The decision did not come quickly.

  It came after hours of circling the same fears from different angles—trade, morale, patrol strength, rumor velocity, public perception. Every solution solved one problem and created another. Every restraint risked appearing weak; every show of force risked becoming provocation.

  It was Pratap who broke the loop.

  He had been quiet for a long time, fingers resting on the edge of the table, eyes unfocused as though tracing patterns no one else could see.

  “People aren’t afraid because they think we’re losing,” he said finally.

  Everyone looked at him.

  “They’re afraid because they can’t see us winning.”

  Surya turned slightly. “Explain.”

  Pratap straightened, thinking aloud now. “We’ve been reacting. Quietly. Intelligently. But quietly. To the people, all they see are restrictions, guards, arrests, rising prices.”

  Meera nodded slowly. “Absence of reassurance.”

  “Yes,” Pratap said. “We tell them order exists, but we never show them the strength that enforces it.”

  Dharan crossed his arms. “Strength shown carelessly becomes threat.”

  “I agree,” Pratap replied. “Which is why it shouldn’t be about suppression.”

  He looked at Surya.

  “It should be about remembrance.”

  Surya’s expression sharpened.

  “The Garuda Battalion,” Pratap said.

  Silence fell—not heavy this time, but attentive.

  “They are our southern wall,” Pratap continued. “Our spear and shield. Everyone knows their name, but most haven’t seen them in years. Especially not in the capital.”

  Virat frowned slightly. “Most of them aren’t here. Their duty keeps them south.”

  “And that’s the point,” Pratap replied. “People have forgotten that the reason the south is quiet… is because the Garuda stand there.”

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  Surya leaned back slowly, considering.

  “A parade?” Meera asked cautiously.

  “Not a parade,” Pratap corrected. “An acknowledgment.”

  He gestured vaguely. “A march. A recognition of the Dawn March. Credit where it’s due.”

  Dharan’s gaze shifted. “A visible reminder. Not against the people—but for the kingdom.”

  Surya closed his eyes briefly.

  The image formed clearly.

  Steel without menace.

  Discipline without threat.

  Presence without proclamation.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  He opened his eyes.

  “We do it.”

  The room stilled for a heartbeat—then moved.

  Varun nodded. “Symbolism matters. Especially now.”

  “But there aren’t many Garuda in the capital,” Virat said. “Their commander was here but left north a month ago.”

  Surya nodded. “I know. One of the generals is acting commander.”

  “He’s aware of the situation,” Pratap added. “He’s already on edge.”

  “Then he’ll understand why this matters,” Surya said. “We won’t pull forces from the border. Only those already present.”

  “And supplement with city guard,” Dharan added. “Enough to give shape. Not enough to look like mobilization.”

  “Exactly,” Surya said.

  Orders went out that same evening.

  Careful ones.

  Deliberate ones.

  No announcements of emergency.

  No martial proclamations.

  Just an invitation.

  A public acknowledgment ceremony for the Garuda Battalion—for the Dawn March, for service rendered, for battles fought far from the capital so the capital could sleep.

  The acting commander agreed without hesitation.

  “We won't do any speeches,” he’d said. “Just let them be seen.”

  The march took place two days later.

  Morning sun washed the main avenue in pale gold as people gathered—not summoned, but drawn. At first, only a few. Then more. Vendors paused their stalls. Children climbed onto low walls. Conversations slowed.

  Then the sound reached them.

  Boots.

  Measured.

  Even.

  Unrushed.

  The Garuda marched in disciplined silence—fewer than most remembered, but unmistakable all the same. Their armor bore the marks of real campaigns, not polish. Their banners were not raised high, but carried steady.

  City guard units followed—not crowding, not imposing—just enough to frame the procession.

  And at the front—

  Surya.

  Not mounted.

  Not armored.

  Walking.

  Head high.

  Pace matched.

  No speech was given.

  None was needed.

  People watched.

  And remembered.

  Whispers shifted tone.

  “That’s them.”

  “They’re still here.”

  “The Garuda…”

  Someone clapped.

  Then another.

  Not thunderous.

  Not forced.

  Grateful.

  By the time the march ended, the city felt different.

  Not elated.

  Settled.

  The markets reopened without panic-buying that afternoon. Prices stopped climbing. Conversations returned to speculation instead of certainty.

  The rumors didn’t vanish.

  But they softened.

  They became what they had been weeks ago—

  Just rumors.

  That night, Surya stood once more on the palace balcony, looking out over Indraprastha.

  Lights burned steadily.

  Voices rose and fell normally.

  The city breathed again.

  Dharan joined him quietly.

  “It worked,” he said.

  Surya nodded. “For now.”

  Dharan glanced sideways. “You didn’t even address them.”

  Surya smiled faintly. “I didn’t need to.”

  He looked back over the city.

  “They don’t need to be told they’re safe,” he said. “They need to remember why they ever were.”

  Far into the south, the Garuda still stood watch.

  And tonight—

  Indraprastha remembered that it was not alone.