In the heart of Lanka, where golden towers kissed the moonlight and shadows whispered omens, the noble soul Vibhishana stirred with unease. The stillness of the palace belied the storm within him. He had spoken firmly, wisely—for the salvation of his land and its riches, entreating Ravana to reconsider the perilous path ahead. Yet, the king had departed in silence, cloaked in pride, vanishing into his palace chambers with neither word nor acknowledgment.
Vibhishana’s heart, tuned to the pulse of righteousness, throbbed with concern. The king, he feared, might once more bend to the deceitful murmurings of his crooked council—a herd of sycophants whose flattery echoed louder than truth. If so, doom awaited Lanka and all who drew breath within her jeweled confines. Still, though scorn might await him, he resolved to make one final attempt.
Elsewhere, Ravana, Lord of Rakshasas, sat troubled upon his silken cushions. The fire of Sita’s warning still licked at his conscience. The wrathful visitation of Hanuman, the torch-bearing vanara, had not yet dimmed in his mind. And Vibhishana’s bitter counsel—truthful though it was—gnawed at the edges of his pride. He was torn—his demonic nature roared for defiance, yet some distant ember of dharma smoldered still within.
Feigning strength, masking turmoil with royal bravado, he summoned his inner court. Though midnight’s hush had fallen over Lanka, the palace was alive with rustling silks, gleaming arms, and the heavy scent of sandal and camphor. He called for his chariot—an ornate marvel adorned with golden veils and drawn by four celestial steeds. Around it marched an escort of armed warriors, their shields and spears glinting in the torchlight, a thunderous vision that rippled fear through the city’s heart.
Behind him, countless chariots followed—rakshasas of war bearing maces, tridents, bows, swords, axes, and weapons of ancient make: hooks, slings, and clawed fists of iron. Trumpets blared. Drums rolled like distant thunder. The procession roared down the King’s Way as Lanka watched, breath held and spines chilled. Above him waved the royal white umbrella, and around him fluttered fans studded with crystal and pearl. The people bowed low as the terrible sovereign passed, offering whispered prayers to their dread king.
The demon-lord entered his court. Gold-wrought walls, silver beams, and gem-studded pillars greeted him—works of divine Visvakarma’s craft. Fragrance of rare oils floated through the air, and six hundred ghostly sentinels stood guard. Ascending to his lofty, jewel-laden throne, Ravana seated himself with a gaze that pierced like lightning.
“Great matters lie before us,” he proclaimed, his voice a tempest in the hall. “Summon my commanders, my warriors, my ministers—let none tarry!”
Messengers fled on elephant, horse, chariot, and foot. From parks, gardens, salons, and dwellings they drew the lords of war and wisdom. Soon the court swelled with Lanka’s might—seated commanders, learned ministers, chivalrous demons, and sages of stratagem took their seats upon thrones of gold, arranged by rank and merit.
Then entered Vibhishana, in a chariot sturdy and gleaming. He descended and touched his brother’s feet, offering due reverence, though his heart bore grief. Behind him came Suka and Prahastha. The hall now brimmed with power, scent, and splendor, as all turned toward their king.
