✦ ⭑ I. When Tax Becomes a Weapon
By the summer of 1821, the ledgers had begun to bleed.
Not ink.
Lives.
Narasimha stood in the Map Room, staring at a different sort of map than usual.
Not roads.
Not forts.
Not trade routes.
A map of taxes.
Red marks where British demand had risen.
Black marks where Trinetra reported famine signs.
Small grey dots where suicides had quietly taken place after impossible collections.
Sri tapped one such cluster.
"Three villages here," she said, voice clipped. "Last year, average land tax: heavy but survivable. This year—Harwood's men increased it by a quarter 'to make up for arrears.'"
She flicked a palm-leaf.
"Cattle seized. Seed grain taken. One boy dead in a protest. They called it 'accidental force.'"
Raghava added quietly,
"In the Nizam border belt, a different collector used soldiers to 'encourage compliance.' Men flogged while families watched. They say one woman tried to throw herself in front of the whip. They beat her too."
He placed another red mark.
Narasimha's jaw flexed.
For years, he had walked a knife-edge:
building wealth quietly,
weaving alliances,
constructing hidden forts,
training tigers in tunnels,
all while pretending to be just another "loyal chieftain" who grumbled but complied.
Now, the knife cut deeper.
"The Company has begun using tax as a war weapon," Sri said. "Not just revenue. Punishment. Example."
Venkanna spoke from his low seat.
"We knew this would come," he said. "Empire grows like a fire. When it cannot feed on wood, it starts eating houses."
Narasimha pressed thumb and forefinger to his eyes.
"I thought we had more time," he murmured.
Ayyappa snorted.
"Time?" he said. "They are beating it out of your people one lash at a time."
Sri looked at Narasimha.
"So," she said. "How many more red dots do you need before you stop pretending this is a storm you can talk away?"
Silence.
Outside, somewhere in the distance, thunder muttered without rain.
❖ II. The Message from Uyyalapalle
The breaking point came, as such things often do, from a small village.
Not a capital.
Not a fortress.
Just a cluster of houses called Uyyalapalle, hugging the dry earth, ringed with fields that tried their best each year.
In Uyyalapalle, a widow named Sita had:
two buffalo,
three small grandchildren,
one small strip of land.
The buffalo ploughed when her sons could not.
After cholera took her boys, the buffalo became her sons.
When Harwood's sub-collector and his men arrived to collect "arrears," they:
took the grain,
eyed the buffalo,
ignored the tears.
"This one cannot pay," the village karnam said quietly, trying to intercede. "Last year's crop failed near her land. We have written petitions—"
The Company jemadar in charge sneered.
"I see two strong animals," he said. "That is wealth. Taxes must be collected from wealth. Take them."
They dragged the animals away as Sita screamed, clutching the earth.
"You are taking my children," she sobbed. "They eat after we eat. They pull so we may eat. Where will we go now, if you take even them?"
One sepoy hesitated.
The jemadar snapped,
"We are not here to listen to tales. We are here to enforce law. Move."
Later that day, when the men demanded more grain from the village, a group of farmers finally snapped.
Words were exchanged.
Pushes.
One farmer, thin with hunger, raised a stick.
The sepoys responded with the butts of their guns.
When they left, a boy lay bleeding in the dust.
He did not get up.
By evening, a Trinetra runner reached Uyyalawada.
He did not stop to bow.
He staggered into the Map Room, dust-coated, eyes wild.
"Dora," he gasped. "In Uyyalapalle… they took a widow's buffalo. They beat the karnam. A boy is dead. They say more soldiers are coming tomorrow to 'make an example.' Villagers are saying… if you do not stop it, then who will?"
The room froze.
Narasimha closed his eyes.
He saw, in his mind:
the hidden granaries,
the underground armories,
the Tiger Corps drilling,
the alliance threads on the map.
He also saw:
a widow clutching dust where her buffalo had stood,
a mother screaming over her dead boy,
a village kneeling between rage and despair.
He opened his eyes.
They were very, very calm.
"Call Ayyappa," he said.
"He is here," Ayyappa replied from the doorway, already armed.
"Raghava. Devudu. Twenty of the Tiger Corps. Light gear. Bows," Narasimha said. "We ride now. The rest stay ready in case this spreads."
Sri stepped closer.
"You intend to confront them openly," she said.
"Yes," he replied.
"This is not like quietly misdirecting a convoy," she warned. "Once you strike soldiers in your own name, there is no more pretending. This is the line."
He drew a breath that felt like swallowing fire.
"I know," he said.
Venkanna watched him.
"Child," the Guru said softly, "are you ready?"
Narasimha looked at the map.
At the lines.
At the hidden chambers beneath his feet.
At the code in his heart.
He nodded.
"I have wealth," he said quietly.
Sri: "Yes."
"I have alliances."
Raghava: "Across half the South."
"I have a shadow army."
Ayyappa: "We're right here."
"I have maps of their strengths and weaknesses."
Devudu held up a scroll. "Every route Harwood's men take to squeeze us."
He exhaled.
"Then," he said, "let them see what we have built in silence."
He turned toward the door.
"The Silent Tiger," he murmured, more to the gods than to those present, "is done sleeping."
✢ III. The Gathering of Clouds
They rode out before dawn.
No banner.
No drum.
Just:
Narasimha in a simple white dhoti and upper cloth wrapped tight, a sword at his side, a staff across his lap,
Ayyappa and Raghava flanking him,
twenty Tiger Corps riders trailing in loose formation.
To any passerby, they looked like a chieftain's escort going on an early inspection.
Above, clouds gathered.
This time, the thunder was closer.
Uyyalapalle lay under that heavy sky like a patient waiting for a blow.
As they approached, they saw:
British soldiers—sepoys in red jackets, turbans askew,
a few white officers on horseback,
villagers gathered in the central open space,
a wagon loaded with sacks and the two bewildered buffalo tied near it.
The jemadar from the previous day stood beside a new arrival:
A British officer in tailored coat, hat, gloves.
He sat his horse with the casual arrogance of someone who had never walked barefoot on hot ground.
"Captain Harwood," Raghava murmured.
Narasimha's eyes hardened.
So.
The same man Edwin had spoken of.
How fitting.
Harwood was speaking at that moment, voice loud, words thick with condescension.
"…understand this," he said to the villagers. "The Company protects these lands. It builds roads, keeps bandits away. Taxes are your share of the burden. You do not get to cry like children when asked to pay your due."
An old man, his back bent like a question mark, whispered,
"Protector? My grandson lies there. Who will protect him from you?"
Harwood's gaze flicked to the body lying near a doorway, covered with a cloth.
He did not flinch.
"Deaths happen," he said coldly. "Perhaps he should not have raised his hand against lawful authority."
At that exact moment, hoofbeats sounded.
All eyes turned.
Narasimha and his escort rode into the village and drew rein.
For a heartbeat, the two worlds faced each other.
On one side:
the red jackets,
the polished boots,
the foreign steel.
On the other:
the lion in white,
his men quiet and watchful,
villagers with eyes full of desperate hope.
Harwood's eyes narrowed.
"And this?" he drawled. "Is this the local lord come to weep with his people?"
Narasimha dismounted with unhurried grace.
He handed his reins to a waiting boy.
As his feet touched the dust, something changed in the air.
The villagers straightened, whispering:
"Simha Dora…"
"Dorayya has come…"
Harwood noticed it.
He studied Narasimha.
"You are Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy," he said.
"Yes," Narasimha replied mildly. "And you must be Captain Harwood. I have heard… opinions."
Harwood smiled thinly.
"Then you know," he said, "that I am not fond of delays. This village owes revenue. I am here to collect. If your people lack coin, they may give cattle, grain, labour. It is simple."
Narasimha's gaze moved over:
the buffalo, tied and restless,
Sita, crouched on the ground, hair dishevelled, eyes swollen from crying,
the boy's covered body.
Rage, old and vast, coiled inside him like a sleeping serpent finally lifting its head.
His voice, when he spoke, was calm.
"Captain," he said, "may I ask a question?"
Harwood gestured grandly.
"By all means," he said. "I am a reasonable man."
Narasimha stepped forward, bare feet leaving prints in the dust.
His presence grew.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
Even the British sepoys felt something prickle along their necks.
"You say tax must be collected," Narasimha said. "Let us speak of entitlement then. Tell me…"
He raised his voice, not as a shout, but as a bell.
"Did the rain ask for tax," he demanded, "before it fell on these fields?"
The villagers stirred.
Harwood frowned.
"Did the soil ask for tax," Narasimha continued, "before it cracked open to accept the seed?"
He took another step.
"Did the seed ask for tax," he said, "before it sprouted and became grain, bending under its own weight?"
His voice rang out like a war conch across the small square.
"No," he said. "They give. They do not demand."
He pointed at the villagers.
"These people," he said, "were born on this land. They ploughed it. They bled into it. When they die, they will become it."
His gaze speared Harwood.
"You," he said softly, deadly, "were not born here. You will not be buried here. You will not become this soil. So tell me, Captain…"
His tone rose, thunder under words.
"Who are you," he roared, "to ask for tax on their breath?"
A murmur swelled into a low roar among the villagers.
Harwood's jaw tightened.
"You speak boldly, zamindar," he said. "But law—"
"Law?" Narasimha cut in, contempt slicing through the word. "Law that beats widows and steals their cattle? Law that spills a child's blood because his stomach is empty and his back is straight?"
He spread his arms.
"We sweat for this land," he said. "We sow. We reap. We heal each other when your revenue officers bring disease and hunger. The rain does not tax us. The earth does not tax us. The sun does not send an invoice at dawn. Who are you, sitting on a horse bought by our grain, to tell us we owe you for existing?"
Harwood's face flushed.
"The Company—" he began.
"—is an accident of coin and greed," Narasimha snapped. "This land is older than your Queen's family tree. These people have carried kingdoms on their shoulders before your country even knew our names."
His eyes burned.
"We were here when your maps were empty," he said. "We will be here when your flags are dust."
The words hung in the air like a drawn bowstring.
❖ IV. The Last Chance
For a moment, silence.
Even the wind seemed to wait.
Harwood broke it with a brittle laugh.
"So," he said. "This is rebellion, then? You would incite your tenants against lawful authority?"
Narasimha's voice dropped.
"This is warning," he said. "Take your men. Leave what you have stolen. Stop treating my people like fields to be reaped and burned. Do that, and we can pretend today was a misunderstanding."
Harwood's eyes went cold.
"Your people?" he said softly. "How touching. But you forget your place. You hold your lands at the Company's pleasure. You are useful. Charming. But replaceable."
He gestured dismissively at Sita, still crouched.
"That woman," he said, "is a subject in arrears. The boy was a criminal. These are facts. I am done negotiating."
He looked at his jemadar.
"Have the men ready," he said. "If this man continues his insolence, make an example. We will show these cattle who holds the whip."
He turned back to Narasimha.
"This is your last chance, Reddy," he said. "Stand aside. Tell your people to be obedient, and perhaps I will be persuaded to recommend mercy at the next revenue review."
Behind Narasimha, Ayyappa shifted fractionally.
Tiger Corps archers had already melted into:
rooftops,
behind low boundary walls,
among trees at the edge of fields.
No one saw them move.
They were part of the village now.
Narasimha looked around:
at Sita, clutching dust,
at the boy's still form,
at farmers with callused hands gripping sticks and sickles,
at frightened children peeking from doorways.
He had walked tightrope for years.
He could feel it breaking under his feet.
He thought of Edwin's tired face.
Of the oath they had made over tea: to stand between power and the helpless.
He knew: crossing this line meant war.
Then he remembered something else:
A prophecy, whispered in his first moments of this life.
"When the lion roars, the world will shiver."
He straightened.
"Captain Harwood," he said, voice soft in a way that made Devudu's neck hair rise, "I have been patient. I have watched. I have prepared. Today… you ask me to watch a widow's life be crushed so your report looks neat."
He smiled.
It was not pleasant.
"It seems," he said, "we are done with patience."
✢ V. Ten Men and a Lion
He stepped forward, placing himself between the villagers and the soldiers.
Ayyappa, Raghava, and a handful of escorts remained just behind him, seemingly relaxed.
"Jemadar," Harwood said sharply. "Seize that man. If he resists, beat him. If his people protest, fire a warning volley over their heads."
The jemadar gestured to a group of sepoys.
Ten men stepped forward, muskets at the ready, bayonets fixed.
They were not evil.
Some looked uneasy.
But habit and fear moved their feet.
"You are sure?" the jemadar muttered.
Harwood's lips curled.
"A native noble beaten by his own crown's enforcers?" he said. "The rest will fall in line twice as fast. Do it."
The ten approached Narasimha.
One spoke, polite but firm.
"Dora," he said in Telugu, "please… step aside. We have orders."
Narasimha's eyes met his.
"No," he said gently. "Today, son, I have orders."
He rolled his shoulders, loosening them.
He had no armour.
Just simple cloth.
And something inside him that uncoiled like an ancient, hungry thing.
"Last warning," Harwood called. "Stand down, or we will—"
He never finished the sentence.
The nearest sepoy stepped forward, hand outstretched to push Narasimha back.
The world blurred.
Narasimha moved.
Fast.
Too fast for a man of his age and build.
His hand snapped up, grabbed the sepoy's wrist, twisted.
The man's grip loosened, musket dropping.
In the same motion, Narasimha's elbow slammed into his chest, sending him staggering back into two others.
Before those two could recover, Narasimha pivoted, planted his foot, and drove his shoulder into the third man's midsection.
The air left the man in a rush as he crashed to the ground.
The villagers gasped.
This was not a zamindar's half-hearted struggle.
This was warrior.
A fourth sepoy raised his musket as club.
Narasimha ducked, grabbed the barrel, yanked the man forward, and drove his knee up into the man's groin.
He folded with a strangled noise.
Two more attacked together.
One came from behind.
One from the side.
For a heartbeat, it looked bad.
Then:
He dropped low, sweeping his leg.
Both men went down in a tangle.
He rolled to his feet, snatching up a fallen musket, using it more like a staff than a gun—short, vicious arcs that knocked weapons aside and cracked jaw and ribs.
Ayyappa, watching, could not help the small, fierce grin.
"My king," he murmured under his breath, "finally remembers he has claws."
Harwood stared, stunned.
This was not the image he had of a "clever native landholder."
This was something else.
Within moments, ten trained sepoys lay:
groaning,
winded,
disarmed,
or unconscious in the dust.
Narasimha stood above them, chest rising and falling, bare feet steady in the dirt.
He did not look like a scholar.
He looked like the first lion that had ever seen men walk upright and decided to allow it as an experiment.
He raised the musket he'd taken and snapped the bayonet off with one sharp bend, tossing the twisted metal aside.
"Captain," he called. "These are your law? Ten men, sent to beat an unarmed widow? This is your pride?"
Harwood's face twisted in fury.
"Enough," he snarled. "Jemadar! Form line! Load! We will end this drama now."
❖ VI. Fire and Arrows
The remaining sepoys, shock giving way to drilled reflex, moved into a firing line.
They brought their muskets up, primed powder, rammed balls.
Narasimha's face did not change.
He stood in the open, a slightly amused smile touching his lips.
Inside, his heartbeat steadied.
His skin prickled with awareness.
He could hear:
the scrape of ramrods,
Harwood's breathing,
the rustle of villagers ducking,
the faint, almost inaudible creak of bowstrings being drawn in the hidden places.
Ayyappa caught his eye.
Narasimha gave the smallest of signals.
He lifted his right hand and brushed his knuckles lightly across his left forearm.
To any outsider, it might have looked like he was simply dusting off his sleeve.
To Tiger Corps, it was the sign:
"On volley. Clean. No survivors except the one I leave."
Harwood drew his sword.
"Take aim!" he shouted.
The sepoys raised their muskets, barrels glinting.
Villagers screamed, some dropping to their knees, some trying to flee.
Narasimha did not move.
He planted his feet.
His voice came, quieter than before—but somehow it reached every ear.
"Remember this day," he said. "The day they pointed guns at you for saying you are not cattle."
Harwood's sword cut the air.
"Fire—"
He never reached the last word.
The world filled with the whistle of arrows.
From rooftops, from walls, from tree lines, from behind carts—
Tiger Corps bows sang.
Arrows flew in a coordinated storm, guided by hours of practice and a code that said, "One shot. One threat removed."
Musket barrels dropped.
Men jerked.
Some fell silently, an arrow through the throat.
Others cried out as shafts punched into chest and shoulder.
One sepoy managed to pull his trigger as he fell.
The shot went wild, splintering a wooden post.
Then the firing line was no more.
In the space of a heartbeat, the hunters had become hunted.
Dust rose.
Arrows hummed, quivered.
British soldiers lay:
sprawled,
clutching wounds,
still.
The villagers stared, mouths open.
They had heard of Uyyalawada's "ghost warriors."
Stories told in toddy shops.
Now they were seeing them:
Men who had been farmers, porters, caravan hands—
now tigers in human skin, already melting back into their surroundings, emptying quivers, drawing second arrows only if necessary.
One man, seeing a wounded sepoy reaching for his musket again, loosed a shaft—not to kill, but to pin the man's hand to the earth by the sleeve.
The sepoy screamed, more in terror than pain.
Then he froze, realizing he was not dead.
Code.
Dharma.
Even in ambush.
Harwood's horse reared, screaming, as an arrow nicked its flank.
He fought for control, barely staying mounted.
A second arrow struck the ground inches from his boot.
He froze.
The message was clear:
We could have killed you.
We chose not to.
Yet.
✢ VII. The Message to Empire
Dust settled.
The only sounds:
groans of wounded,
soft sobs of villagers,
the faint creak of bows being relaxed.
Narasimha walked forward.
Calm.
Step by step.
He moved past the fallen sepoys, checking:
some dead,
some alive but incapacitated.
He gestured to the nearest village healer.
"Take those who still breathe," he said. "Bind their wounds. They came to beat you. We will not become them."
The healer hesitated, then nodded.
Harwood watched, stunned.
"You… you attack my men," he stammered, "and then tend them like patients?"
Narasimha looked up.
"Dharma," he said, "does not stop at the edge of your arrogance, Captain. I did not want this. I did not ride here hoping to spill blood. But you forced today upon us."
He stepped closer.
So close that Harwood could see the tiny flecks of earth on his skin, the steady fire in his eyes.
"Look around," Narasimha said quietly. "Look well."
Harwood's gaze darted:
a few dozen men, clearly still armed, standing with dangerous calm,
arrow shafts quivering in wood and flesh,
villagers watching with a new kind of respect—and fear.
"Up till today," Narasimha continued, "I have worked in silence. I built ships instead of banners. I built schools instead of statues. I built secret storehouses instead of fort walls. I hoped… it would be enough. That I could shield my people from your worst greed without breaking this pot completely."
His voice hardened.
"But now," he said, "a widow's tears and a dead boy's blood have told me something: silence only feeds your appetite."
He straightened.
"You came today thinking you were master," he said. "Understand this, Harold—"
"Harwood," the captain snapped automatically.
Narasimha didn't bother to correct himself.
"—Harwood," he said, "from this day on, when you step into my lands, you will remember what you saw here. You will carry this story to your superiors. And you will tell them: the lion has stopped pretending to be a pet."
Harwood's face twisted between rage and unease.
"You have attacked the Company's soldiers," he said hoarsely. "Do you understand what that means? We will respond. Reinforcements will come. We will burn these villages. We will—"
"Try," Narasimha said softly.
It was not a boast.
It was an invitation and a warning.
He pointed toward the hills.
"We have wealth you cannot chart," he said. "We have alliances you cannot see. We have a shadow army that moves through forests you think are empty. We have maps of your posts, your habits, your weaknesses."
He leaned closer.
"You will never again march through my people thinking they are unarmed fields," he said. "Every stone might be a wall. Every tree might be a watchtower. Every man you beat might be the brother of a tiger you never saw."
He stepped back.
"Go," he said. "Take your horse. Take your fear. Leave your wounded—we will treat them better than you treat our living."
Harwood's grip tightened on his reins.
"You think you can win," he said. "You think your little hill kingdom can stand against an Empire?"
Narasimha smiled.
This time, there was something ancient in it.
"I do not need to win today," he said. "I need to make it cost you. Every tax you try to take will now come with a price. In coin. In soldiers. In sleep lost."
He turned away.
"Go," he repeated.
Harwood hesitated, then jerked his horse around.
As he rode out of Uyyalapalle, he felt eyes on his back.
He did not dare look up to see the dark shapes on rooftops.
For the first time in his career, he felt like the one under occupation.
❖ VIII. The Villagers' Verdict
After the British retreated, a strange silence fell.
No one cheered.
Not yet.
They were still catching up with the fact that minutes ago, they had been kneeling under gun barrels.
Now, those same guns lay in the dust.
Sita rose slowly, shoulders shaking.
She approached Narasimha.
Her hands trembled as she tried to touch his feet.
He stepped back, gently catching her wrists.
"Amma," he said softly, "don't bow. You have bent enough today."
She looked up at him, tears carving lines in the dust on her cheeks.
"Dora," she whispered. "If you had not come…"
She glanced at the buffalo, still tied—but now placed back near her house by Tiger Corps men, who had cut their ropes from the British wagon.
"We would have lost everything," she said.
Narasimha's voice thickened.
"You will still lose," he said quietly. "There will be storms. They will come back. They will try to punish you to punish me."
A murmur passed through the villagers.
Fear.
He raised his voice.
"Listen to me," he said. "I cannot promise you gentle days. But I promise this: you will not stand alone. When they come, we will meet them. With grain hidden where they can't find it. With weapons they never counted. With eyes that see them before they see us."
An old man, the one who had spoken earlier, bowed his head.
"Simha Dora," he said, "today… we saw our tax walking on two legs."
He smiled toothlessly.
"And we saw our answer."
Now, slowly, the cheers came.
Not the easy cheer of festival.
The hoarse, fierce cheer of people who had just realized:
they were allowed to defend themselves,
their lord was not a man of words alone,
the fear in their stomach had somewhere to go: forward, not down.
Tiger Corps men blended back into the crowd, pulling on shawls, picking up tools, becoming "ordinary" again.
Only their eyes betrayed anything more.
✢ IX. Heaven and Marvel Mark the Roar
In Vaikuntha, the impact of that moment rolled like thunder across realms.
Lakshmi closed her eyes briefly.
"It has begun," she said.
Parvati nodded.
"Until now, he was gathering," she said. "Now, he has chosen."
Saraswati's fingers stilled on her veena strings.
"One widow," she murmured. "One dead boy. That is all it took to turn his preparation into action. Good. I prefer kings who move for such reasons, not for insult at court."
Maheshwara watched the scene replay in a thousand angles:
the first punch,
the arrows,
the look in Harwood's eyes.
"Shiva's dance starts always with a footstep," he said. "This is his."
Vishnu smiled faintly.
"And somewhere," he said, "in a London club decades from now, when certain gentlemen begin talking about independent orders that answer to conscience, not crown—part of their inspiration will come from tales of this 'mad zamindar' who dared to say no."
Brahma wrote:
U.N.R. – Open armed confrontation with Company forces initiated. Tactical ambush executed via Tiger Corps archers. Enemy officer spared deliberately as messenger. Local population now views U.N.R. as primary locus of resistance. British escalation inevitable.
In Kamar-Taj, a Master watching the skein of time sighed.
"So, the lion has roared," he said.
His apprentice asked,
"Should we be worried?"
"Not yet," the Master replied. "We should be… attentive. Men like this draw storms. But they also anchor lands. When Marvel's larger threats arrive, we may thank him for forcing his people to grow a spine long before aliens ever appear."
✵ X. The Storm's First Drop
Back in Uyyalawada, days later, Narasimha sat alone in the Map Room.
The room felt different.
The maps had not changed.
But he had.
He traced the road from Uyyalawada to Uyyalapalle with one finger.
Small scratches where arrows had fallen.
New reports pinned:
"Local morale: high, mixed with fear."
"Company: likely to send punitive expedition."
"Allied chiefs: watching closely."
A knock.
Ayyappa entered, closing the door behind him.
"They will come," he said without preamble.
"I know," Narasimha replied.
"Bigger force," Ayyappa continued. "Cannons, maybe. Orders to crush you, scare others."
"I know," Narasimha repeated.
Ayyappa studied him.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
Narasimha thought of Sita's broken sobs.
Of the boy's still form.
Of the arrows, humming like a verdict.
"No," he said. "I regret that I let it go this far before acting. I regret that a child had to die for me to stop pretending nothing had changed."
He looked up at the ceiling, as if seeing the hidden chambers beneath.
"We have wealth," he said softly.
Ayyappa nodded.
"We have alliances."
"Yes."
"We have a shadow army."
Ayyappa's lips twitched.
"We have eyes and maps of their every post," Narasimha said.
"We do," Ayyappa confirmed.
He exhaled.
"Then," he said, "let them come. And let us see whose preparations reach further: theirs for conquest, or ours for freedom."
Ayyappa grinned, wolfish.
"I will tell the Tiger Corps," he said. "They are restless. They want more than tunnels."
"Tell them," Narasimha said, "that the storm they have been training for has just sent its first drop. The rest is on its way, Ayyappa. One more thing, send a letter to Mysore asking them to delay the wedding Date. Now is not the right Time"
When Ayyappa left, Narasimha sat a moment more.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his lids, he saw:
British ships offshore,
cannons rolling,
banners flying,
his own men in fields and forests,
gods watching,
Marvel's future storms coiling beyond sight.
He smiled sadly.
"Very well," he murmured. "Let us dance, then. I have hidden my claws long enough."
Far away, on a road, Captain Harwood rode toward Madras, his side throbbing where an arrow had grazed him.
He could already hear the incredulous voices:
"Attacked? By whom?"
"By a zamindar, sir. And his… ghosts."
The report he would write would carry more than words.
It would carry a new title for the man in Uyyalawada:
"Dangerous. Not to be underestimated."
The British Empire had just been introduced—
not to a petitioning noble or a clever trader,
but to the Deathless Lion.
And the Silent Tiger,
at last,
had roared.
✦ End of Chapter 30 – "The Roar Before the Rain" ✦