The reports no longer came singly.

  They came in clusters.

  Three towns.

  Then five.

  Then seven.

  Each marked with the same pattern: sudden aggression, fixation northward, emotional linkage between the first afflicted and the next. Villages that had once sent grain and wool to Indraprastha now sent only warnings.

  Horseback delivery was still possible.

  But only barely.

  Messengers rode in pairs now—never alone. And only the most experienced riders volunteered. The younger ones hesitated, eyes darting toward the southern roads as if the darkness itself might be visible.

  It wasn’t.

  That was the problem.

  The next report struck harder than the rest.

  Pratap entered the chamber before dawn, armor half-fastened, face pale but steady.

  “From the southern front,” he said.

  Surya stood immediately.

  “They can’t come back,” Pratap finished.

  Silence fell like a blade.

  “Explain,” the King demanded.

  “Avanendra has launched a coordinated attack,” Pratap said. “Not probing. Not skirmishing. A direct push.”

  Dharan’s jaw tightened. “Scale?”

  “Significant enough that Garuda cannot disengage,” Pratap replied. “If they withdraw now, the southern line collapses.”

  Surya closed his eyes briefly.

  The distraction had become commitment.

  Or perhaps—

  It had always been meant to become one.

  Emergency Upper Council sessions became daily occurrences.

  The chamber doors barely cooled before they were closed again.

  Maps shifted.

  Counters moved.

  Voices rose, then steadied.

  The capital remained sealed.

  No reinforcements were coming.

  The southern defense was locked in place.

  The darkness, meanwhile, continued its quiet crawl northward.

  A minister spoke what many had begun to think.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “As leaders,” he said carefully, “we are tasked with making the best decisions possible—not the most sentimental ones.”

  The room stilled.

  “If we cannot save the already affected,” he continued, “then we must preserve those who remain.”

  A pause.

  “The southern and southwestern regions are primarily afflicted. Why not begin relocating our unaffected population northward? Toward the northeastern provinces.”

  Murmurs rose.

  “With city guard support,” another added, “we can open controlled northern gates. Establish protected corridors.”

  The idea gained shape quickly.

  Move the capital’s population north.

  Abandon the south temporarily.

  Preserve the core.

  Practical.

  Strategic.

  Cold.

  Then another voice cut through.

  “It assumes,” said an older minister, “that everyone within the capital is unaffected.”

  Silence followed.

  “If even a few carry the seed,” he continued, “we risk transporting the contagion directly into safer regions.”

  That shifted the room.

  “And if the target remains the capital?” another asked. “If this pull is centered here?”

  “Then moving people makes the capital more vulnerable,” someone else argued.

  Back and forth.

  Evacuation versus containment.

  Preservation versus exposure.

  The King listened.

  Surya did not interrupt until the debate began circling.

  He stepped forward.

  “We cannot conclude relocation without knowing who is affected,” he said calmly.

  The chamber quieted.

  “The afflicted are not enemies,” Surya continued. “They are our people.”

  The words landed firmly.

  “If there are infected within Indraprastha, we must identify and isolate them first.”

  Pratap nodded slowly.

  “A seclusion protocol,” Surya said. “Immediate restraint of any who display symptoms. Separate holding area. Humane containment.”

  “Where?” someone asked.

  “The training grounds,” Dharan replied without hesitation. “Spacious. Isolated. Reinforceable.”

  Surya nodded. “Yes.”

  The decision settled into place.

  From that moment forward, any person within the capital displaying signs—violent agitation, fixation northward, dissociation—would be restrained and transferred to the training grounds.

  No punishment.

  No public spectacle.

  Containment.

  The meeting dissolved slowly.

  Not with resolution—

  But with structure.

  That night, Surya retreated to his private chamber.

  For the first time in days, he allowed his thoughts to speak plainly.

  It looks like a plague.

  No—

  Worse.

  It spreads through contact. Through emotion. Through proximity.

  He leaned back against the stone wall, staring at nothing.

  It looks like a zombie outbreak.

  The thought felt absurd.

  And yet—

  Mindless aggression.

  Infection through closeness.

  Progressive spread.

  He exhaled sharply.

  This was not the time for metaphors.

  There had to be a source.

  A counterforce.

  A pressure pushing against the pulse.

  His companions entered quietly.

  Virat first. Then Meera, returned from Simhagiri. Varun. Dharan. Vashrya.

  They did not sit immediately.

  They simply looked at him.

  “We’re running out of time,” Virat said softly.

  “Yes,” Surya replied.

  Varun stepped forward. “The pulse and the spread are inversely aligned.”

  Surya looked up.

  “The more the seed spreads,” Varun continued, “the weaker the pulse becomes.”

  Silence.

  “Which suggests,” Meera said slowly, “that whatever is pulsing is resisting it.”

  Surya felt the pieces align.

  Simhagiri.

  The temple.

  The anchor.

  “If the pulse weakens,” Dharan said, “the spread accelerates.”

  Vashrya inclined his head.

  “And if the pulse strengthens,” he said quietly, “the darkness may falter.”

  Surya stood.

  “We’ve been reacting,” he said. “Containing.”

  He looked at them, eyes steady.

  “It’s time we go to the source.”

  Simhagiri.

  The abandoned shrine.

  The broken Sarabha.

  The mountain without official name.

  “We put everything into understanding it,” Surya continued. “Not fragments. Not patrol observations.”

  “Full research,” Varun said.

  “Full commitment,” Surya confirmed.

  Meera nodded. “Then we leave at first light.”

  “No,” Surya said.

  “Now.”

  Outside, the city remained tense but controlled.

  The gates sealed.

  The training grounds prepared.

  The council still debating what tomorrow might demand.

  And beneath it all—

  The pulse flickered.

  Faint.

  Strained.

  But not gone.

  If there was an answer—

  It lay with the mountain.

  And they were out of time to hesitate.