✦ I. "Take It Out."
The first time the ache hit in the middle of a strategy meeting, Narasimha almost swore out loud.
He was leaning over a map in the inner hall, tracing new trade lines toward Bombay through intermediaries, when a sharp, twisting pain shot from his lower ribcage inward.
His hand slapped the table.
Ramu glanced up.
"Again?" his father asked quietly.
"Yes," Narasimha hissed through his teeth. "The gods gave me Ichha(wish)-Maran(Death)(Death only by his own wish), not Ichha-No-Pain."
He straightened, forcing his face calm as a messenger entered.
Only when the man left, and the hall was empty except for family and closest advisors, did he press a palm against his side.
It felt like someone had lodged a small, burning stone in his flesh.
Gosayi Venkanna, sitting on a low stool, watched him.
"It is getting worse," the Guru said.
"Yes," Narasimha grunted. "At this point, I am fairly certain the bullet is sending me rude messages every time it rains."
Seethamma clicked her tongue.
"I told you," Avva muttered. "Get that cursed thing out. Why are we carrying British gifts in our bodies? Are we donkeys?"
Ramu frowned.
"The last vaidya said cutting that deep was risky," he reminded her. "If not done properly, the wound could fester. And this one already likes risking his life."
Lakshmamma's eyes were tight with worry.
"But he is not like others," she said. "He has… their boon."
Her gaze flicked to Venkanna.
"You said his life-thread does not cut easily," she whispered. "Can we not use that, Guru?"
Venkanna's fingers drummed on his knee thoughtfully.
"In most men," he said, "surgery at that depth balances on a blade's edge between life and death."
He turned his sharp gaze to Narasimha.
"In you… death is not allowed in without your consent," the Guru continued. "If the surgeon's hand is competent, Ichha-Marana will support, not hinder. You will not slip away on the table. Your body wants to live. It will fight for it. We can use that."
Narasimha winced as another wave of pain rolled through.
"That is it," he said. "I am done having philosophical relationships with bits of lead. Find the best surgeon we can trust. The bullet goes."
Seethamma smirked.
"Finally," she said. "Sense."
❖ II. The Line of Suśruta
They did not call just any barber-surgeon.
In the stone-winged temple complex where Uyyalawada's healers trained, there were many vaidyas who could bind wounds, set bones, mix herbs.
But one in particular had a lineage that carried weight even in whispers:
Vaidya Madhava Sharma—
Grey-bearded, steady-handed, eyes like a man who had looked into too many open bodies and still believed in putting them back together.
He bowed before the chieftain and his family.
"You wish to remove a musketeer's gift from the young Dora," Madhava said. "I have seen such work done. Succeeding requires three things: a sharp instrument, cleaner surroundings than most huts, and a patient who does not panic midway."
He looked at Narasimha.
"In your case," he added dryly, "we have one advantage: the patient refuses to die."
Narasimha managed a thin grin.
"I prefer to think of it as 'politely rescheduling' death," he said.
Madhava's mouth twitched.
"My teacher's teacher," he said, "belonged to a tradition that traces itself to Suśruta. In those days, they cut stones from bladders, repaired noses sliced by punishment, even opened skull wounds when necessary. India forgets its own hands sometimes. But we remember."
He spread a rough diagram on the floor—an outline of ribs and organs drawn with ash.
"The bullet sits here," he said, indicating. "Between ribs, near the liver, shallow enough to reach if we cut carefully. Deep enough that one clumsy move will make your future… unpleasant."
He looked at Ramu.
"I can do it," he said simply. "But you must accept that even with the boy's… unusual blessing… the risk of infection, fever, lingering weakness is real."
Before Ramu could answer, Narasimha spoke.
"If I leave it in," he said, "every time I run into trouble, it slows me. One day it may distract me at the wrong moment. This way, either I walk out stronger… or the gods decide they're tired of me and pull harder. Either is better than limping forever."
Lakshmamma's fingers tightened in her sari.
"Swami," she whispered upward, "if you plan to take him, you will have to fight me first."
Far above, Lakshmi smiled.
"We are not taking him," she murmured. "We just spent so much effort placing him. Let him complain a little more."
✢ III. Surgery in the Age Before Steel Lights
They prepared a small, clean room near the temple:
mats washed in hot water and sun-dried,
tools boiled, then stored in oil,
lamps filled with fresh ghee.
The instruments were simple, but lethal in the right hands:
a set of fine iron scalpels,
hooks,
forceps of a kind Suśruta's treatises might have approved,
clean cotton and medicinal cloth.
Herbs were crushed:
Tagara and jatamansi to calm the mind,
a paste of turmeric and neem for the wound,
a draught with poppy and dhatura in carefully measured doses to blur pain without pushing him into oblivion.
Ayyappa, who had seen British army surgeons hack limbs off after battles with saws and rum, shivered in quiet appreciation.
"This is… gentler," he murmured.
"It is still cutting," Venkanna said. "Do not romanticize. But yes—here, they cut with more respect."
On the day, Narasimha lay down on the low wooden platform, bare to the waist.
The scar where the bullet had entered was an angry, twisted knot of tissue.
Beneath it, the metal sat like an insult.
Madhava bent over him.
"I will not tell you this will be painless," the surgeon said. "I will also not lie and tell you to be brave and silent like some drama hero. If you need to groan, groan. Just do not move when I tell you not to."
"Understood," Narasimha said.
Venkanna placed a hand lightly on his forehead.
"I will keep your breath steady," the Guru said. "You keep your mind from running into foolish places."
Seethamma, against all expectation, did not barge in.
She sat outside the door with her mala, muttering fiercely.
Lakshmamma was inside, at Narasimha's head, one hand on his shoulder.
Ramu stood in the corner, fists clenched.
Madhava nodded.
"Give him the draught," he instructed.
The thick, bitter liquid burned Narasimha's tongue.
Slowly, the edges of the world softened.
Not gone.
Just dulled.
"Now," Venkanna murmured, "breathe with me. In… two, three, four… Out… two, three, four, five…"
The first cut was surprisingly… cold.
A strange, sliding sensation.
Then heat bloomed.
He hissed.
"Hold," Madhava said. "Good."
The surgeon worked slowly, fingers sure.
He cut carefully through old scar, easing aside layers of muscle.
Blood welled.
Assistants dabbed it with cloth, sprinkling powdered herbs that slowed the flow.
Narasimha trembled.
The pain came in waves—sharp, then distant, then back.
At one point, anger surged:
Why am I lying here letting them open me like a sack? I could be seeing to trade, training, anything…
"Stay," Venkanna's voice cut through, steel and compassion mixed. "If you run from this, you carry the bullet longer. Face the knife, lion."
Time blurred.
Once, Madhava's fingers brushed something hard.
"Got you," he murmured.
His tools probed.
Clink.
He eased the bullet free—a flattened, ugly piece of lead, slick with blood.
"Out," he announced.
Lakshmamma exhaled a prayer.
Ramu sagged slightly.
Venkanna felt, under his palm, the Ichha-Marana flame adjust:
As if it had been pushing against a lodged thorn and now relaxed.
Wound open, Madhava worked fast to:
wash the inside with cooled, boiled water mixed with antiseptic herbs,
apply a paste to ward off rot,
close the layers carefully—muscle, skin—stitching with fine thread.
Every tug was a fresh editing of Narasimha's flesh.
He groaned, teeth grinding.
But he did not move.
Hours later, it was done.
The wound was bound in clean cloth.
Madhava washed his hands, flexing his fingers.
"He will run a fever," the surgeon said. "There may be pain for days. Change the dressings often. If pus appears and he smells of rot, send for me. But… given his unnatural refusal to die, I suspect he will heal faster than most."
He held up the bullet between thumb and forefinger.
"Here," he said, handing it to Venkanna. "Something for him to glare at later."
Venkanna accepted the metal calmly.
"It will make a good lesson," the Guru said.
❖ IV. Marvel Tries to Classify a Boon
Far from Uyyalawada, in the Himalayan enclave of Kamar-Taj, the same familiar aura flared again in a sorcerer's inner vision:
Pain.
Then cutting.
Then regeneration accelerating.
The Master of the Mystic Arts watching this anomaly frowned thoughtfully.
"He heals faster than baseline," he murmured. "Yet not like a pure energy being. Flesh still protests. Interesting."
He sketched a sigil in the air, tracing power flows.
"It is as if his soul has a standing rule: 'Body may be damaged. Death must wait for my consent.' Regeneration is a side-effect."
The apprentice beside him scribbled notes.
"So he is… what? A meta-human?" the young man asked.
The Master shrugged.
"Call him what you like," he said. "In our records, he will sit in a category similar to what future ages may label 'enhanced with regenerative factor'—but anchored in dharmic boon, not experiment or mutation."
He wrote in neat script:
Terra Subject U.N.R. – Healing Factor: Moderate-high. Mortality: conditional (self-willed). Recommendation: Observe. Do not provoke unnecessarily.
In some distant future, when SHIELD analysts built databases of superheroes, villains, and "enhanced" individuals, the ghost of this note would reappear as:
Code Name: LION KING (CLASSIFIED)
Abilities: Regeneration, extended lifespan (potentially pseudo-immortal), increased durability.
Source: Unknown (not mutant, not serum, not alien tech).
Threat Level: Variable. Political sensitivity: EXTREMELY HIGH.
But for now, for Narasimha, it was simple:
The bullet was gone.
The ache remained.
But now it promised to fade, not poison.
✢ V. The Merchant Alliance That Could Buy Kingdoms
Healing took time.
Naramsiha used it badly—by trying to sit up too early, getting scolded, then being forced to lie still and think.
Ramu, Hanumantha, and Sri used it well—by quietly expanding the merchant alliance that already threaded half the subcontinent.
They called it, publicly:
Samudra Vyāpara Sangha – Ocean Trade Consortium.
On paper, it was:
a loose guild of merchants from multiple regions,
pooling ships, warehouses, and credit,
specializing in textiles, spices, metals, and grain.
In reality, under Uyyalawada's hidden hand, it had become something else:
A continent-spanning network of shipping and credit lines that touched:
Bombay,
Calcutta,
Ceylon,
ports in the Arabian and Persian Gulf,
even discreet contacts toward the African coast.
A private navy, disguised as "escort vessels," that:
guarded convoys against pirates,
carried a few more cannons than necessary,
flew various harmless merchant flags,
but all answered, in final crisis, to a quiet signal from Trinetra's coastal cells.
Its balance sheets, if anyone could see them all at once, would have rivalled the East India Company's regional revenues.
If modern times had known the numbers, they would have whispered:
"This boy is building Ambani-level wealth… in dhotis and palm leaves."
But Narasimha's genius lay not just in making money—
it was in hiding it.
Profits were:
split among dozens of front houses,
cycled through temple trusts,
reinvested into land, irrigation, schools, and more ships,
laundered as "gifts," "dowries," "endowments."
To the British, he was still:
"A prosperous estate heir with some trade interests."
Nothing more.
To Indian merchants from Kutch to Cuddalore, however, the Samudra Vyāpara Sangha had another whispered name:
"Sesha's Coils."
The coils of the world-serpent, supporting and stabilizing.
At the centre of those coils sat Uyyalawada's lion.
And in Mysore, a king took note.
❖ VI. Mysore Takes Notice
In the palace at Mysore, under ceilings painted with tigers and rivers, the current Wodeyar ruler sat with his Diwan and key advisors.
Maps were spread.
So were British reports.
"The Company tightens fingers again," the Diwan said. "Rail plans, new revenue arrangements, talk of 'reforms.' Their coffers are deep."
The Wodeyar shrugged slightly.
"They are also… overextended," he said. "Fighting in one corner, borrowing in another. They pretend to be a mountain. They are a spider web. Strong… but brittle if struck the right way."
An advisor, older, coughed.
"Spider webs or not," he said, "we must eat today. Our own revenues fluctuate. War drained us in previous decades. Palace expenses, festivals… They all add weight. We need new streams—reliable ones."
The Diwan tapped a different set of papers.
"Samudra Vyāpara Sangha," he said. "Ocean traders. They move goods where even Company ships hesitate. They organize credit faster than some banks in Bombay. And behind many of their decisions, we keep seeing the same subtle signature: Uyyalawada."
The Wodeyar's brows rose.
"The Rayalaseema boy?" he asked.
"Yes," the Diwan said. "Reports say he builds with one hand, fights quietly with the other. Took a bullet and stood, they say. Our men in Bellary, in Kurnool, in Madurai… all mention his name more often now."
The king leaned back.
"Money," he said. "Discipline. Courage. All wrapped in one… inconveniently independent person."
Silence.
Then he smiled faintly.
"We cannot conquer such a man," he said. "The British will not let us. And he would not bend. So… we bind him another way."
The Diwan understood at once.
"Marriage," he said.
The Wodeyar nodded.
"My daughter," he said softly. "Kaveri."
✢ VII. Princess Kaveri of Mysore
She had been born during heavy rains.
Lightning had danced over the Kaveri River, swollen and wild.
The court astrologer had said:
"She will be like her namesake—gentle in some seasons, devastating in others."
Princess Kaveri Wodeyar grew into that prediction:
Skin with the warm glow of river-clay,
eyes dark and sharp,
hair like a black waterfall,
a face both regal and expressive—one that in another universe would have looked suspiciously like a future actress Nayanthara.
She:
read Sanskrit and Kannada fluently,
played veena with fingers that could be gentle or commanding,
practiced archery in the palace gardens when protocol allowed,
sparred with tutors in philosophy, more than once reducing a pompous scholar to stammering.
The British, when invited, praised her "decorum" and "beauty."
They did not see the steel that flashed when she spoke of their "reforms."
"Trade must flow," she would say. "But not only in one direction."
Her father watched her with complicated pride.
"She will not be easy to give," he once murmured to the queen.
His queen smiled.
"That is why she must be given to someone who does not fear difficulty," she replied.
When news of Uyyalawada's lion reached regularly—of trade networks, of quietly disciplined power, of a boy who stood up after taking a bullet in Mallapuram—curiosity sparked in Kaveri herself.
"The lion of Rayalaseema," she mused, testing the phrase. "Does he have a name beyond his legend?"
"Kaveri," her companion whispered, "they say he turned down a British officer with just a stare."
"They say many things," she said. "I will decide what to believe when I see his eyes."
When her father spoke of possible alliance, he did not treat her as a distant asset.
He called her to the council.
"The world shifts," he said. "North, there is Delhi and their shadows. East, Calcutta's factories. South, our lands. The Company tries to yoke all of us. We need partners who answer to us, not London."
"You want Uyyalawada's wealth behind our name," Kaveri said plainly.
"And his discipline beside it," the Diwan added. "He has built a Sangha that could buy forts if it wished. His escort ships, scattered though they are, form a navy without a flag. If we join, we gain more than rupees. We gain… resilience."
Kaveri's lips curved.
"And what does he gain?" she asked.
"Prestige," the Wodeyar said. "Access deeper into Mysore and Tamil lands. A royal connection that makes the Company think twice before crushing his estate casually."
She was silent for a long moment.
"Do you wish this, Appa?" she asked softly. "Not as king. As father."
He looked at her.
"As king," he said, "it is wise. As father… I wish my daughter not be trapped with a fool. Reports do not call him fool."
Her eyes softened.
"Then I will meet him," she said. "If the gods have tied our rivers together, I would like to see where they plan to make them join."
❖ VIII. The Proposal Reaches Rayalaseema
In Uyyalawada, Narasimha was finally allowed to walk more than a few steps without Lakshmamma's hand appearing from nowhere to push him back down.
The wound still pulled, but it was knitting fast.
"You heal like demon," Madhava muttered during a check-up. "If I did not know better, I'd think you were half-lizard."
"Thank you?" Narasimha said.
He was chewing on a piece of sugarcane when a royal envoy's palanquin arrived.
Drums beat.
Banners fluttered—with the emblem of Mysore.
Ramu's brows climbed.
"This is… interesting," he murmured.
The envoy, richly dressed but carrying himself with a diplomat's humility, bowed deep.
"From His Highness, the Wodeyar of Mysore," he intoned. "Greetings and respect to Uyyalawada Ramachandra Reddy and to the lion-hearted heir whose name reaches our halls."
Narasimha nearly choked on cane.
"Already?" he muttered. "I'm not even properly walking straight and they want me walking into court."
The envoy presented:
gifts: silk, sandalwood, carved ivory,
polite letters: full of flowery compliments and hints at "mutually beneficial alliance."
The last scroll was more direct—meant for the family's eyes, not public reading.
Ramu unrolled it in the inner hall.
Hanumantha, Lakshmamma, Seethamma, Venkanna, Sri, Ayyappa, Raghava—his inner circle—were present.
The letter read:
"We of Mysore have watched with interest the growth of Uyyalawada's house—its discipline, its trade, its quiet strength under Company gaze. We believe that in the days to come, Bharat will require nodes of stability with both wealth and dharma. We therefore propose a bond not only of commerce but of blood—between our daughter, Princess Kaveri, and your heir, Narasimha Reddy."
There was more—about unity, rivers, prosperity.
Narasisma stared.
Seethamma was the first to break the silence.
"Well," Avva said. "Even the Kaveri river is coming to meet our tank."
Lakshmamma shot her son a sideways look.
"Marriage," she said gently. "It was always coming, Simha. You thought you could dodge this arrow forever?"
He ran a hand through his hair.
"I thought," he said slowly, "that maybe we could delay until after we overthrow the British, rebuild Bharat, and negotiate with cosmic entities."
"Do that," Seethamma snorted, "and you'll be so old your bride will have to carry you to the wedding fire."
Venkanna watched his student carefully.
"This is not just marriage," the Guru said. "It is alliance. Taking a queen now means shaping the future of your house's compassion and cruelty. The person beside you will see you at your weakest, angriest, most lost. Choose with open eyes."
"I haven't chosen anything yet," Narasimha protested. "They chose, they wrote, they sent a man. I haven't even seen her."
Ramu rubbed his chin.
"You will meet," he said. "Properly. Somewhere we can talk freely. If your instincts scream 'no', we find another path. If they say 'this can work', we walk further."
Hanumantha nodded.
"Mysore is no small ally," he said. "Their name carries weight. But we are not desperate enough to throw you into a fire for coin. We already have coin. We need… compatibility."
Sri smirked.
"Besides," she said, "if you marry a fool, I will resign. I refuse to serve a household where the queen weakens the king."
Lakshmamma patted Narasimha's hand.
"Don't look like a calf being led to sacrifice," she said. "You face British soldiers with straight back. Surely you can face one girl with less drama."
"She might be scarier," he muttered.
✢ IX. Gods and Gossip, Take Two
In Vaikuntha, the news sparked instant conversation.
Lakshmi's eyes sparkled.
"So," she said. "At last, our child's love life moves properly."
Parvati grinned.
"About time," she said. "We promised ourselves in this life he would not bumble through half-hearted attempts and lonely endings."
Saraswati tilted her head.
"Princess Kaveri is not just pretty," she said. "Her mind is sharp. Her river is forceful. She will argue with him. Good."
Maheshwara's gaze was approving.
"A king's ferocity is tempered by his queen's clarity," he said. "If he marries someone who bows too easily, his own arrogance will grow unchecked. Kaveri will not bow without reasons."
Vishnu coughed softly.
Lakshmi narrowed her eyes.
"Swami," she said. "What are you hiding now?"
He gave her a very innocent look.
"Nothing, nothing," he said. "I merely… once, in a moment of mischief, blessed that his love life might have… a touch of Krishna's charm—without the tragedies, of course."
Lakshmi's eyebrows shot up.
"A touch?" she demanded. "How much is 'a touch' in your calculations, Narayana?"
"A modest portion," he said quickly. "Just enough to ensure that women of strength are drawn to him, and he to them. Not enough to create entire epics of heartbreak."
Parvati laughed.
"So," she said. "We will see debates, tears, laughter, and perhaps a small number of broken bangles—but not kingdoms burned over jealousy?"
"That," Vishnu said, "is the hope."
Lakshmi shook her head fondly.
"If this causes trouble," she warned, "you are the one explaining to Kaveri why strange women keep drifting into his orbit."
Brahma wrote, mildly amused:
Proposal from Mysore accepted for consideration. Lion's queen enters stage.
❖ X. Journey to Meet the River
They agreed the first meeting should be on neutral ground.
Not in Mysore's palace—too many eyes.
Not in Uyyalawada's estate—too much gossip.
So they chose a small temple complex near the Tungabhadra, used historically as a resting place for travelling nobles.
Its courtyards were shaded.
Its priests discreet.
Its position, between their domains, symbolic.
For the journey, Samudra Vyāpara Sangha showed another face.
A convoy set out from Uyyalawada:
carts with silks and fine cotton,
sacks of grain and sandalwood,
guarded by "escorts"—men who, to the British, were just caravan guards.
Out on the coast, ships that flew various merchant flags adjusted their courses subtly.
One lean, fast vessel—an Uyyalawada design disguised as generic trader—slipped along the shoreline, guns masked behind innocuous wooden shutters.
If Company patrols grew curious on land, signals could be sent.
Protection would not come with banners and drums.
It would come with sudden, precise violence from "pirates" who inexplicably chose wrong targets.
From Mysore, a smaller but equally dignified procession set out:
Princess Kaveri in a closed palanquin,
flanked by trusted guards,
with her own attendants and a veiled chaperone of high status.
Diwan's men went ahead to scout the temple, muttering at every loose stone.
When Narasimha's party arrived, he found himself oddly more nervous than he'd been riding to Mallapuram.
"Calm," Venkanna murmured at his side. "It is only a girl, not a battalion."
"Only a girl whose opinion might shape the next sixty years of my life," Narasimha muttered back. "More dangerous than cannon."
He wore:
fine but not ostentatious silk,
simple gold at wrists and neck,
his hair neatly tied back.
The bullet wound twinged once.
He took it as reminder:
You have faced worse.
Priests greeted both parties.
Formalities were observed.
Finally, in a side courtyard where flowering trees cast dappled light, they met.
✢ XI. The Lion and the River
Kaveri stepped into the courtyard first, flanked by her companion.
Her presence hit Narasimha like a shift in season.
She was not the shy, downcast image some ballads painted of princesses.
She walked like someone accustomed to corridors watching her.
Her chin was lifted.
Her eyes were curious, not coy.
She wore a Kanchipuram silk the colour of river water at dusk—blue, with silver ripples.
Her jewellery was rich but not heavy.
Her face… he noticed, distantly, was beautiful.
But more than that.
It was alive.
Expressions flickered:
nerves,
curiosity,
annoyance at some stray thought,
amusement—when she realized he was staring a second too long.
He bowed.
"Princess Kaveri," he said. "I am Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy. I would say it is an honour, but that sounds like a line from a badly written poem. So I will say: I am… glad to finally meet the person behind all the letters and guessing."
Her lips curved.
"Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy," she replied. "The boy who stands up after being shot and still complains about ledgers. I, too, am glad to see the face behind the rumours."
Her voice was low, with Mysore's musical lilt.
They were left, for a moment, with only older chaperones at the edges, politely pretending to stare at architecture.
"Shall we walk?" Kaveri asked.
"Yes," he said. "Before they decide to quote half the Shastras at us about ideal couples."
They walked along the cloister.
For a few steps, silence.
Then Kaveri glanced at him sideways.
"Is it true?" she asked. "That you took a bullet in Mallapuram and stood as if… nothing had happened?"
He huffed.
"Nothing?" he said. "I assure you, my insides disagree with that version. I bled. I hurt. I almost fell. The part where I stood… was mostly stubbornness and a Guru who would not let me die because he still had exercises to torture me with."
Her eyes sparkled.
"So the stories exaggerate," she said. "As they do for most men."
"Most men help them exaggerate," he replied. "I spend half my time trying to make them shut up."
She tilted her head.
"Why?" she asked. "Most would love such fame."
"Fame draws bullets faster," he said quietly. "And British curiosity. Both are bad for long-term plans."
She studied him.
"Ah," she said softly. "So you hide."
"In plain sight," he agreed. "Behind ledgers and mild smiles. Everyone thinks I am a harmless trader who doesn't like risk."
"Are they wrong?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "But it helps me work."
She smiled.
"Good," she said. "I have no interest in marrying a man whose only skill is smiling in assemblies."
He made a strangled sound.
"Have you always been this direct?" he asked.
"Since birth," she said calmly. "It frightened two ayahs, three tutors, and one British officer who tried to explain why we should be grateful for their 'civilization.'"
He grinned.
"Remind me never to send you to negotiate with fools," he said. "We'd have too many honest corpses."
They paused near a carved pillar.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his side.
"I see you walk a little stiffly," she observed. "Has the surgeon's work healed?"
He blinked.
"You know about that," he said.
"My father's spies are not incompetent," she replied. "They told us you carried the bullet for months, then finally had it cut out, trusting old Indian texts more than British saws."
"India knew how to cut men open and keep them alive long before the Company learned to spell 'surgery,'" he said. "We just forgot to brag about it."
She nodded, satisfied.
"I like that," she said. "A man who trusts his own people's knowledge."
"Sometimes I trust it too much," he admitted. "I keep thinking we can fix everything if we just organize properly. Then I remember there are cannon and greed."
She was silent for a moment.
"And gods," she added quietly. "Do you trust them?"
He hesitated.
"I… argue with them," he said at last. "Often. But yes. They have not abandoned us yet. Else I would not be standing."
She watched his face as he said it.
Saw the tiny shadow that crossed—the memory of asura-breath, of death deferred.
"Good," she said. "If I stand beside you, I'd rather you argue with gods than obey foreign men."
He snorted softly.
"Princess," he said, "if you stand beside me, you will be arguing with me more than anyone."
Her smile turned genuine, unguarded for a heartbeat.
"Probably," she agreed. "But perhaps in the same direction."
✵ XII. Closing of "The Bullet and the River Bride"
By the time they parted that day, neither had said:
"Yes."
Nor had they said:
"No.
They had:
spoken of ledgers and rivers,
traded small barbs and tested wit,
watched each other's reactions to talk of British, gods, and duty.
Later, when elders asked Kaveri privately:
"Well?"
She replied:
"He is not a fool. He does not worship the British. He loves his people more than his comfort. And he knows he is not invincible, which is rare in men who survive bullets. I… do not dislike the idea."
When Narasimha's circle asked him:
"Well?"
He said:
"She asks hard questions. She listens before speaking. Her eyes did not glaze over when I spoke of trade maps. And she did not seem impressed by the bullet story. That… is good. She might stop me from doing something gloriously stupid one day."
In Vaikuntha, the Tridevi shared a look.
Lakshmi smiled.
Parvati nodded.
Saraswati's fingers danced on the veena.
"Let the river and the lion learn to share a shore," she said.
Maheshwara closed his eyes briefly.
"Two strong wills in one house," he murmured. "Storms, but also strength."
Vishnu leaned back.
"And in ages yet to come," he mused, "when cosmic battles rage and heroes in armour talk of love and duty, there will be an ancient king and his queen—born of river and lion—standing quietly at the back, making sure the world still has something worth saving."
For now, in 1823, all anyone knew was this:
The bullet was out.
The lion healed.
The merchant web grew.
And somewhere, between Mysore's palaces and Rayalaseema's rocky fields, a new alliance was beginning to take shape—
not just of trade and politics,
but of two souls who would one day hold the line together when Bharat and Marvel's worlds finally, fully collided.
✦ End of Chapter 22 – "The Bullet and the River Bride" ✦