✦ I. The Shape of a Realm
By the time the first monsoon clouds rolled over the Deccan that year, the map of the south had already changed.
Not on British paper.
On the ground.
Rayalaseema no longer flinched at Company caravans; it ambushed them.
Kadapa and its outposts spoke Narasimha's name with a mixture of awe and relief.
Bellary stood as the Mandala's western gate, its cannons now pointed outward according to new orders.
Tamil rebels in Madurai and surrounding regions timed their strikes with uncanny precision, as if guided by an invisible moon.
Coastal merchants were quietly diverting flows of grain, salt, and rupees away from Company coffers and into a growing shadow treasury.
South India was still officially under the Madras Presidency, still coloured uniformly on British maps.
But in the reality of:
tax flows,
troop movements,
village gossip,
and temple prayers,
a different entity was forming.
Circles intersected:
the Dakshina Mandala,
the Madurai Pact,
the newly-secured Bellary,
the ancient temple nodes at Srisailam, Tirupati, Meenakshi,
the mercantile arteries along the coast.
Venkanna said it plainly one twilight in Uyyalawada's Map Room, tracing slow arcs with his staff.
"What you have now," he told Narasimha, "isn't just allies. It's a realm."
Narasimha resisted the word instinctively.
"Realm?" he repeated. "Realms have crowns. I barely have time to oil my sword, and you want to add a crown to polish?"
Sri looked up from her ledgers.
"You already do all the work of a king," she said dryly. "Signs decrees, settles disputes, takes every difficult decision, forgets to eat—"
Ayyappa added,
"—and complains about paperwork."
"Loudly," Sri agreed.
Narasimha pinched the bridge of his nose.
"There is a difference," he insisted. "Right now, chiefs and merchants follow me because they choose to. If I start calling myself 'King of the South', half will bristle and the gods will laugh."
Venkanna's gaze softened.
"That is why you are the only one who can carry it," he said. "Men who want crowns too eagerly crush them. Men who fear them a little… fit better under their weight."
From the doorway, a familiar voice spoke.
"Also," Raja Pandiyan said, leaning in, "if you don't give this Mandala a clear head, every British officer will keep telling himself 'These are isolated rebellions.' That lie is a shield for them. Maybe it's time we sharpen it into a knife for ourselves."
Narasimha grimaced.
"Explain," he said.
Pandiyan stepped into the room, dust still on his sandals from riding.
"Right now," he said, "in Madras, they see dots:
Rayalaseema,
Ballari,
Madurai,
coastal troubles.
They don't see the circle connecting them. If we internally recognise that circle as a realm—with one dharmic centre—then we can plan like a kingdom. Externally, let the British keep their comfortable illusion. They will underreact."
Sri's quill paused mid-scratch.
"An invisible kingdom," she said slowly. "A realm declared not with trumpets in a public square, but in a hidden hall, witnessed by chiefs and gods."
Venkanna nodded.
"A secret coronation," he said. "Not so you can preen. So the Mandala knows who bears the final burden when choices cut deepest."
Narasimha exhaled.
"Of course," he muttered. "When the gods made me, they gave me good hair, decent sword-arm, and an unending supply of responsibilities I never asked for."
Ayyappa clapped his shoulder.
"Cheer up," he said. "At least when Marvel heroes show up in three centuries, you can make fun of them for officially wearing capes. Our headaches are… private."
"Marvel who?" Narasimha asked, but his protest lacked heat.
Venkanna raised his staff.
"Then it is time," he said. "Not for loud war cries. For a quiet declaration. The south already leans on you. Let it say so, clearly, once."
II. Gathering the Circles
Word went out.
Not as proclamations on walls.
As invitations carried by:
Trinetra agents,
temple messengers,
merchant runners.
Each bore the same core phrase, rendered into Telugu, Tamil, Kannada, and more:
"For the sake of dharma and future storms, let the pillars of the south gather where hill and river, temple and forest meet. Do not call it coronation. Call it… alignment."
*– U.N.R."
The meeting place had to be:
defensible,
central to the emerging Mandala,
and sacred enough to bind oaths.
After much debate, they chose a cave complex hidden in the folds of Nallamala, not far from Srisailam, where:
the Krishna river curved in a gentle arc,
ancient sages were said to have meditated,
and few British maps penetrated.
The cave was large enough to hold many men, its ceiling high, its walls bearing faint carvings so old that even Venkanna could only guess at their origin.
On the appointed night, they came.
From the north:
Rayalaseema elders,
Uyyalawada's household heads,
representatives from Kadapa and Anantapur.
From the west:
Avuku Raju,
Bhima Nayak,
Mallappa Gowda,
Ballari village leaders.
From the south:
Raja Pandiyan,
Tamil chiefs bound by the Madurai Pact,
a temple emissary representing Meenakshi's trusts.
From the east:
Jagannatha Setty,
other coastal merchant lords,
the sharp-eyed Kakinada accountant who had already scolded half the Mandala into financial discipline.
From the realm of mystics:
Venkanna,
two siddhar-like figures from Tamil country, ash-smeared and serene,
a veiled tantric adept familiar with Andhra's temple circuits.
And among them, moving like threads through cloth, Trinetra coordinators—those faceless watchers whose existence even most chiefs only half-understood.
Torches burned low, their smoke curling toward cracks in the cave roof.
At the centre, a natural rock platform rose—flat, solid, like a waiting altar.
Aboveground, the monsoon grumbled.
Below, the Mandala assembled.
For once, they did not sit in strict order of rank.
The circle that had been metaphor now became literal:
chiefs and merchants interspersed,
priests near warriors,
mystics beside accountants.
Narasimha stood on the platform, facing them.
He wore no jewels.
Only:
a freshly washed dhoti,
a simple angavastram,
his sword at his side,
the small silver fish talisman from Madurai at his waist.
His presence filled the cave regardless.
Not because of clothes.
Because the room turned when he breathed.
III. Refusal and Demand
"Before we begin," Narasimha said, voice echoing off stone, "let us be clear: I am not here to proclaim myself 'Emperor of the South' or some such madness. If anyone has carved such title on anything, please throw that carving into the nearest river."
Laughter rippled, easing tension.
Narasimha continued.
"What we have built so far is a Mandala," he said. "Circle of allies. Shared oaths. We have:
beaten the Company in open battle,
taken their forts like Bellary,
formed pacts with temple cities like Madurai,
woven merchants and chiefs into a web.
That is already much."
Avuku Raju folded his arms.
"And yet," he called out, "every time we must decide something big—where to commit troops, whether to risk famine for war, how to respond to British moves—we look at you."
Bhima grunted agreement.
"It's already a kingdom," he said. "You just refuse to call it one."
The Kakinada accountant raised a finger.
"And," she added, "when I balance the ledgers, almost every large expense ultimately traces back to a directive signed some variation of 'By order of U.N.R.' If that is not de facto kingship, what is?"
Jagannatha Setty smiled.
"Merchants dislike uncertainty," he said. "Right now, some of our peers ask: 'If Narasimha dies, will everything fall apart?' If we formalise succession, realms, councils… our risk reduces. Markets like stability. So do long rebellions."
Raja Pandiyan leaned forward.
"In Tamil streets," he said, "they already speak of 'the lion's south'. They do not know your Mandala terms. For them, you are already raja in practice. The question is whether you accept that responsibility loudly enough to make future traitors think twice before splintering us."
Narasimha looked at Venkanna.
The old teacher's eyes were kind.
"Children think a mango tree becomes a tree when someone calls it one," Venkanna said. "In truth, it becomes a tree when roots, trunk, branches, and fruit all exist. The south is now such a tree. The name… is overdue."
Narasimha exhaled, long.
"So this is a gathering to trap me," he muttered. "Not by enemies. By allies."
Sri spoke gently.
"It is not a trap," she said. "It is… clarity. The British can go on believing we are scattered thorns. But we must know we are a spear."
A siddhar's voice floated from the circle, light and distant.
"In the ages to come," he said, "foreign powers will redraw this land's boundaries many times. But tonight, beneath hill and stone, you have a chance to draw a subtle line in dharma. Not on paper—on intention."
Narasimha closed his eyes briefly.
In the darkness behind them, he saw:
Rayalaseema's dusty plains,
Ballari's black rock,
Madurai's shining gopurams,
temple lights along the coast,
myriad villages whose names he knew only through reports, each containing lives and worries.
They were all staring at him, in one way or another.
He opened his eyes.
"Very well," he said. "Speak plainly. What do you want this 'Southern Realm' to be? And what do you want from me?"
IV. Defining the Southern Realm
Sri stepped forward with a rolled cloth.
She unrolled it on the rock platform, revealing a hand-drawn map of the south:
Rayalaseema and Andhra in the centre,
Karnataka's Ballari region to the west,
Tamil belts around Madurai and passing toward Tirunelveli,
coastal tracts up to Machilipatnam and beyond.
Where British maps showed neat madras lines, this map showed Mandala nodes:
circles around Rayalaseema, Bellary, Madurai, coastal hubs, temple towns.
Over these, Sri had inscribed in neat script:
Dakshina Rajya – The Southern RealmInternal designation of the Mandala's protected territories.
"The British need not know this name," she said. "But we should. It binds:
Rayalaseema estates,
Andhra tracts under your reform,
Ballari area now under Mandala guardianship,
Tamil regions who signed the Madurai Pact,
coastal networks aligned to our cause.
Not yet the whole south. But a core."
Avuku Raju grunted approval.
"Dakshina Rajya," he said. "Has a ring. Better than 'That Big Mess We All Keep Fighting For'."
Raja Pandiyan added,
"And we all acknowledge that, within this Rajya, when decisions affect the whole, we defer to a central dharmic head. Not a tyrant. A guardian."
The priest from Madurai, who had come representing temple trusts, spoke next.
"In old days," he said, "there were Chakravartis—emperors over circles of kings. In your case, we do not need that exact word. But we need a face to whom gods, people, and even future ages can point and say, 'He answered when dharma called in Kaliyuga's British hour.'"
Natesan Chettiar nodded.
"Merchants will pledge more deeply," he said, "if we know that when we commit coin to a risky venture like this, there is one ultimate guarantor who won't flee at the first reversal. A king's word carries weight that a dozen chiefs' promises cannot."
The Kakinada accountant chimed in.
"And," she added, "from purely administrative perspective, calling you 'Sanchalaka' confuses people. Half our scribes write it as 'Sancha-lakka' and ask if it's some new tax. 'Raja' is simpler."
She looked unapologetic.
Narasimha rubbed his temples.
"So you want a king," he summarised. "But one whose crown is half visible, half in shadow. A king acknowledged by Mandala, temples, merchants, and mystics—but not advertised in British newspapers."
"Yes," Venkanna said calmly.
A murmur of assent circled the cave.
He looked up, as if seeking divine intervention.
"Of course," he muttered. "The gods are probably up there eating popcorn."
V. Debate with a Crown
"Fine," Narasimha said. "Let us assume, for a moment, that I agree to be this… shadow-king. What safeguards do you offer? I refuse to be the first step toward some bloated empire that devours its own children when the British are gone."
Sri lifted another small palm-leaf roll.
"We anticipated that objection," she said. "This is a Crown Constraint Charter—"
"You named it?" Ayyappa whispered. "Of course you named it."
Sri ignored him.
"—to bind not just you," she continued, "but any successor. It states:
that the Dakshina Rajya exists primarily to protect:
people from unjust rule,
temples from plunder,
lands from exploitative taxes,
and culture from erasure.
that the Crown cannot:
raise taxes beyond agreed thresholds without Mandala Council consent,
seize temple or village lands for personal luxuries,
embark on large wars of pure conquest without documented dharmic cause."
She looked at Narasimha.
"Break these too often," she said, "and the Mandala has scriptural grounds to depose you. With the gods as witness."
"Cheerful," he murmured. "Drafted by my… friends."
"Real friends hide the knives in legal clauses rather than in your back," Ayyappa muttered.
The Madurai priest added,
"We also require that you recognise, in this pact, that Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and other tongues in this Rajya are equals. No language shall dominate the courts and schools to the exclusion of others."
Narasimha nodded.
"That, I can accept," he said easily. "I've seen enough arrogance over script and language to last several lifetimes."
Jagannatha Setty spoke.
"And the merchant clause," he said. "If Dakshina Rajya defaults on promised terms to traders too often—reneging on agreed prices, seizing goods without cause—the Merchant Alliance will have the right to:
publicly censure the Crown,
temporarily restrict Mandala access to certain funds,
and appeal to the Mandala Council for arbitration."
Narasimha winced.
"So many ropes," he said. "I'll be trussed like a goat at a festival."
Venkanna smiled.
"A king with no ropes becomes an Asura," he said. "A king with too many ropes becomes useless. Here, I see balance. Enough freedom to act. Enough constraints to remind you you are servant as much as master."
The siddhar murmured,
"A crown here is not metal. It is obligation woven from many hands."
Silence fell.
The cave seemed to lean in.
Narasimha thought:
"They are offering me a throne that is also a shackle. It will demand more of me than any war. …Of course I will accept. I'm too far gone not to."
He straightened.
"Then hear me," he said. "If I accept this crown, I do so on certain conditions of my own."
He raised a finger.
"First: I will not sit on a golden throne while soldiers sleep on empty stomachs or farmers starve. My court shall be simple. If anyone lays gold leaf on my chair, I will make them eat it."
Soft laughter.
"Second: My title will not be something bloated like 'Emperor of All Dakshina and the Seven Seas'." He grimaced. "You can call me Dakshina Samrakshaka Raja—King-Protector of the South. Protector first. King second."
The priest nodded approvingly.
"Third," Narasimha went on, "this coronation—if we may call it that—must be done:
in secret from British eyes,
in presence of our Mandala pillars and the gods.
No public parades. No invitations to Company officials. If one white wig appears, I walk out."
"Agreed," Raja Pandiyan said promptly. "I don't want them anywhere near our oaths."
"Fourth," he concluded, "when the day comes that I am too old, too tired, or too corrupted to carry this weight, I reserve the right to step down. And you reserve the right to push me down, if I cling. Write this."
Sri's quill flew.
The siddhar chuckled.
"The first king of this Rajya already plans his abdication," he said. "Auspicious."
VI. The Secret Anointing
The arguments, clauses, and counter-clauses took hours.
It was past midnight when they finally reached consensus.
The cave's torches burned lower.
Outside, monsoon thunder muttered.
Inside, preparations for a simple yet cosmic coronation began.
No crafted crown had been brought.
Instead, symbols.
From different corners of the south, placed in the centre:
Soil from Rayalaseema, coarse and red, gathered from fields where Narasimha's early reforms had eased farmers' burdens.
Stone dust from Bellary's ramparts.
Flowers and turmeric from Madurai, offered in Meenakshi's temple just days earlier.
Salt and a coin from the coast, provided by Setty.
Water mixed from:
Krishna,
Tungabhadra,
Kaveri (brought reverently in a small sealed pot by a Mysore envoy aligned with Mandala sympathisers).
A small iron circlet, hastily fashioned by a Mandala smith—not ornate, just strong.
The mystics took charge of ritual.
A low chant began, weaving Sanskrit, Tamil, Telugu phrases:
ancient invocations,
local power-words,
prayers not for dominion, but for clarity.
The priest from Madurai sprinkled the mixed river water into a large shallow vessel.
He beckoned Narasimha.
"Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy," he intoned, "step forward. Not as chieftain alone. As candidate for burden."
Narasimha stepped onto the rock platform, sandals set aside, feet bare upon the cool stone.
Venkanna approached with a small bowl of Rayalaseema soil.
"From the land that first called you son and leader," he said, dabbing it lightly on Narasimha's forehead and chest. "Remember it whenever power tries to drift your gaze upward and away."
Avuku Raju and Bhima Nayak together took a pinch of Bellary stone dust.
"For the rocks you took without drowning them in blood," Raju said. "May your rulings be as firm as this stone, and as hard for enemies to crack."
Raja Pandiyan and the Madurai priest came with flowers and turmeric.
"For Tamil lands," the priest murmured, pressing them to his shoulders, "where language flows like river and gods dance in courtyards. May you never let any tongue in your Rajya be silenced by arrogance."
Jagannatha Setty dropped salt into Narasimha's palm, then placed a coin atop it.
"From the coast and its markets," he said. "Salt, without which food is dull. Coin, without which armies starve. May your rule never forget either."
The siddhars and tantric adept dipped their fingers into the river water, then touched the crown of Narasimha's head.
"For rivers that carry memory," one whispered. "Let your mind be like them—able to hold and release, not stagnant."
Then came the iron circlet.
Not gold.
Not studded with jewels.
Plain.
Weighty.
Ayyappa held it up, waggling his eyebrows.
"Last chance to run away," he joked. "If you leave now, I promise to tell everyone you died heroically instead of fleeing a crown."
"Shut up and put it on," Narasimha muttered.
Venkanna took the circlet with reverence.
He looked upward.
"Trimurti, Tridevi, guardians of dharma," he said softly. "You know this soul better than any of us. You forged him as almost-Manu, you watched him fall, rise, and fall again. Tonight, we put upon his mortal shoulders a fraction of what you carry. Watch him. Guide him. Drag him by the ear if needed."
Above, in realms unseen, six divine presences indeed watched.
Lakshmi's eyes were bright.
Parvati's proud.
Saraswati's thoughtful.
Brahma's stylus hovered.
Vishnu and Maheshwara leaned forward like brothers at a sibling's wedding—half worried, half amused.
"Ready?" Venkanna asked Narasimha quietly.
"No," Narasimha said honestly. "Do it anyway."
The circlet descended.
Cool iron touched hair and skin.
It sat, not snugly comfortable, not painfully tight.
Present.
Real.
The chant rose.
"From this night," the Madurai priest proclaimed, "in the eyes of the Dakshina Mandala, of temples who consented, of merchants who pledged, of mystics who witnessed, and of the people whose voices reach us through them—
Uyyalawada Narasimha Reddy is recognised as:
Dakshina Samrakshaka RajaKing-Protector of the Southern Realm."
The words struck the stone.
And something answered.
VII. The Gods' Confirmation
In the same heartbeat that the title was spoken, the cave shivered imperceptibly.
Not from thunder above.
From within.
Every torch flame bent, briefly, as if bowing.
Narasimha felt it before anyone else:
a warm line of energy running from the circlet, down his spine, into the earth,
another line rising from the ground up into his chest,
then both flowing outward like invisible arms encircling the cave.
In the celestial realm, a new entry inscribed itself in Brahma's ever-growing scroll.
Dakshina Rajya formally acknowledged: U.N.R. anointed as King-Protector under Mandala constraints. Authority derived not from conquest alone, but from consent of chiefs, merchants, mystics, and temple representatives. Realm remains hidden from colonial consciousness, recognised in subtle planes as a protective mandala under divine oversight.
Lakshmi clasped her hands together gently.
"There," she murmured. "Our child has taken on a realm. Not because he wanted power. Because he could not turn away."
Parvati nodded.
"He stands not on a palace balcony," she said, "but in a cave, surrounded by those he serves. That is the kind of king I can support."
Saraswati added,
"And when Marvel's age begins, and other kings—Wakanda's, Asgard's, Latveria's—strut and boast, this southern king will have long practice in ruling quietly, effectively, and with more paperwork than any Asgardian could imagine."
Vishnu smiled wryly.
"Ichha-marana, extended life, mandala kingship," he listed. "We have given him enough tools. Let's see how he dances between them."
Maheshwara's eyes glowed faintly.
"And if he strays," he said, "we know where to knock."
VIII. Oaths to the Hidden King
One by one, those gathered stepped forward to seal their recognition.
This was not about obsequious bowing.
It was about alignment.
Avuku Raju knelt briefly, head bowed, then rose with his usual swagger.
"Dakshina Samrakshaka," he said, deliberately using the title, "Ballari stands. When you call, my riders will come—unless we are already in the act of stealing the enemy's shirts."
Narasimha's lips twitched.
"Try not to steal too many shirts," he said. "Winter exists."
Raja Pandiyan folded his hands.
"From Tamil lands," he said, "I acknowledge you as dharmic head of this Rajya. Don't expect me to start calling you 'Swami' in every sentence, but when the south burns, I will stand on your side of the fire."
Natesan Chettiar and Jagannatha Setty bowed with merchant dignity.
"From the coastal trade guilds," Setty said, "we acknowledge that our coin now flows through more than markets. It flows through a Rajya. We will hold you to your promises. In return, we will keep your granaries full longer than any Empire can."
The Kakinada accountant stepped up, gave a brisk namaskar.
"I acknowledge you," she said, "as the final authority whose signature keeps me up at night. For dharma, for balance, for ledgers that do not bleed. Try not to annoy me too much, Your Majesty."
"See?" Ayyappa muttered. "Already your first subject threatens you with account books."
Temple representatives, mystics, village heads—all gave their variations.
Some offered full prostrations.
Some only nods.
But all used the new word at least once:
Raja.
It landed on Narasimha's shoulders like one more layer of that iron circlet.
Part burden.
Part armour.
IX. British Blindness
While torches smoked in a Nallamala cave and a hidden king accepted his crown, life in Madras continued under punkah fans and clinking glasses.
In the high-ceilinged office of the Governor's military secretary, reports were being read.
Harwood stood by a window, gaze on the sea, while a clerk droned:
"Sir, latest dispatches:
increased banditry in Rayalaseema region,
further unrest in Bellary, now essentially under control of native chiefs,
troubling but isolated acts of rebellion near Madurai, often supported by local priests and merchants."
He shuffled papers.
"Also," he went on, "a curious rise in rumours among native populations about some 'lion' protecting the south. We suspect local folklore coalescing around various rebel leaders."
Harwood took the reports, scanning quickly.
Lines jumped at him:
"uncoordinated disturbances",
"bandits",
"localised unrest",
"religious agitation".
He traced with his finger:
Rayalaseema,
Bellary,
Madurai,
coastal towns.
A circle emerged again.
He tapped the map.
"It's not isolated," he said quietly. "It's organised. There's a pattern."
His superior, paunch pressing against his waistcoat, waved a hand.
"Patterns, Harwood?" he said lightly. "Natives always look like patterns when you stare too long at them. One village shouts, three copy, a bard sings, suddenly everyone imagines a grand conspiracy."
He sipped diluted brandy.
"Besides," he added, "even if there is some charismatic fellow behind these spots of trouble, it's still small-scale. A few districts. Hardly a kingdom."
Harwood looked out at the horizon.
Storm clouds sat there too.
He had the strange feeling of a man standing on a beach, watching waves and thinking, "This looks normal," while somewhere far beyond sight, a great underwater shift had already begun.
"No kingdom," he murmured.
Below Madras, in the heart of Nallamala, a hidden Rajya had just named its king.
The British did not know.
Not yet.
Their ignorance was a gift.
And a sword waiting to be swung.
X. A King Who Hates Crowns
After the formalities, when the torches burned low and most had gone to snatch a few hours of sleep before dawn, Narasimha sat alone at the cave's mouth, legs dangling over a rock ledge.
The iron circlet rested beside him on the stone.
He rubbed the faint mark on his forehead where soil, dust, flowers, and water had mingled.
Footsteps approached.
Sri and Ayyappa settled on either side.
"Well, Your Majesty?" Ayyappa teased. "How does it feel?"
"Like I've agreed to feed an elephant every day for the rest of my life without actually owning the elephant," Narasimha said. "Only when it stamps, everyone will look at me."
Sri's eyes were kinder.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
He thought for a moment.
"…No," he said finally. "Not yet. Ask me again after the next three crises."
He picked up the circlet, turning it in his hands.
"I wanted to protect my village, my estates," he said softly. "Then Rayalaseema. Then fields beyond. Then temples. Now a 'Southern Realm'."
He exhaled.
"I keep saying yes, and the circle keeps getting bigger."
Sri nudged his shoulder.
"The circle was always there," she said. "You're just seeing more of it each time."
Ayyappa grinned.
"On the bright side," he said, "when some future costumed fellow calls himself 'King of Wakanda' or 'God of Thunder', you can raise one eyebrow and think, 'Child, have you ever tried convincing Tamil priests, Andhra farmers, Karnataka raiders, and coastal merchants to agree on a single grain tax?'"
"Marvel again," Narasimha muttered. "One day, you will explain these strange images that keep popping into your head."
He slipped the circlet back on, just enough to feel its weight.
It was less alien now.
Still heavy.
But aligned.
He looked out toward where, beyond layers of hills and nights, lay:
Bellary's dark fort,
Madurai's luminous towers,
Rayalaseema's quiet villages sleeping under uncertain skies.
In each of those places, people would wake tomorrow with the same worries:
crops,
marriages,
debts,
the ever-present shadow of the Company.
They would not know that, far away, their lands had been woven into a hidden Southern Realm, under a king who disliked crowns and adored their stubborn, messy lives.
"That is as it should be," he thought. "Their world should be family, work, worship—not my titles."
He rose.
"Come," he said. "We have to be back at our respective fronts before anyone misses us. Kingship or not, the work doesn't change."
Sri smirked.
"It will get worse," she said. "I have a whole new column in the ledger now: 'Royal Obligations'."
Ayyappa groaned.
"I suddenly feel sympathy for you," he told Narasimha. "That's disturbing."
They laughed softly.
Above, the monsoon finally broke, rain starting to drum on the hills.
The Dakshina Rajya took its first breath under that sound:
unseen on British maps,
unwritten in any imperial gazette,
yet inscribed in cave echoes, temple archives, and the subtle currents of dharma.
A Deathless Lion now wore an iron circlet.
South India had, in secret, declared its independence of soul, if not yet of paper.
The British slept peacefully in their bungalows.
For now.
The storm would wake them later.
✦ End of Chapter 40 – "Declaration of Southern Independence" ✦