The silence of the Great Library of Vijayanagara was a living thing. It was composed of the gentle rustle of palm-leaf manuscripts, the distant, rhythmic tap of a stone carver's chisel, and the scent of aged paper, dry ink, and sandalwood oil used to preserve the scrolls. For Prince Aditya, at fourteen years of age, this was the most sacred place in the empire.
He sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his back straight, a stack of manuscripts beside him. His focus was absolute. Sunlight, thick with dust motes, streamed from a high, latticed window, illuminating the page before him. It was not a grand epic or a religious text. It was a municipal ledger, detailing the flow of goods through the city's southern gate for the past year.
"My prince," a weary voice interrupted the silence.
Aditya looked up. It was Vidyasagar, his chief tutor, a man whose vast learning was matched only by his profound bewilderment at his student.
"You have been here since sunrise," Vidyasagar said, gesturing to the ledger. "This is the work of a clerk. A prince should be studying the Arthashastra, the science of statecraft, or the Dhanurveda, the art of war."
"Is the flow of grain not statecraft, master?" Aditya asked, his voice quiet and serious. "If the caravans from the coast are delayed by a week, the price of salt doubles in the bazaar. If the price doubles, the soldiers' mess will reduce their ration. If the ration is reduced for a month, morale will fall. A fall in morale is a weakness an enemy can exploit. The foundation of an empire isn't the king's decree; it's the consistency of the grain supply."
Vidyasagar sighed. It was always like this. The boy saw the world as a web of interconnected systems, a great machine of cause and effect. He had no interest in glory or honor, only in understanding how the machine worked. He collected facts the way a magpie collects shiny pebbles—meticulously and for reasons no one else could fathom.
"An interesting thought, prince," the tutor conceded, "but abstract. Perhaps some time in the training yards…"
"I have already calculated the effective range of our archers against cavalry moving at a full charge," Aditya said without looking up from his page. "The problem is not the range, but the time it takes to nock a second arrow. That is the vulnerability."
The tutor gave up. He bowed stiffly and retreated, leaving the strange prince to his numbers.
Aditya soon grew tired of the ledgers. He neatly stacked the manuscripts and left the library, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brilliant afternoon sun. He did not head for the royal wing of the palace, but walked out into the city itself, his two household guards struggling to keep pace.
He ignored the palanquins and the chariots of other nobles, choosing to walk through the heart of the great bazaar. The sensory overload was immense. The air was a cacophony of vendors hawking their wares, the sizzle of food frying in hot oil, the clang of a coppersmith's hammer, and the babble of a dozen different languages. He saw merchants from Persia, their beards curled, haggling over silks. He saw traders from the coast, their skin dark, balancing sacks of pungent spices.
Aditya saw it all, but he processed it differently. His eyes noted the state of the cobblestones, worn and uneven—a danger for supply carts. He saw the throngs of people packed into the narrow street and noted how a single panicked animal could cause a fatal stampede. He looked at the grand temples and palaces, and instead of admiring their beauty, he calculated the stress on their stone pillars and estimated the manpower it would take to repair a collapsed roof. He saw a city whose magnificent appearance masked a hundred logistical frailties.
As he neared the great plaza before the Virupaksha Temple, he noticed a shift in the city's rhythm. A knot of people was gathered around a royal crier. A company of the King's elite guard clattered past, their faces grim, their spears held at the ready. The usual hum of the city was being replaced by a low, anxious murmur.
Aditya stopped a man hurrying past, a cloth merchant with a worried face. "What is the news?"
"The armies of the Sultanates, my prince," the man whispered, bowing quickly. "All of them. United. They are said to be marching on the city."
Aditya's blood ran cold. He knew the histories. He knew the rivalries between the Sultans of Bijapur, Golconda, and the others. They were vipers, constantly at each other's throats. For them to unite… that meant they sensed a moment of supreme weakness. Or a prize of supreme value.
He looked around at the bustling, vibrant, chaotic city, at the thousands of people living their lives, unaware that they were standing on the precipice. His mind, the mind that saw everything as a system, began to run a new, terrifying calculation. He factored in the strength of the city's walls, the state of its granaries, the overconfidence of its generals, the sheer numbers of the unified enemy.
The result of his calculation was a single, stark, and inescapable conclusion.
The city was going to fall.