Indraprastha did not return to normal after the Assembly.
Not truly.
People still worked, traded, laughed, lived—
but there was a faint tension in the air, like the city had begun listening to something only it could hear.
Even the pigeons on the palace roofs seemed to fly in uneasy circles.
But Surya?
He had no time to dwell on it.
Within a day of the King’s announcement, preparations began.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
Quiet ripples spreading through the palace like threads woven into silk.
A new unit was forming—
and he was its core.
Yet even as warriors were selected, scouts summoned, and messengers dispatched to different battalions… Surya sensed something else.
Something off.
Something beneath all this movement.
A tremor in stone he could not yet define.
The next morning, a formal court session was announced.
Surya arrived in ceremonial robes—not the heavy gold ones used in festivals, but the light red and white attire of a prince preparing for duties beyond the capital.
His companions stood behind him, wearing their newly granted titles proudly.
As they stepped inside, Surya felt dozens of eyes on him—ministers, nobles, generals, scholars. The weight of their gazes was different now.
Not curiosity.
Expectation.
Admiration.
Fear.
The King entered, flanked by Rudra and the palace guards.
All bowed.
Surya straightened as his father’s voice echoed through the hall.
“Let it be known,” Maharaja Veerajit announced, “that the Yuvraj Surya will undertake a mission sanctioned by crown and council alike. A mission beyond politics—one necessary for the safety of Suryavarta.”
Applause rose, controlled and measured.
But what followed was not expected.
“Furthermore,” the King continued, “the Council will support the Yuvraj with full authority in matters of investigation and border coordination.”
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A noticeable shift in the hall.
Several nobles inhaled sharply.
This was new.
The Council giving authority?
Without protest?
Surya’s eyes flicked to the ministers.
They stood united.
Calm.
Respectful.
Genuinely supportive.
Some lowered their heads toward him—
a gesture he never expected from them.
Surya kept his expression steady, but the realization settled quietly:
They trust me now.
And that meant his plan had worked.
But it also meant something else—
If the Council didn’t orchestrate the attack…
Then someone was playing a deeper, more dangerous game.
As the court dismissed, a scribe hurried in—pale, breathless.
He rushed to a council member and whispered frantically.
Surya caught the words by accident.
“…merchant district… collapse… ground cracked… no reason…”
The minister stiffened.
Surya’s blood ran cold.
Ground cracked?
The earth? Again?
Rudra noticed his expression immediately. “What is it?”
Surya walked toward the scribe. “You. What happened?”
The scribe swallowed hard. “Y-Your Highness, a small section of the merchant district… a storage building… the ground beneath it split. No explosion, no sabotage. It just… sank.”
Dharan let out a low breath. “Like the earth was hollow underneath.”
Varun whispered, “Or eaten.”
Meera muttered, “Another sign.”
Pratap’s hand instinctively found his spear. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Minor injuries,” the scribe said. “But… eyewitnesses claim they heard something before the ground gave way.”
Surya tensed. “What?”
The scribe hesitated. “They described it as… a ‘thrum.’ Like… a heartbeat.”
Silence shattered the air.
A heartbeat beneath the city.
Surya’s mind flashed to the tremor he felt on the balcony.
It wasn’t imagination.
Something was stirring.
Something buried.
Something aware.
Rudra exhaled a deep breath. “This is no coincidence.”
Surya turned to his companions. “Come. All of you. We need to see it.”
The destruction wasn’t massive—
But it was unnatural.
A storage building had collapsed inward, as though the earth beneath it had been scooped out by invisible hands. The stone floor was cracked in jagged patterns, and the edges of the collapse looked almost… melted.
A faint heat radiated from the pit.
Not fire-heat.
Not lava-heat.
Something denser.
Older.
Surya knelt beside the edge, touching the stone lightly.
It vibrated.
A pulse.
Thrum.
Like a slow heartbeat.
He felt every element in him—Fire, Water, Wind, Earth—tighten instinctively.
Not out of fear.
Out of recognition.
This resonance…
This rhythm…
It reminded him of something from Kashi.
His breath caught.
Vashrya stepped forward from the crowd—his expression unreadable.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” the sage murmured.
Surya nodded. “Something beneath the city… something old… is stirring.”
Vashrya’s voice dropped to a grave hush.
“This rhythm… this pulse… is not the Rakshasa.”
“What?” Surya looked up sharply.
Vashrya gazed down into the cracked pit, eyes darkening.
“This is deeper. Older. More structured. The Rakshasa corrupts. This… shapes.”
Meera whispered, “Shapes what?”
“Stone,” Vashrya replied. “Earth. Foundations.”
Surya’s heartbeat pounded.
A buried presence waking.
Earth trembling beneath capital stone.
Voices in the west calling it the Buried One.
Everything converged.
And then—
Vashrya turned to face Surya fully.
“This is not the Rakshasa’s doing,” he said. “But the Rakshasa is being drawn to it.”
Surya felt the weight of that truth settle like a boulder on his chest.
“So… something beneath Suryavarta is awakening,” he murmured. “And its awakening is calling the Rakshasa from every corner of the land.”
Vashrya nodded grimly.
“A convergence is coming, Surya. One that may shake more than borders.”
Surya stood slowly, staring at the cracked earth—
the faint pulse echoing beneath his feet.
A call.
A warning.
Or an invitation.
He did not yet know.
But he knew one thing with crystal clarity:
This was only the beginning.
And whatever waited beneath the capital…
…was connected to him.
