The scent of burning saffron and rich cardamom hung heavy in the air of the royal dining hall. It was a chamber built to intimidate, walled in polished black marble that mirrored the flickering amber glow of a hundred silver oil lamps.
The ministers sat on low, silk-cushioned diwans along a massive u-shaped table, which groaned under the weight of silver platters piled high with spiced rices, rich curries, and roasted meats.At the head of the table sat Arvin, flanked by the Queen Mother. The tension in the room was thicker than the smoke from the incense burners; every clink of a silver spoon against brass felt like a challenge. The ministers ate with practiced caution, their eyes darting between the young king and the matriarch who had outmaneuvered them for four long years. Arvin had barely touched his food, his dark eyes fixed on the Prime Minister, waiting for the first man to test the depth of his waters.
The heavy silence was broken by the sharp scrape of a silver cup against the table. The Prime Minister, an elder with a snow-white beard and eyes like flint, wiped his fingers on a silk cloth and leaned forward.
"The transition of power is always a delicate dance, Samrat," the Prime Minister said, his tone dripping with formal deference that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"The treasury is lean after four years of... cautious management. Perhaps it is wise to delay your grand coronation until the harvest taxes are fully collected." Prime minister ended his take of conversation with a sip from his glass.
Across the table, a younger, ambitious minister offered a tight, patronizing smile.
"The Prime Minister speaks with wisdom, Your Grace. The borders are restless. A young king spending gold on a crown while the army waits for rations might look... short-sighted to the people."
The Queen Mother raised her goblet slightly, her eyes locking onto the young minister.
"The army was paid in full two days ago, Minister. Did your accounting clerks fail to inform you, or do you simply make a habit of miscounting my gold?" The young minister choked on his wine, coughing into his sleeve as the table went dead silent again.
Arvin quietly picked up a piece of flatbread, breaking it with one hand, his gaze remaining fixed on the Prime Minister.
"A crown crafted from gold weighs exactly the same as one forged from iron, Prime Minister," Arvin said, his voice smooth and unhurried.
"The realm does not need a spectacle of dancing elephants and scattered coins to know who rules it. We will have a simple ceremony, the traditional anointing, the royal oath, and nothing more." He turned his gaze slowly to the younger minister, who was still flushing red.
"The gold you are so deeply concerned about saving will remain exactly where it belongs: in the treasury, funding the western outposts. My father's memory is honored by securing his borders, not by feeding a thousand court parasites."
The Prime Minister stared at Arvin, his flint-like eyes narrowing slightly as he realized the young king could not be easily baited or manipulated by budget traps.
The Queen Mother leaned back into her silk cushions, her fingers casually tracing the rim of her goblet. Her gaze swept over the table, catching the nervous glances of the men who had spent years trying to undermine her authority.
"For years, you looked at me and saw a shield, a temporary barrier keeping the wolves at bay," she said, her voice dripping with smooth, icy amusement.
"You thought you could manage a boy where you failed to manipulate a woman. But look closely at the man sitting beside me. I did not spend a decade guarding this throne just to hand it to a puppet. The King has spoken. If any man at this table truly believes a grand feast defines a Samrat, let him step forward now. Otherwise, finish your meals, accept your new master, and prepare the anointing oils for tomorrow."
The ministers bowed in acceptance and the dinner continued with sheer silence.
She did not look at Arvin, but her posture mirrored his perfectly, projecting a united front of absolute authority that left the ministers completely speechless. The message to the council was absolute: the regency was over, but the alliance between mother and son was completely unbreakable.
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