### Chapter 3: The Corridor
He hadn't made it far.
Two turns from the chamber doors—no more than twenty paces—when the footsteps began.
Not the quiet, measured tread of attendants.
These were deliberate.
Unhurried.
The walk of a man who did not need to announce himself.
Arshdeep kept his pace steady.
He did not slow.
He did not quicken.
A figure fell into step beside him.
Older—perhaps in his forties. Well dressed, though not ostentatiously so. His attire spoke of rank without shouting it. A neatly kept beard framed a composed face, his eyes calm but far too observant.
"Kunwar ji," the man said, inclining his head just enough. "It is good to see you recovered."
Arshdeep did not look at him immediately.
"I am well," he replied.
The man nodded, as if confirming something for himself.
"These accidents can be… unfortunate," he continued. "A moment's lapse can change much."
There was no sympathy in his tone.
Only implication.
Arshdeep said nothing.
"I am Dhian Singh," the man added after a pause. "I serve His Highness in matters of state."
Simple words.
Heavy meaning.
Arshdeep turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge him.
"I've heard of you."
Not entirely true.
But not entirely false either.
A faint smile touched Dhian Singh's lips.
"Then I am relieved my reputation has not failed me."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
The corridor widened ahead, sunlight filtering through carved arches and casting long shadows across the stone.
Dhian Singh's gaze shifted—not away, but deeper.
Measuring.
"The Maharaja gave you his time," he said. "That is not done lightly."
"Is it," Arshdeep replied.
"No."
A pause.
"Those who receive it are… remembered."
There it is.
Not advice.
A warning wrapped as observation.
Arshdeep kept his expression neutral.
"That must make your position difficult," he said. "Remembering so many things."
For a moment—
Just a moment—
Dhian Singh's smile changed.
Not gone.
Sharpened.
"It requires practice," he said.
"I imagine it does."
They approached a junction.
One path led inward—toward the royal quarters.
The other, outward—toward the administrative courts.
Arshdeep slowed.
Then stopped.
He turned to face Dhian Singh fully for the first time.
Not challenging.
Not deferential.
Balanced.
"Thank you for the conversation," he said.
Dhian Singh inclined his head again.
"The court can be… complex," he said. "Even for those born into it."
"I'll learn," Arshdeep replied.
There was no hesitation in his voice.
No arrogance either.
Just certainty.
Dhian Singh studied him for a long moment.
Longer than courtesy required.
Then—
"I believe you will," he said.
Arshdeep held his gaze a heartbeat longer.
Then turned.
And walked toward the inner quarters.
—
He did not look back.
But he didn't need to.
He could feel it.
Attention.
Not casual.
Not dismissive.
Focused.
Dhian Singh had not approached him by chance.
Men in his position did not move without reason.
Which meant—
The audience had already spread.
Not in words.
But in impressions.
The steadiness.
The answers.
The way he had spoken without fear.
That was enough.
More than enough.
He turned into a quieter passage, away from the main corridors.
His thoughts moved quickly.
The Maharaja tests from the front.
Direct.
Controlled.
Dhian Singh—
From the side.
Subtle.
Layered.
Different methods.
Same purpose.
To understand.
To measure.
To decide.
That was how this court functioned.
Not through noise.
But through observation.
—
His assigned chamber was modest.
Stone walls.
A simple charpai.
A narrow window opening to an inner garden.
Not neglect.
Not luxury.
Position.
Temporary.
Arshdeep sat down slowly.
His hands rested in his lap.
Small.
Unscarred.
Still unfamiliar.
This body is eleven years old.
The thought settled heavily.
A mind filled with knowledge—
Placed inside a form no one would take seriously.
Not yet.
That was his weakness.
And his shield.
Unless they began to look closer.
He thought of Dhian Singh's gaze.
That brief shift.
Expectation changing into attention.
He had not been dismissed.
He had been noted.
That was worse.
Because what is noted—
Is tested again.
Harder.
He lay back, eyes on the ceiling.
Outside, faint sounds of movement drifted in from the courtyard.
Life continued.
Unbothered.
Unaware.
You have time, he told himself.
Not much.
But enough.
—
The sound came softly.
From outside the door.
Not a knock.
Not footsteps.
Just—
The faint brush of fabric against stone.
Then stillness.
Someone was there.
Listening.
Waiting.
The silence pressed against the wood like weight.
Arshdeep did not move.
Did not react.
Three heartbeats.
Four.
Then—
It was gone.
Footsteps fading.
Measured.
Controlled.
He remained still.
Eyes open in the dim light.
The court was not merely political.
It was watching.
—
Sleep, when it came, was shallow.