Simhagiri listened.

  The temple walls gave up their secrets slowly—scratches beneath roots, alignments too precise to be decorative, stones that hummed faintly when struck in certain places. The scholars worked in careful silence. The scouts widened their perimeter. The trainee guards stood firm, young but resolute.

  The mountain did not resist them.

  It simply watched.

  But far from its shadow, in Indraprastha—

  Pressure was building.

  The leak began as whispers.

  A stable boy overheard a guard mention Garuda.

  A courier spoke too loudly in a tea stall.

  A scrap of sealed parchment was glimpsed in a scribe’s trembling hand.

  War.

  The word traveled like lightning.

  By midday, it was no longer rumor.

  “Avanendra has attacked.”

  “Garuda is trapped at the southern border.”

  “The capital is exposed.”

  Couple that with the public notice of disease beyond the gates—

  And fear found its second wind.

  Markets tightened again.

  Voices rose.

  Arguments sparked faster than reason could cool them.

  At first, it was only shouting.

  Then shoving.

  Then blood.

  Not from infection.

  From stress.

  From exhaustion.

  From the sense of being caged.

  The lockdown—necessary as it was—became a target.

  “No entry and no exit?” one merchant shouted at the northern gate. “We are prisoners now?”

  Guards held their lines, disciplined but strained. Their numbers were not large enough to intimidate—only to enforce.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Some citizens attempted to push through the gates regardless. They were turned back.

  Firmly.

  Carefully.

  Publicly.

  And every refusal became another spark.

  Inside the city, small fights broke out in clusters—near bakeries, at wells, outside temples. People accused one another of hiding symptoms. Of hoarding. Of knowing more than they said.

  The seed had not visibly taken hold within Indraprastha—

  But fear was doing the work in its place.

  Surya stood in the planning chamber, reading reports that no longer surprised him.

  “Three more altercations near the western quarter.”

  “Crowd gathering at the southern gate.”

  “Merchants demanding clarity on war status.”

  Virat paced near the window.

  “This was inevitable,” he said quietly. “Disease outside. War outside. Locked gates inside.”

  Surya did not respond immediately.

  His hands rested on the edge of the table—but his mind was elsewhere.

  Simhagiri.

  The pulse.

  The spreading darkness.

  Containment was failing—not from infection, but from pressure.

  Pratap entered, face tight.

  “We restrained two men this morning,” he said. “Not infected. Just panicked.”

  Surya looked up. “Where are they?”

  “Training grounds,” Pratap replied. “Separate from suspected cases.”

  Good.

  The distinction mattered.

  Dharan stood near the doorway, silent as stone.

  “The pulse?” Surya asked without turning.

  “Faint,” Dharan replied. “Still there. But strained.”

  Surya closed his eyes briefly.

  If the pulse weakened further—

  Would the capital be next?

  Outside the palace, a crowd gathered at the northern gate again. This time larger. Voices more desperate.

  “We have family outside!”

  “Let us leave!”

  “You trap us here to die!”

  The city guard captain stood firm, repeating the same lines—measured, calm, rehearsed.

  For the safety of all.

  Temporary measure.

  Await further notice.

  Each repetition felt thinner than the last.

  Inside the palace corridor, Surya paused.

  For the first time since this began—

  He did not know the next step.

  Public address?

  It might calm some—and ignite others.

  Loosen the gates?

  Risk infection.

  Tighten them further?

  Risk revolt.

  He leaned against a stone pillar, eyes fixed on nothing.

  The city was not yet infected.

  But it was stressed.

  And stress cracked foundations faster than disease.

  Virat stepped beside him quietly.

  “You’re thinking too far ahead,” Virat said.

  “I’m not thinking far enough,” Surya replied.

  He looked toward the sealed district.

  If the darkness spreads through fracture—

  Then fear is the fracture.

  And war is the hammer.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “Simhagiri needs time,” Surya murmured. “But the capital may not give it.”

  Another report arrived.

  This time from within the inner market—two brothers fighting over grain. One accusing the other of hiding illness. Neither infected.

  Just afraid.

  Surya straightened.

  “We need to absorb the pressure,” he said quietly.

  Virat frowned. “How?”

  Surya did not answer immediately.

  Outside, the crowd at the gate surged again—not violent, but desperate.

  And beneath the capital—

  The pulse flickered once more.

  Thinner than before.

  Not gone.

  But strained—like a thread pulled too tight.

  Surya looked up at the palace ceiling, as if searching for guidance in stone.

  For the first time since stepping into leadership, uncertainty pressed against him fully.

  War outside.

  Darkness spreading.

  City locked.

  Fear rising.

  He was holding a dam against two floods—

  And the cracks were beginning to show.

  For now, the capital still stood.

  But it was no longer calm.

  It was contained.

  And containment—

  Had limits.