The Sword in the Stone

Once, there was legend whispered beneath the domes of grand mosques, in a land of

saffron fields and cities with bustling bazaars. They said a King would rise, chosen not

by men but fate itself. There was a sword involved and with it a lie so powerful that

even fate bent its head. And in the kingdom of ruins resided a boy named Athar and

unbeknownst to him, his story had begun the day he was born and sent away by his

father, King Utbah.

In the entirety of the vast terrain the broad silvery metal was the thing that drew the

eye. The warm blade glimmered in the blinding rays of the sun, half buried in the

ancient stone amongst littered ruins. It had been waiting…

Athar’s fingers curled firmly around the hilt as he drew in a sharp breath. Nobody

batted an eye. It was just another day where a young boy tried to test his luck.

“The Shamsheer-e-Sultani1”, Athar exhaled in a whisper.

Gathering all his might but not an ounce of hope, Athar pulled with a grunt. The

sword slid free, smooth as the raw silk draped in the shops on the streets below. The

world erupted. A thousand whispers roared all over the place giving Athar barely a

moment to register the occurrence.

Amidst the frenzy of a gathering assembly a stooped figure made its way through the

crowd. The Vizier Marwan came to stand beside a dazed Athar placing a firm

steadying hand on his shoulder.

“You were always meant to rule, my boy!”, he murmured with a slight curve of a

smile dancing on his lips as Athar’s young stricken eyes met with the familiar fatherly

ones.

But deep inside, Athar felt no triumph nor pride, only a coil of unease tightening in the

pit of his stomach.

Athar had been an orphan, all his life addressed by just his mononym. No lineage. No

name to inherit. Just the boy the venerable Marwan had raised and honed with

craftsmanship like how a blacksmith forges a blade. The Vizier was the only family

he’d known, his presence as steady as the call to prayer. He grew up with dust on his

clothes and calluses on his hands. The Vizier had trained him, whispering tales of a

legendary prophecy, of a chosen ruler who would revive the kingdom out of its state

of ruination.

“You have been chosen by fate, young man,” the Vizier reminded him, ever-patient, as

he guided Athar through the opulent halls of his new palace. “You are a source of

hope for your people!”

Those words pressed down on his conscience with a heavy weight, closing around his

throat like a leash, tugging him in directions he never wished to go.

Athar watched the courtiers and the royal assembly bow low before him, their regard

as unsettling and preternatural as the sheathed sword hanging heavy around his waist;

not the legendary blade that granted magic and wisdom to the wielder — it was just

steel and felt like any other weapon.

Amongst the crowd, unbeknownst to him, his ward, Mehrunissa, lurked in the

shadows, watching her guardian. She had been cast out by her own father, the late

King, banished to the fringes of the kingdom for daring to demand claiming the

throne, not unreasonably but with lineage for she was the King’s only heir. But in a

kingdom where her royal blood was tarnished by the fact that she was born a daughter,

she was exiled for her audacity.

And now, she had returned.

For many nights henceforth, Athar lay restless in a bed far too soft— crafted for

royalty. The silks clung to his skin like unfamiliar truths, and the chambers echoed

with a hush too hollow to call home.

Each night after a long day spent pouring over reports and royal decrees under the

Vizier’s guidance, he found himself ailed by whispers, lilting and low, in a tongue

foreign to him. It would linger through his dreams like the smoke from incense.

One night, drawn to that voice like a moth to a flame, he crept through the palace like

a shadow in the haze of the jasmine-laced stillness of the night, past courtyards

glistening with dew and guards half-asleep.

Beyond the castle walls, he came to the ancient stepwell. Moonlight spilled across the

surface of the stagnant water below, amidst which waited a figure, draped in layers of

silk and satin shawls. She clutched a weathered tasbeeh (rosary), the beads clicking

softly like the ticking of an unseen clock. Time hung heavy.

She was no spirit, she was the Lady of the Lake—wearing the face of a sufi mystic.

She beckoned Athar over. And behind a column, unseen, Mehrunissa watched.

Watched the unraveling of the elaborate lie. Watched the mononymous boy learn the

truth.

“You were born of King Utbah’s blood— but not just his crown.”

Athar stood still.

“Your mother was a Queen once,” she continued. “Of a neighbouring kingdom that

couldn’t survive the test of time. You were born of love of a couple that could never

be and thus you were sent away before your first cry could echo through the marble

halls— the burial of a shameful secret. Raised by Marwan, not out of kindness, but

intent. He brought you here, Athar. Not fate. Him.”

His breath caught in his throat and he took a step back.

“The prophecy is his curation. The sword is not divine, but a tool, planted by Marwan,

for men like him use tools to shape the world as they see fit.”

“And me?” He bit out through clenched teeth, his hands balling into fists with—not

rage—but a cold empty realisation.

She reached out a warm hand and cupped his cheek. “You, Athar, are a man with a

choice. Will you be a King or will you be just another story…?”

“And Mehrunissa? She’s my sister?,” he whispered to himself, distantly.

“And she has watched it all from the shadows. For you, the Once and Future King,

thus far your kingdom has been nothing but a stage, where you were the puppet

dancing on another’s strings. Gather those who will stand by you, and remember, your

sister is no enemy but a valuable asset and trustworthy comrade. Prove your worth and

challenge the lies that bind you.”

From above, veiled in shadow, Mehrunissa watched in silence and nodded silently to

the path destiny had chosen for her.

Back in the silence of his chambers, betrayal, like a plague spread in his chest. A quiet

suffocating hollowness gripped him at the realisation that the father figure he had

trusted and known all his life had only ever guided him towards a lie, only to use him.

A knock on the door at the wake of dawn startled him out of his thoughts as

Mehrunissa joined him. For a long time both remained silent, and only when it was

broken did they unite against all odds, against the powers who had dismissed their

rightful inheritance and undermined their aptitude for way too long and they set to plot

and plan.

A trembling hand reached out to cup his jaw and her thumb caressed his olive skin.

“Athar,” she whispered, her voice catching in the silence brought by the late hour that

was previously only punctured by the crackle of the fire from the hearth, her face

toasted-warm courtesy of the dancing flames and twirling smoke. “You look just like

our father.”

He flinched. “You despised him.”

“I despised what he did. To me. To my mother.”

She looked away, sinking into the richly embroidered divan2, regarding the intricate

handiwork on the armrest wearily.

Again, it was she who fractured the silence first while Athar contemplated his next

words.

“I don’t need your empathy.” He blinked.

“You need my alliance.” He nodded, eyes set with determination. “I do.”

And like a mirror finally mended, siblings once shattered forged a sharp entente—

destined to rip apart the tapestry of their fate.

Then came the day of the Spring Festival. The air was thick with the intoxicating

scents of the blooming spices, herbs and flowers, mingling with the warm aroma of

the street food rich with seasonings. The streets were alive with the vibrant attires

adorned by the people. Sarees and Dupattas3 swayed flamboyantly and gold bangles

clicked with every gesture to the exuberant music produced by the dholaks4 and dafs5.

It was a time of celebration. A time of new beginnings.

Athar stood before the court, Marwan, stood beside him, as always, his hand resting

on Athar’s shoulder, not with comfort, but with weight.

“You were destined for this, young man— you’ve grown to become exactly as I

trained you to be.” Marwan said softly with a faint smile, his sharp eyes set on the

scene.

“Why did it have to be this way?”

Athar’s bitter retort hung heavily in the air, cutting through the tension as the

celebration dulled to a distant hum. Blood thundered through the Vizier’s ears, louder

than the thrums and cheers as his contentment was overshadowed by a thunderous

chagrin. He caught himself and recovered almost immediately, retrieving his hand

from Athar’s shoulder and tying both hands behind his back, he raised an eyebrow in

question, feigning confusion.

“Oh, cut the act, Agha6! I no longer know the truth from the heinous lies you

concocted all these years. The lessons, the morals—” He paused, voice dropping an

octave. “I was never your ‘son’. I was only a pawn in your game.”

The corners of the Vizier’s mouth twitched as his long upheld mask finally faltered,

revealing pure rage…and disappointment that resembled heartache a little too much.

“All these years, you don't think I bled to raise you and get you to where you are

today? Didn’t I make sacrifices?” he snapped at his King, hoarsely.

“You sacrificed me.”

Through a flash of something— guilt? Or was it grief? Marwan’s jaw tightened as he

stepped forth, chest taut. But Athar didn’t flinch like he used to.

Eyes locked with Marwaan he took in a deep breath, calculated, and then without

hesitation wrenched the blade free, and in a brute arc the Shamsheer-e-Sultani sliced

through the Vizier's throat; a smile bloomed and spilled crimson down his chest, slow

and deliberate.

Gasps rippled across the hall, as guards and knights made a move towards the dias,

only to halt at their King’s command.

His face was pale beneath the weight of disbelief. He gasped with cold humour. And

with that he collapsed in a heap as the hall burst into a cacophony of wails and

footsteps. But amidst the disarray, Mehrunissa weaved through the courtiers with the

quiet grace of someone who had long awaited this moment. The royal siblings then

went on to formally address the kingdom, revealing the truth with clarity, taking the

first steps to forge a new kingdom, ruled by justice, compassion and truth.

Once, a boy pulled a sword from the stone, making him the King. He was wrong.

Power is not in the blade nor the man. It is in the story. And stories, they say, are the

only thing that never die.

1 “The Shamsheer-e-Sultani…”: means Sword of the King. It is a reference to the Sword,

Excalibur, from the original Arthurian Legends.

2 “...diwan…”: a long seat or couch-like piece of furniture traditionally used in South Asia.

3 “Dupattas…”: a lengthy scarf adorned by women from South Asia over the chest.

4 “...dholaks…”: a dhol or a two- faced cylindrical wooden drum used by South Asians.

5 “...dafs…”: a classical instrument played like a tambourine.

6 “...Agha…”: a title of respect for an elder or patriarchal figure.

I am an 18 year old writer from Lahore, Pakistan, with a deep love for literature. I began writing short stories in middle school and got 3 of them published in SMASH Magazine. As the eldest daughter in a brown household, my writing is deeply shaped by my fascination of human behaviour.