They did not wait to return to routine.

  By the time Surya and the others reached Indraprastha, runners were already dispatched—not to the markets, not to the city guard captains—but to the highest offices within the palace.

  This would not be a full council session.

  No lower ministers.

  No guild representatives.

  No scribes beyond one trusted recorder.

  Only the Upper Council.

  And the King.

  The chamber doors closed with a weight that felt heavier than usual.

  Maharaja Veerajit sat at the head of the semicircle, expression grave but steady. Around him, the most senior voices of Suryavarta gathered—those who had weathered wars, famines, and political fractures.

  Yet none of them had faced this.

  Surya stood at the center.

  He did not soften the truth.

  “In the towns south of the capital,” he began, “groups are attacking without motive. Those involved show mental dissociation. They fixate northward. And the pattern reveals that the condition spreads through emotional proximity—family, victims, witnesses.”

  Murmurs spread—quiet, controlled, but unmistakably unsettled.

  “Spreads?” one councilor repeated.

  “Yes,” Surya said evenly. “Not by blood. Not by air. But by fracture.”

  He described the pattern—how the second wave of attackers were related to the first. How the victims themselves turned soon after. How restraint did not cure it.

  He did not use the word darkness immediately.

  He waited.

  When the room’s unease reached its edge, he said it plainly.

  “This is not ordinary unrest. It is Rakshasa influence. The seed is acting.”

  Silence swallowed the chamber whole.

  Even those who had once dismissed such talk did not speak against it now. The evidence was too aligned. The reports too consistent.

  “We have no precedent,” an elderly councilor admitted quietly. “Nothing in records describes this scale.”

  Surya nodded. “Then we create our response without precedent.”

  He looked at them one by one.

  “Think of it as an aggressive disease.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  That shifted something.

  Not mysticism.

  Not curse.

  Disease.

  Something to contain.

  Something to outlast.

  “We must isolate exposure,” Surya continued. “Prevent spread. Stabilize centers of strength before searching for cure.”

  The word cure lingered in the air.

  Gradually, the council members began thinking not in fear—but in structure.

  Quarantine routes.

  Communication delays.

  Controlled messaging.

  Then the flaw revealed itself.

  One of the generals spoke carefully. “The main Garuda defensive force… we sent them south.”

  The room stilled.

  Yes.

  They had chosen balance.

  And now the balance felt thin.

  The King leaned forward.

  “Our capital defense,” he said quietly, “is lighter than it should be.”

  No one contradicted him.

  Surya’s jaw tightened—but he did not regret the decision. The southern border still mattered. If Avanendra pressed while internal chaos bloomed—

  The thought was not finished.

  Veerajit stood.

  “Send a high-speed messenger south,” the King ordered. “Immediate relay. Garuda to heighten readiness and prepare for rapid redeployment if needed.”

  Pratap bowed slightly and moved to issue the command.

  “And the northern commander?” another councilor asked.

  The King’s eyes shifted to Surya.

  The prince nodded once.

  “One royal message parakeet,” Veerajit said.

  The word carried weight.

  A royal parakeet was not used lightly. Trained for long-distance emergency dispatch, recognizable by seal and thread, it meant recall—not suggestion.

  “To the Garuda commander in the north,” the King continued. “Emergency callback. Immediate return.”

  Orders were written swiftly. The bird prepared.

  As scribes worked, Surya turned to Vashrya.

  “We need more than steel,” Surya said quietly. “We need understanding.”

  Vashrya met his gaze.

  “You want Kashi.”

  “Yes,” Surya replied. “If this is Rakshasa influence at scale, they will have faced traces of it before.”

  Vashrya’s expression did not change.

  “Kashi does not send aid when asked,” he said calmly. “They send aid when they deem it necessary.”

  The words hit harder than intended.

  Surya’s composure cracked—not loudly, but sharply.

  “This is not necessary enough?” he demanded. “Towns fracturing? Minds collapsing? The anchor weakening?”

  The room froze.

  Vashrya did not retreat.

  “Kashi moves by its own alignment,” he said quietly. “It is not governed by urgency alone.”

  “That is arrogance,” Surya snapped.

  “No,” Vashrya replied evenly. “It is perspective.”

  Silence followed.

  Heavy.

  Uncomfortable.

  Surya’s anger lingered for a moment—then cooled under the weight of reality.

  He turned away first.

  “Send word anyway,” he said more quietly. “Inform them. If they choose to respond, we will be ready.”

  Vashrya inclined his head.

  “It will be sent.”

  The chamber exhaled slowly.

  There was one more matter.

  “The public,” a councilor said.

  Surya nodded.

  “We cannot tell them the truth yet,” he said. “If panic spreads inside the capital, the seed will spread with it.”

  “So what do we say?” the King asked.

  Surya thought carefully.

  “We issue notice of a dangerous disease spreading in the outer towns,” he said. “Advise all citizens to remain within Indraprastha until further clarity.”

  “No entries?” Pratap asked.

  “None,” Surya replied. “Full halt.”

  The words settled heavily—but rationally.

  “We frame it as precaution,” Surya added. “Temporary. Protective.”

  The King nodded once.

  “Draft it.”

  By evening, public notices were posted across Indraprastha:

  A dangerous illness has been reported in southern districts. For the safety of all citizens, travel into the capital is suspended until further notice. Residents are advised to remain within the city and avoid unnecessary gatherings.

  The wording was measured.

  Calm.

  Not false.

  But not complete.

  The gates tightened.

  The guards doubled watch.

  The city, once again, felt smaller.

  That night, as the royal parakeet was released northward and the southern messenger rode without pause, Surya stood alone in the dim corridor outside the council chamber.

  Behind him, strategy continued.

  Ahead of him, the city slept uneasily.

  And beneath his feet—

  The pulse weakened again.

  Not vanished.

  Not broken.

  But thinner than ever.

  As if something ancient was holding back a tide—

  And running out of strength to do so.