightly against the table. “Makes it easier to read him.”

“Or harder,” I said. “There’s nothing to distract us from what matters.”

He considered that, then gave a small nod of his own.

A knock followed soon after.

An attendant stepped in, bowing respectfully. “If you require fresh clothes, refreshments, or anything else, please let us know.”

Hriday waved a hand lightly. “We’re fine.”

The attendant left instantly and Hriday continues, “He is quite clear about the fact why we are here.” I nodded in agreement. There was a brief pause—then his gaze shifted, more intent now. “Did something happen in the jungle?”

The question was direct, but not careless. He remembered. Of course he did—Hriday missed very little.

I allowed myself a faint smile, steady and controlled. “Nothing related to this negotiation.”

He held my gaze for a moment longer, searching—not for the answer I gave, but for what I chose not to. Then, without pressing further, he nodded, accepting it… or choosing to, for now.

Before the silence could deepen again, another knock broke through.

An attendant entered, bowing once more. “Dinner has been arranged. You may join at your convenience.”

The words lingered softly in the room, carrying with them the quiet promise of what was yet to unfold. Hriday glanced at me, a silent question in his eyes.

I gave a small nod.

That was all he needed.

“We’ll come,” he said simply.

The attendant inclined his head and turned at once, motioning for us to follow. “This way.”

We followed the attendant through long corridors that seemed quieter now, as if the palace itself had settled into evening composure. The dining hall opened before us—not overwhelming, but deliberate in its design.

The meal had already been laid out. It was arranged traditionally on the floor, with rich carpets spread beneath, low settings marked for each person. Brass thalis gleamed under the soft lamplight, and cushions had been placed with quiet precision. It was royal, unmistakably—but rooted, intentional.

Before we could take it in further, Prince Vimokasha approached us again.

“This way,” he said.

We followed.

As we stepped closer, I noticed the others already present.

At the head sat the king and queen—I recognized them immediately. Their presence carried weight, but not intimidation. They observed more than they spoke.

Beside them, a few familiar and unfamiliar faces formed the rest of the gathering.

“There is no need for formality tonight,” Vimokasha said as we approached, though his tone remained as direct as ever. “But introductions should not be neglected.”

He introduced the people around him one by one. The king was his father, Raja Yashorath, and beside him sat his mother, Rani Vasantika. We bowed our heads respectfully before them. He then acknowledged the kingdom's minister before directing my attention to a graceful woman seated nearby—his elder brother's wife. His brother, he explained, was currently away on business beyond the kingdom's borders.

She offered a small, polite nod—observant eyes, quiet presence.

“And…” his tone softened just a fraction, “their son. Rudra.”

The boy—no older than seven or eight—looked at us with open curiosity, unfiltered in a way no one else in the room allowed themselves to be.

I inclined my head slightly toward him.

He didn’t look away.

Interesting.

“And you know me,” Vimokasha finished simply.

Of course.

I gestured lightly toward Hriday. “Commander Hriday.”

Hriday gave a short nod—firm, respectful.

“And I,” I added, “represent my kingdom for the discussion ahead.” No titles stretched longer than needed. We took our places.

The meal began without announcement.

Attendants moved quietly, ensuring everything was in place, but no one hovered unnecessarily. The food was already served—varied, carefully arranged, and still warm.

For a while, there was only the soft rhythm of dining.

The king asked first, his voice calm, measured. “Was your stay comfortable?”

“It was,” I replied. “Your arrangements are thoughtful.”

The queen added gently, “We hope the journey did not tire you too much.”

“Nothing we are not used to,” Hriday answered.

A faint smile touched her lips.

Across from me, the young boy leaned slightly toward his mother and whispered something—not quietly enough.

“Are they warriors?”

A brief pause followed.

His mother gave him a look, soft but warning.

I almost smiled.

Hriday, however, answered before anyone else could. “Sometimes.”

The boy’s eyes widened just a little.

“And sometimes,” I added, glancing at him, “we sit through long discussions.”

That seemed to disappoint him slightly.

Good.

Let him learn early.

A few soft chuckles moved through the room—nothing loud, but enough to ease the air just a fraction.

Vimokasha remained mostly silent, speaking only when needed.

“Try this,” he said once, indicating a dish. “It is prepared differently here.”

No insistence. Just information.

I did.

He was right.

The conversations stayed light—travel, seasons, trade routes in general terms. Nothing precise. Nothing binding. Not a single word of actual negotiation crossed the space. And yet everything felt like preparation.

When the meal ended, attendants stepped in quietly, clearing without disrupting the flow.

The shift was subtle—but unmistakable.

The queen rose first, followed by the lady and the child, who cast one last curious glance in our direction before leaving.

What remained— was purpose. The king stayed. So did Prince Vimokasha. Their minister. Hriday. And me. The king rose.

And as if guided by a single, unspoken command, everyone else followed. No chair remained occupied. No delay, no hesitation. The movement was immediate—instinctive. Authority did not need to announce itself here; it was understood.

The room stilled. He looked at us, his expression calm, measured, carrying neither warmth nor distance—only presence.

“I hope you found this welcome to your liking,” he said, his voice steady, carrying easily across the hall. Then, after the briefest pause, “But it is quite late for the purpose that brings us together.”

No one interrupted.

“We will speak tomorrow.”

Simple.

Final.

I inclined my head, and beside me, Hriday did the same. No elaboration was needed—none expected.

At his side, Prince Vimokasha lowered his head slightly as well. “Rest well.”

We offered our acknowledgments in return, the formality brief but precise. And just like that, the gathering dissolved—not into disorder, but into quiet dispersal.

No one attempted to extend the moment.

Because it was understood— tonight was never meant for decisions. The corridors felt different now as we walked back. Quieter than before, but not empty—like a place holding its breath rather than resting.

Our footsteps echoed softly against the stone, steady, unhurried.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then Hriday exhaled under his breath. “They kept it light.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Too light.”

I glanced at him briefly. “Not really.”

He frowned slightly. “You don’t think so?”

I looked ahead, my voice calm. “They showed us exactly what they wanted to show. Nothing more.”

He was silent for a moment, considering that.

“And tomorrow?” he asked.

I allowed a faint pause.

“Tomorrow,” I said quietly, “they stop showing… and start asking. And just like that we both walked to our respected chamber.