Ashes of Ambition

In the kingdom of Kundalapura, ruled by a mighty king named Pravarasena. His reign was long, just, and prosperous. The people called him lion-hearted, but it was his sons who would carry the weight of legacy.

The elder, Devaratha, was calm as still water and sharp as Indra’s thunderbolt. He was the kind of prince who spoke only when needed, and when he did, even the wind stopped to listen. A master of restraint. A lover of dharma.

The younger, Viraj, was made of fire. Brilliant. Fierce. Restless. His voice thundered in debates. His arrows split trees before the leaves could rustle. He was the storm no one could ignore, the flame that drew both awe and fear.

They were born of the same blood. Raised in the same halls. But the throne had room for only one.

When the time came to declare the yuvaraja, the sages, ministers, and generals spoke with one voice.

Devaratha.

He was the choice of the people. The heir of calm. The one who would not be consumed by his own brilliance.

And Viraj? He stood there as garlands were placed on his brother’s shoulders. He bowed when the rites demanded it, but his eyes—his eyes were embers under ash.

That night, he left the palace.

He rode west, into the forested borders where Mahendrapura’s war camps spread like rot. Enemies of Kundalapura. Long-time rivals. And yet, Viraj walked in like a man with no fear—because he had already thrown his loyalty into the fire.

He offered them something no weapon could buy.

Secrets.

He told them how the city breathed, how the guards rotated, which rituals protected the gates, which officials could be bribed, which villages would break first.

And in return, he asked for one thing:

'When you conquer Kundalapura,' he said, 'give me the crown.'

The king of Mahendrapura smiled. He agreed.

Weeks passed.

Fires erupted in royal storehouses. Wells were poisoned. Trade routes collapsed. Whispers turned into riots. The kingdom’s faith in Devaratha began to crack—not because he failed, but because the foundation itself was being eaten from within.

Viraj watched from the shadows. He felt the first ripple of triumph as famine took root. He laughed when the first minister was falsely accused. He moved pieces like a master of puppets, each string tied to ruin.

When the kingdom was weakest, the Mahendrapura struck.

The protectors of the kingdom found themselves surrounded from within. The sacred fire that once guarded the capital had already been extinguished—Viraj had seen to it.

Temples were looted. Palaces ransacked. Families scattered. Devaratha vanished into smoke and memory.

Kundalapura fell.

But the story doesn’t end with Viraj on the throne.

Because the Mahendrapuras had no intention of keeping promises made to traitors.

They placed one of their own as ruler and tossed Viraj aside like the broken hilt of a sword no longer needed. He had been useful. But now, he was dangerous—even to them.

The man who burned his kingdom never got to rule the ashes.

The End

Kundalapura did not fall to an army.
It did not fall to a curse.
It fell to a prince who could not accept being second.

Viraj could not be the captain.
So he sank the ship.

And in the centuries that followed, his name was spoken only in warnings.

As a lesson:

Beware the man who would rather destroy the crown than see it on another’s head.

Ramaswamy Sastry and Vighnesh Ghanapaathi