✦ I. South India Awakens
News does not travel only by messengers and drums.
Sometimes, it moves:
in the way a shopkeeper smiles a little wider,
in the way a farmer straightens his back,
in the way a soldier, hearing a rumour, tightens his grip on his weapon.
After the Battle of Rayalaseema Plains, after Kadapa, after Bellary's quiet surrender, the south began to… shift.
In tea stalls, men whispered:
"They say the Company lost whole battalions."
"They say Bellary is no longer under the sahibs but under the lion from Rayalaseema."
"They say this lion doesn't loot temples, he protects them."
In temple corridors from Srisailam to Tirupati, new lines slipped into prayers:
"May the gods bless those who stand for dharma… and may they strengthen the hand of Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy."
Farther south, in the Tamil country, the whispers took a slightly different tone.
In Madurai, under the shadow of the great Meenakshi Temple, elders spoke with quiet urgency.
"The British count our taxes," one said, "but they do not understand our gods."
Another frowned.
"These Rayalaseema and Bellary men fight well," he said. "But will they understand our ways, our temples, our tongue? We do not want one stranger to replace another."
Between these fears and hopes, letters began to move.
Not from petty headmen alone.
From Tamil chiefs whose lineages had once held palaiyams and small kingdoms.
From senior priests in ancient temples.
From scribes who had seen too many Company orders stamped over palm-leaf grants once given by Pandya, Chola, Nayak kings.
They all carried a similar plea:
"We do not seek conquest. We seek protection—for our temples, our language, our way of worship. If the lion of the north is truly dharmic, let him come to Madurai and swear not as overlord, but as guardian."
These messages reached Rayalaseema and Srisailam.
They were laid before Narasimha in the Map Room.
He read each one carefully.
By the end, he felt both weight and clarity.
Sri watched him.
"South India is waking," she said quietly. "The question is whether it opens its eyes to a Mandala… or to a new empire that happens to speak Telugu."
Narasimha snorted.
"Saints preserve me from empires," he muttered. "I already feel I'm juggling too many crowns I never asked for."
Venkanna's eyes glimmered.
"Then go," he said. "To Madurai. Not as conqueror. As… guest."
Ayyappa grinned.
"Also as tourist," he said. "I have long wanted to see this Madurai of a thousand lights everyone keeps boasting about."
Narasimha groaned.
"Fine," he said. "We go to Madurai. We talk to their chiefs, not talk at them. If the Mandala is to mean anything, it must circle more than Rayalaseema."
He rolled up the letters, carefully.
"And," he added under his breath, "maybe the goddess there will finally tell me if I'm doing any of this correctly."
II. Journey to the City of the Goddess
The road from Rayalaseema to Madurai was more than distance.
It was a tapestry.
As Narasimha's small but well-guarded entourage travelled south, the land shifted:
scrub and rocky hills slowly softened into greener fields,
Telugu gave way to Tamil on signboards and in songs,
the style of temples shifted from rugged hill shrines to intricate gopurams rising like painted mountains.
The party was deliberately modest:
Narasimha himself,
Venkanna,
Sri,
Ayyappa,
Raja Pandiyan acting as both guide and guarantor,
a few Tiger Corps for security,
some scribes and attendants.
No full army.
This was not a march of conquest.
It was a visit to a potential partner.
On the second day, as they halted by a riverbank, Ayyappa watched fishermen haul in nets.
"You know," he said, "if someone had told me a few years ago that I'd be escorting a Rayalaseema chieftain to Madurai for diplomatic talks, I'd have laughed until my ribs hurt."
Narasimha, sitting on a rock, skipping stones, sighed.
"If someone had told me," he said, "that I'd one day be worrying about whether Tamil priests approve of my policies, I would've hid in a well and refused to come out."
Sri chuckled.
"Too late now," she said. "You're already the lion stuck in the middle of everyone's expectations."
Raja Pandiyan, rinsing his face in the river, added,
"Madurai is proud," he said. "If you walk in like a conqueror, they will bristle. If you walk in like a supplicant, they will not respect you. Walk in like a guest who knows his own worth. That is the balance."
Venkanna smiled faintly.
"Good advice," he said. "From a man who has stolen half of Madurai's British horses."
Pandiyan grinned, unashamed.
"It wasn't theft," he said. "They were simply… misallocated mounts seeking a better rider."
That evening, under a skyscape of slowly emerging stars, Narasimha lay awake.
He thought of:
Bellary's stones,
Rayalaseema's fields,
now Tamil Nadu's temples.
"How many circles can one man stand in the middle of," he wondered, "before he loses sight of his own centre?"
He closed his eyes.
"Fine," he muttered to the sky. "Meenakshi Amman, if you truly are as wise as everyone claims, I will be visiting your house soon. If you have any… hints… for a tired nearly-Manu who hates paperwork and likes dharma, I would not object."
The stars said nothing.
Yet.
III. Madurai Under the Gopuram
Madurai did not hide its age.
It wore it like jewellery.
As Narasimha's group approached, the city rose from the plain, dominated by the lotus-like symmetry of the Meenakshi-Sundareswarar Temple:
four great gopurams,
tier upon tier of carved deities,
painted in colours that defied the dust and sun.
Venkanna exhaled softly.
"Even after all I've seen," he murmured, "this always astonishes."
Ayyappa whistled low.
"If there was ever a place the gods might actually read our complaints directly," he said, "it's here."
Raja Pandiyan rode slightly ahead as they entered the outskirts.
Madurai under Company oversight was… complicated.
British cantonment and offices at one edge,
Indian bazaars and streets winding organically on the other,
tarred roads near the cantonment,
dusty lanes near the old markets,
crosses on some buildings, gopurams towering above all.
But the temple remained the heart.
Everything else had grown around it.
They found temporary lodging in a mutt (monastery/inn) aligned with one of the temple's supporting maths.
Word had already travelled ahead:
"Rayalaseema's lion is coming."
By the time Narasimha dismounted in the mutt courtyard, a small crowd had gathered outside:
curious townsfolk,
a few veiled women peeking from doorways,
vendors pausing with trays of flowers and sweets,
children gaping.
Some whispered, in Tamil:
"That's him?"
"He looks… normal."
"What were you expecting, four arms and a flaming mane?"
"Well… a little more height, maybe."
Inside, Narasimha removed his travel cloak, changed into simpler, clean clothes suitable for a temple visit and formal meeting:
a plain but well-stitched dhoti,
upper cloth,
jewellery minimal,
forehead marked with a small tilak, neutral enough for any sect.
Sri adjusted the fold critically.
"You look almost respectable," she said.
"Almost?" he complained.
"You start sweating in courtyards," she countered. "Respectability has its limits."
Raja Pandiyan entered, his expression more serious than usual.
"The chiefs are ready," he said. "We meet first in a private hall near the temple. Then the priests will receive you. Then… the goddess."
Narasimha nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of something more than politics.
IV. Council Before the Goddess
The hall where the Tamil chiefs had gathered was simple but dignified:
stone pillars,
whitewashed walls,
a mural of Meenakshi and Sundareswarar on one side,
low seats arranged in a semi-circle.
Present were:
Raja Pandiyan,
two older palaiyakkarar descendants with careful eyes and weathered hands,
a representative of a prominent Nagarathar merchant family,
a senior priest from the Meenakshi temple, face lined with age and wisdom,
a few other key local figures.
When Narasimha entered, there was no sycophantic scrambling.
They rose, gave dignified namaskars.
He returned them equally.
One elder, Palaniappa Thevar, spoke first.
"Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy," he said, Tamil slipping smoothly but with respect, "we have heard your name carried on many winds."
Another, Muthuvel Pillai, added,
"Some winds say you are a lion who tears down British walls. Others worry you might one day tear down others' thrones too."
The merchant representative, Natesan Chettiar, folded his hands.
"We have lived under Pandyas, Nayaks, Nawabs, Company," he said. "All claimed they were protecting us. Some were better than others. All wanted taxes."
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"Taxes are like in-laws," he said. "No household escapes them entirely. The question is whether they come with reason or with endless complaints."
A few lips twitched despite the seriousness.
The priest spoke, voice soft but penetrating.
"This is Madurai," he said. "This city beats around Meenakshi and Sundareswarar. Our greatest fear is not merely land lost. It is tradition slowly strangled:
temple lands taken,
festivals curbed,
our way of worship mocked,
our children taught in tongues that do not carry our gods' stories.
You have become strong, Narasimha Reddy. The south sees it. We do not want one foreignness to be replaced by another. We do not want a northern lion to become another owner of our gopurams."
Silence.
This was the heart of it.
Not fear of his weakness.
Fear of his strength.
Narasimha bowed his head slightly to the priest.
"I understand," he said. "My own lands have shrines older than some kingdoms. I have seen what happens when rulers treat them as… convenient donation boxes."
He looked up.
"I did not come here to paint Rayalaseema's colours over Madurai's walls," he said. "If I had wanted to be an emperor, I would have started seizing crowns long ago. I came because this Mandala we speak of is incomplete without Tamil Nadu. And because I need your blessings as much as you might need my soldiers."
Natesan Chettiar tilted his head.
"Blessings?" he asked, intrigued.
Narasimha shrugged slightly.
"I fight," he said. "I plan. I sign papers until my fingers ache. But there are forces… larger… moving. British. Other empires. And beyond them…" He paused, almost sensing faint Marvel shadows yet unnamed. "…future storms. I do not wish to walk into those with only my own ego as lamp."
Venkanna stepped forward, bowing lightly to the gathered men.
"In Rayalaseema, I have watched this man since he was a boy," he said. "He does not hunger for chariots or grand titles. He hungers for balance. That makes him dangerous to tyrants—and an uncomfortable but useful ally to priests."
Light laughter.
The priest's eyes softened.
"Words are wind," he said. "We are old. We have seen many winds. Before we speak of pacts, we would see you stand before the goddess whose city you wish to be allied with."
Raja Pandiyan nodded.
"The priests have agreed," he told Narasimha. "You will be taken for darshan. If Meenakshi smiles on you, half our doubts will melt. If not…" He spread his hands.
Narasimha swallowed, not at the politics—but at the weight of the moment.
"I will stand where you bid me," he said quietly. "If the goddess wishes to slap me, I only ask she does it clearly so I don't mistake it for a blessing."
Ayyappa muttered, "Don't say such things aloud in temples," under his breath.
Sri hid a smile.
V. Under Meenakshi's Gaze
The Meenakshi Temple was not merely a building.
It was a world.
As Narasimha entered through one of the gopuram gates, barefoot, with only Venkanna and a few attendants close behind, senses assaulted him:
the fragrance of sandalwood, jasmine, camphor, ghee lamps,
the sound of bells, low chants, conch shells, distant nagaswaram,
the sight of hundreds of carved deities peering from pillars, walls, ceilings.
Water from the temple tank cooled his feet as he washed.
Priests led them through pillared halls:
each column carved with stories,
yalis and lions and gods and dancers interwoven,
murals depicting Meenakshi's coronation, her marriage to Sundareswarar, their divine play.
Narasimha felt small.
Not humiliated.
Anchored.
Here, power was not measured in battalions.
Here, legends older than any Empire lay in stone.
"Remember," Venkanna murmured beside him, "you are not here as king. You are here as child."
They reached the inner precincts.
Before entering the sanctum, they paused.
A senior priest, the same elder from the hall, turned to Narasimha.
"Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy," he said formally, "this is Meenakshi's house. You stand here with the weight of your lands on your shoulders. For a few moments, set it down. Speak to her as you would to… your own mother."
Narasimha managed a crooked smile.
"My own mother would likely first scold me for not eating enough and getting too thin," he murmured.
The priest's lips twitched.
"Goddesses often start by scolding," he agreed.
The sanctum of Meenakshi was small compared to the outer halls.
Yet it was the densest thing Narasimha had ever stepped into.
The air was thick with devotion.
The green-faced goddess, eyes large and bright, gazed out from beneath her crown of jewels and flowers.
Gold gleamed.
Lamp flames flickered.
Priests moved with practised grace, waving aarti, chanting.
"Amma," Venkanna whispered. "Here is one more foolish child for your endless list."
Narasimha knelt.
For once, words did not rush to his tongue.
He simply looked.
At the goddess.
At the calm strength in her form.
At the union of ferocity and tenderness in her eyes.
Inside, the nearly-Manu, the deathless lion, the tired king, the man who hated paperwork—all of them… let their shoulders drop.
He thought, silently:
"Amma… I did not ask to be born with this weight. But you know that, don't you? You were there when they forged me. You saw when I fell short. You saw when I tried, even clumsily.
I do not want to swallow Madurai. I want to stand between it and those who would. If that is arrogance disguised as protection, tell me now. If it is dharma, show me how not to twist it."
The aarti flame passed in front of the goddess.
For a heartbeat, as the light moved, something shifted.
To Venkanna, it was a trick of the lamps.
To some priests, it was the usual glow of a well-tended murti.
To Narasimha, it was… more.
For a breath, Meenakshi's eyes seemed to look directly into his, not as icon, but as presence.
In that instant, images flashed:
a vast mandala stretched over South India like a luminous lotus, with nodes at Rayalaseema, Bellary, Madurai, the coast, Mysore;
his own figure at one petal, not the centre, holding a lion-headed standard that was both weapon and shield;
the goddess standing behind the mandala, one hand resting lightly on its edge, steadying it;
distant, faint, a flicker of other worlds layered beyond—one where masked heroes flew between skyscrapers, another where sorcerers guarded portals of light.
A thought rose, not in words, but he understood it as clearly as if someone had whispered in his ear:
"You are not the owner of this circle. You are one of its keepers. Protect temples, yes. Protect people, more. Language, song, lands—these are threads I love. Guard them. But do not mistake your hand for the loom."
Then the moment passed.
The flame moved on.
Chanting continued.
Narasimha realised he had been holding his breath.
He let it out slowly.
A tear he had not noticed slipped down his cheek.
He did not wipe it.
Venkanna, watching, knew.
"You saw something," he murmured as they stepped back out, giving way to other devotees.
Narasimha nodded slightly.
"Yes," he said. "I saw… that I am smaller than I thought. And more needed than I like."
Outside, in another plane, the gods watched too.
VI. The Gods' Aside
In the celestial realm, as Meenakshi's darshan rippled up like a bell tone, the Trimurti and Tridevi paused.
Lakshmi smiled softly.
"Amma down there gave him a nudge," she said. "See how his shoulders relaxed?"
Parvati—whose southern form as Meenakshi had just met their shared child—smiled with unmistakable maternal pride.
"He came with questions instead of demands," she said. "That alone earned him a soft glance."
Saraswati plucked a bright note.
"He understood the mandala vision," she said. "Keeper, not owner. Good."
Vishnu wiped an imaginary bead of sweat.
"At least this time," he sighed, "nobody promised him 'ruling all three worlds' or something. My head still aches remembering some of the boons people received in Treta Yuga."
Lakshmi gave him a side-eye.
"And what 'small, harmless' boon did you tuck in for him this time, Swami?" she asked sweetly. "Last time you mumbled something about a love life like Krishna without tragedies. Have you forgotten?"
Vishnu coughed.
"That was… quality-of-life adjustment," he protested. "A little affection and companionship in future births never hurt anyone."
Parvati raised one eyebrow.
"Lakshmi," she said, "when his love life finally takes off in this birth, we will give him extra responsibilities as compensation. To keep his feet on the ground."
Saraswati giggled.
"Paperwork is a very good way to keep even a lion from floating away," she observed.
Maheshwara chuckled.
"For now," he said, "let us watch how he takes this omen and forges a pact, not a conquest. That will tell us how ready he is for… larger universes later."
VII. The Pact is Forged
Back in the hall near the temple, when Narasimha returned from darshan, something in him had… settled.
The chiefs saw it.
Not radiant glory.
Not swagger.
A quieter certainty.
Palaniappa Thevar asked softly,
"And? Did the goddess answer you?"
Narasimha smiled faintly.
"She did not throw me out," he said. "Which, in my life, already counts as approval."
Muthuvel Pillai huffed, amused despite himself.
Natesan Chettiar leaned forward.
"Then let us speak clearly," he said. "What will this… Madurai Pact be?"
Sri spread out a fresh cloth map of the south.
At one point, she wrote in neat script: MADURAI.
Below it: Dakshina Mandala Node – Tamil Kshetra.
Narasimha spoke slowly, weighing each word.
"I offer," he said,
"- that the Dakshina Mandala recognises Tamil Nadu—not as sub-province of Rayalaseema, but as equal pillar.
that in any Mandala council deciding on matters affecting Tamil lands directly—troop movements, tax shifts, temple protections—a Tamil representative must be present, with full voice and vote.
that Mandala forces will stand to defend major temples—like Meenakshi here, Srirangam, Chidambaram—not only from Company, but from internal looters, even if those looters wear my colours."
He closed his fist lightly.
"In return," he continued,
"- when the Company marches heavy on Rayalaseema, Bellary, or coastal nodes, Tamil lands will stir—with raids, with disruptions, with shelter for our wounded.
Tamil merchants and donors will route some of their wealth not to London's coffers but to the Mandala's shared war chest, at rates we mutually agree.
Tamil chiefs will not cut private deals with British authorities that undermine Mandala decisions, unless the Mandala itself abandons dharma."
The senior priest lifted his hand.
"And our temples?" he asked.
Narasimha met his eyes.
"Temple lands seized unjustly by the Company and its collaborators," he said, "if reclaimed, will not be grabbed by any Mandala noble. They will be placed under local temple trusts, with oversight councils including priests, village heads, and one Mandala representative to ensure neither British nor internal greed slowly eats them again."
He added, dryly,
"And if any Mandala officer is caught dipping too deeply into temple donations, I give you leave to drag him to me by the ear. Publicly."
Ayyappa winced.
"I do not like how specific that sounded," he muttered.
Narasimha continued.
"The Madurai Pact will also state," he said, "that language and culture are not to be forced. In Tamil lands, court cases will be heard in Tamil first, papers translated outward as needed. Mandala proclamations will be issued in Tamil alongside other tongues. I will not have Tamil children learning more about some far-off king of England than about their own Pandyas and saints."
Palaniappa and Muthuvel exchanged glances.
Their eyes had grown brighter.
"We have had many rulers," Palaniappa said slowly. "Very few came here and spoke of protecting our tongue."
Natesan Chettiar stroked his beard.
"And coin?" he asked, always practical. "What of Company trade networks we currently use? If we openly join this Mandala, we risk seizures."
Sri stepped in.
"Openly, perhaps," she said. "But much of this Mandala is built on shadows. Trade can be rerouted through neutral names. You already know seven ways to say 'we have paid the British' while sending half the money elsewhere. We merely formalise which 'elsewhere' you choose."
The priest closed his eyes briefly, as if listening inward.
When he opened them, his voice was quiet.
"In this city," he said, "we have a custom. When two parties make an agreement before the goddess, they exchange not just words, but symbols."
He gestured.
A younger priest brought forward:
a small silver lion figurine,
and a tiny silver fish.
Narasimha's brows rose.
"Fish?" he asked.
"Meenakshi," the priest said. "The fish-eyed goddess. Symbol of Madurai. Lion, symbol of your line—and of Narasimha, aspect of Vishnu. If this pact is sincere, you will carry this fish as reminder that your lion's claws are pledged to her protection. We will place the lion here, near her sanctum, to remind us that when we call, your Mandala cannot ignore us."
Narasimha's throat tightened.
This was… more than politics.
More than strategy.
It was relationship.
He stepped forward, took the fish in both hands, bowing slightly.
"I will carry her," he said quietly. "Into courts, into battle, into any age where men in strange clothes fly in the sky and think themselves gods. Let this fish remind me whose land I walk on when I am in Tamil soil."
No one understood the last part fully.
But the gods did.
The priest smiled.
"Then Madurai accepts the Mandala," he said. "Not as subject. As ally."
VIII. Writing the Pact
The next hours were spent in what Narasimha increasingly recognised as his true enemy:
Documentation.
On palm leaves and paper, scribes recorded the Madurai Pact:
clauses on mutual defence,
temple protection,
cultural respect,
trade arrangements,
councils and representatives.
Sri oversaw the language like a hawk.
"Not 'Madurai and adjoining regions under Narasimha's guidance'," she corrected at one point. "Write 'Madurai Kshetra as independent pillar within the Dakshina Mandala'."
A scribe scratched it out and re-wrote, sweating.
Natesan Chettiar insisted on clarity in trade passages.
"If we do not define 'reasonable tithe' now," he said, "some future clerk will decide 'reasonable' means 'everything in the warehouse'."
Palaniappa Thevar added a clause:
"If the Mandala betrays this pact by attacking Tamil temples or imposing unjust rule, Tamil signatories reserve the right to withdraw, and the goddess Meenakshi is invoked as witness against such betrayal."
Venkanna raised an eyebrow.
"Strong," he murmured.
Narasimha nodded.
"Good," he said. "If one day I turn into the kind of ruler I now fight, I want the gods to use this against me."
Ayyappa muttered, "You and your love for balancing the sword over your own neck."
When all was written, the signatories placed their marks:
Narasimha with his name and a small stylised lion,
Raja Pandiyan,
Palaniappa Thevar,
Muthuvel Pillai,
Natesan Chettiar,
the senior priest (marking on behalf of the temple trusts),
a Mandala merchant representative from the coast,
Sri and Venkanna as witnesses.
The scrolls were then:
one copy placed in a temple strongroom,
one sent (under heavy guard) to Srisailam,
one to a secret Mandala archive.
The Madurai Pact had moved from idea to anchor.
IX. Marvel's Distant Shadow
That night, after the formalities, Narasimha found himself once again in the temple courtyard, looking up at the gopuram against a sky scattered with stars.
Children ran about, playing.
Vendors continued selling sweets and lamps.
Life flowed on, unconcerned with how many signatures had been placed.
Ayyappa walked up, hands behind his head.
"So, King of Too Many Circles," he said lazily, "how does it feel?"
Narasimha smiled tiredly.
"Like I've adopted a very large, very opinionated extended family," he said. "The Mandala was complicated enough. Now with Madurai in it…" He trailed off, but his tone was fond.
Sri joined them, holding a small notebook.
"On the bright side," she said, "this pact means:
more fighters when the British push again,
safer temples,
merchants less nervous about openly favouring us."
Narasimha nodded.
"I know," he said. "It's the right path. It just… widens the road ahead."
He looked at the fish talisman in his hand.
It felt oddly warm.
"Do you ever wonder," he mused aloud, "what all of this will look like in… a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years? When ships have no sails, when messages fly faster than pigeons, when… new kinds of heroes appear?"
Ayyappa snorted.
"If I'm still around in three hundred years," he said, "I hope I'm reborn as a tailor. Simple. Cloth in, shirt out. No pacts, no forts, no gods peering over my shoulder."
Sri smiled faintly.
"You," she told Narasimha, "may actually see some of it. Your… boon. Your long path."
He fell silent.
Far in the unseen future, there would be:
a city called New York with its own battles,
a Sanctum in that city safeguarding dimensions,
Avengers Tower scratching at the sky,
a Sorcerer Supreme tracing mandalas in the air,
cosmic threats where Earth's fate hung in the balance.
When that age came, the Madurai Pact would be a very old document, stored in quiet archives, its ink faded.
Yet its spirit—of alliances formed around dharma, not conquest—would echo in how a Deathless Lion chose his side when Marvel's universe collided with his.
For now, he only felt a faint chill and wonder.
"Whatever comes," he said softly, more to himself than the others, "I will face it with circles like this at my back."
X. The Pact Settles
As the Mandala delegates prepared to depart Madurai in the following days, the changes had already begun:
Temple trust meetings now included a Mandala representative sitting respectfully, not barking orders.
Local headmen spoke of "Mandala support" rather than "distant rulers' whims."
Tamil rebels coordinated raids with Rayalaseema and Bellary fighters, timing disruptions so that British columns felt harried on all sides.
In Company records, subtle shifts appeared:
"Increased resistance in Madurai district, seemingly more coordinated with northern disturbances."
"Local chiefs resisting attempts at direct Company control over temple incomes."
"Reports of 'Mandala' influence growing."
They did not yet understand what had been born in those temple halls.
South India was no longer a set of disconnected grievances.
It was becoming a Mandala with shared vows.
At its heart in Tamil Nadu, the Madurai Pact lay like a lotus, petals closed for now, waiting for future storms to test its strength.
As Narasimha's entourage left the city, passing under Meenakshi's gopuram, he turned and bowed once more.
"Amma," he thought, "you gave me a sign. I have done my best to answer it. If I start to stray, tug my ear. Hard. I can take it."
High above, on a plane of subtle light, Meenakshi—Parvati of the south—smiled.
"You will stray and return a thousand times, child," she thought fondly. "That is what makes you alive. And when Marvel's storms come, you will remember this night, this pact, this feeling of standing small yet steady under my gaze. That will guide your roaring."
For now, the lion rode north again.
With a fish talisman in his pouch.
With new signatures supporting his Mandala.
With one more proof that his path was not mere rebellion, but dharma, acknowledged by gods and humans in equal measure.
The Madurai Pact was sealed.
The south had spoken.
And the Deathless Lion had listened.
✦ End of Chapter 39 – "Madurai Pact" ✦