The quiet did not last long enough to be trusted.

  It never did.

  The planning chamber held its familiar stillness—maps unrolled, markers left where they had last been used, the smell of ink and stone and long hours lingering in the air. Surya sat at the head of the table, listening as reports were exchanged in measured voices.

  “Street incidents are down another margin,” Virat said. “Not gone—but predictable.”

  “Southern camps remain stable,” Dharan added. “No attempts to push closer. Patrols report more waiting than wandering.”

  Surya nodded. “Waiting can turn,” he said. “But it’s better than pressure.”

  Meera leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. “People are watching us again instead of fighting each other. That’s progress.”

  “It is,” Surya agreed. “But it also means whatever happens next will be noticed.”

  Vashrya, quiet until now, spoke softly. “The stillness after unrest is not peace. It is anticipation.”

  No one disagreed.

  The chamber doors opened.

  Pratap entered.

  He looked tired.

  Not the clean exhaustion of long hours, but the heavier kind—the kind that followed answers no one wanted.

  Surya straightened immediately. “You heard something.”

  Pratap nodded once. “More than something.”

  He moved closer to the table, placed a folded report down, but did not open it.

  “We’ve gotten further information from the captured Avanendra soldiers,” he said.

  The room stilled.

  “They’re talking more freely now,” Pratap continued. “Not because they want to—but because holding it in is starting to break them.”

  Surya’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

  Pratap took a breath.

  “They claim that several years ago—around the time Avanendra’s droughts began—reports started circulating inside their kingdom about people behaving… strangely.”

  Meera frowned. “Strangely how?”

  “Sudden aggression,” Pratap replied. “Fixation. Sleeplessness. Groups forming around nothing. Sound familiar?”

  Silence answered him.

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  “The soldiers say it worsened over time,” Pratap went on. “Then, a few months after the drought intensified, the Avanendra king and council issued sweeping orders.”

  Virat leaned forward. “What kind of orders?”

  “Borders closed,” Pratap said. “All trade cancelled. No caravans in. No caravans out.”

  That alone drew murmurs.

  “And the explanation?” Surya asked.

  Pratap’s expression darkened. “The people were told it was Suryavarta’s fault.”

  The words landed hard.

  Meera straightened. “They blamed us?”

  “Yes,” Pratap said. “For economic pressure. For manipulation. For ‘draining the land,’ according to their rhetoric.”

  Dharan’s fists clenched slowly. “That’s convenient.”

  Surya exhaled through his nose. “Get more details,” he said immediately. “What exactly happened? How the drought began. What the ‘strange behavior’ looked like. Who spread the narrative.”

  Pratap hesitated.

  “I want to,” he said. “But they’re not in condition to speak more right now.”

  Surya looked up sharply. “Injured?”

  “Exhausted,” Pratap replied carefully. “Pushed too far, and they’ll die—or shut down completely.”

  Meera tilted her head. “Pratap,” she said lightly, “why does that sound like you tortured them or something?”

  Pratap did not answer.

  The silence stretched.

  Slowly.

  Uncomfortably.

  Meera blinked.

  “…Did you?” she asked, louder now.

  Pratap stared straight ahead.

  The silence became absurd.

  “Wait,” Meera said, stepping forward. “Actually? You did?”

  Pratap finally spoke, voice flat. “We had no other choice.”

  Virat winced slightly.

  “They’re trained soldiers,” Pratap continued. “Conditioned. Some of them may also be having the seed.”

  That made the room tighten.

  “I made sure it was not inhumane,” Pratap added stiffly. “No lasting damage.”

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

  Then Virat coughed.

  Dharan looked away, lips twitching.

  Meera let out a sharp breath. “Wow. I was joking.”

  Surya rubbed his temple once, then looked at Pratap steadily.

  “You did what you had to,” he said. “And you stopped where you needed to stop.”

  Pratap’s shoulders eased—just a little.

  “We’re trying to prevent harm,” Surya continued. “Not erase it entirely. If we fail here, far more people will suffer.”

  A few quiet nods followed.

  The tension loosened—just enough for the moment to pass.

  They returned to the matter at hand.

  Vashrya spoke again, voice low and thoughtful.

  “It aligns with what we’ve seen before,” he said. “Rakshasa influence does not strike cleanly. It seeps.”

  Surya looked at him.

  “Droughts,” Vashrya continued. “Behavioral distortions. Fear given direction. Darkness corrupts not just land—but judgment.”

  “So Avanendra’s collapse wasn’t political first,” Virat said slowly. “It was… something else.”

  “Yes,” Vashrya replied. “Politics merely followed the rot.”

  The room absorbed that quietly.

  Across the table, Varun did not speak.

  But his mind was not still.

  If Avanendra is corrupted so deeply, he thought, how is it still functioning at all?

  How has it not collapsed entirely?

  He said nothing.

  Not yet.

  Pratap cleared his throat again.

  “There’s more,” he said. “About attacks.”

  Surya’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

  “The prisoners only knew about this operation,” Pratap said. “The infiltration. The unrest.”

  Virat frowned. “Only this one?”

  “Yes,” Pratap replied. “They confirmed there are plans for multiple attacks—different methods, different timings. Both internal and external.”

  The room tensed instantly.

  “But they don’t know the details,” Pratap added. “Only those directly involved are informed. Compartmentalized planning.”

  Surya closed his eyes briefly.

  “How many?” Virat asked.

  Pratap shook his head. “They don’t know. Only that this was one of many.”

  Silence returned—heavier now.

  Surya opened his eyes.

  “Then we proceed as if this was only the beginning,” he said calmly.

  Dharan nodded. “Stone prepares for pressure before it arrives.”

  Meera sighed. “Well. That’s reassuring.”

  Surya allowed himself the faintest smile.

  “We’re still standing,” he said. “That counts.”

  Outside the chamber, Indraprastha continued its careful calm—unaware that another kingdom had begun to crack long before this one felt the tremors.

  And somewhere beneath the capital, the anchor listened.

  Not to noise.

  But to patterns.

  And what it heard was not finished yet.