✦ 𑁍 Chronicle Note: 1846 CE – The Year the Lion Left His Den 𑁍
Year: 1846 CE
Narasimha's Age: ~46 years
Kaveri's Age: ~43 years
Rudrama Devi & Rajendra's Age: 17–18 years
The Mandalic Dharmic Federation had survived its first storms.
The British had been beaten back, nobles turned into trustees, riots checked by law and dharma.
Councils functioned, ministries argued, the navy patrolled, the mystic departments quietly sealed tears in reality.
For the first time in years, the Lion of the South could look at his realm and think:
"If I step away for a while… it will not fall."
Far in the north, beyond the last villages, where snow and sky embraced, a different kind of fortress waited—a place where men learned to fight not with armies, but with circles of light.
And the king who had reformed a subcontinent realised he was not yet ready to face what lurked beyond the stars.
I. The Quiet Between Storms
Kesarinagara looked different in 1846.
Not because its stone had changed—though new roads, canals, and schools certainly marked the map—but because its rhythm had settled. Where once there had been the constant tension of a realm at war—couriers rushing at all hours, armour always half-ready—now there was a steadier beat. Grain stores were full. Sarovars gleamed. Shipyards rang with hammer blows instead of cannon.
In the Council of Commons, elected representatives bickered over irrigation budgets and school curricula with a passion that would have once been reserved for battles. The Council of Realms sent dignified letters about interstate trade and shared border defenses. The Defense Council fussed over artillery drills instead of emergency levies. The Sarva-Dharma Commission had already mediated three major disputes before they could turn into flames.
Narasimha watched all this from the balcony outside his study, hands resting on the cool stone railing. Down below, the palace gardens trembled with monsoon-green leaves. Servants moved in quiet efficiency. A group of young cadets jogged across the courtyard, their uniforms bearing the insignia of the Federal Army rather than some private feudal banner.
"Three riots prevented before they started," Rama Sastry had told him earlier that week, adjusting his spectacles with a little smile. "The Sarva-Dharma Commission seems to be working."
"And the nobles?" Narasimha had asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Some still sulk," Rama Sastry had replied. "But the Kuladhana(Dynasty Wealth) Trusts are popular among those who have brains. They like the idea that their great-grandchildren won't sell palaces to pay gambling debts."
Now, standing alone, Narasimha felt something rare for him: a space in his day.
He had filled his life so completely—with war, with reforms, with constitutions and commissions—that the sudden lack of immediate crisis felt almost… wrong. As if the universe had taken a breath and was waiting to exhale something worse.
He thought of Venkanna's words, spoken after the demon had been slain and the Mandala of the Unseen established:
"You have learned to tame men and laws, child. But there are storms beyond this sky that cannot be met with armies alone."
He thought of Yao's steady gaze as she had told him, in that devastated village:
"You have the talent to stand where I stand. To look at entities that make kings look like ants. But you lack the training. And Kamar-Taj cannot always send someone in time."
His fingers tightened on the railing.
"I am not done here," he muttered to himself. "But I may already be too late there."
The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of wet earth and incense. Somewhere in the palace, Rudrama and Rajendra were arguing loudly about sword forms. Kaveri's voice floated after them, sharp and fond. The Federation, for the moment, was… stable.
For a man cursed—or blessed—to live long and grow stronger with time, the pattern was clear.
"If I don't go now," he thought, "I will never go. And when the next cosmic thing crawls through a crack, I will be standing there alone with a sword and a good speech. That is not enough."
He slid a hand into his robes and touched a small talisman Yao had given him. It was warm against his skin, as if it remembered other fires.
"Yao," he thought wryly, "I hope you're ready to deal with a student who thinks like a king and complains like a clerk."
II. A Call from the Hidden World
The talisman pulsed that night while he was meditating.
Narasimha sat cross-legged in his private shrine, breath soft, mind hovering at that thin line between waking and the strange, star-filled darkness he sometimes touched. The lion within his chest, the blazing core of his prana, purred quietly. His awareness floated outward, grazing the Mandala of the Unseen's wards, the Trinetra's far-flung shadows, the quiet humming of Kamar-Taj's distant protections.
Then the talisman glowed.
He opened his eyes to find himself no longer before the lamp in his shrine, but within a space of soft golden light. It felt like the inside of a bell just before it rang. Before him stood Yao, shaven head gleaming faintly, saffron-and-ochre robes falling in simple lines.
"Narasimha," she said, inclining her head. "You have been… busy."
He snorted.
"And you have been… watching," he replied. "Very impolite, seeing into a man's soul without knocking."
Her lips twitched.
"You invited me," she reminded him. "When you used the talisman, you called. I merely responded."
He rolled his eyes, but some of the habitual wariness eased.
"How fares your world?" he asked. "Any more demons wandering into villages I should be told about?"
"Fewer than before," Yao said. "Your Mandala of the Unseen has quietly sealed several cracks. Your mystic department is… crude, but earnest. For a kingdom that only recently stopped arguing about land revenue, you are doing better than some empires I could name."
She grew serious.
"But beyond this subcontinent," she went on, "the currents shift. Some plays with forces it does not understand. Some European mystics pry at doors best left closed. And in the wider cosmos, there are… movements."
He felt a familiar chill run along his spine.
"Things my armies can't stab," he said.
"Exactly." She studied him. "Have you decided?"
He knew what she meant. They had left that conversation open, the last time they had spoken in person.
"I have," he said. "The Federation is… not yet perfect, but stable enough that I can step away if I leave the right nets. If I don't learn now, then in fifty years, when some cosmic thing steps down in the middle of Delhi or London or Kesarinagara, I will be swinging my sword and roaring, and it will not be enough."
Yao's eyes softened.
"Kamar-Taj is not a school for kings," she warned. "It is a place where the ego is stripped, where even a shepherd can become a master of dimensions if they are willing to be a student. Can you do that? Put aside the Chakravartin(Emperor), the Lion, and sit in a hall as just… Narasimha?"
He considered that, feeling the weight of the lion crown, the echo of roars in battle, the deference of nobles and ministers.
Then he remembered— being scolded by his mother, laughing with friends, the feeling of being… ordinary.
"I have done it before," he said quietly. "I can remember how to be a fool."
Yao's smile widened.
"Good," she said. "Then here is my offer: a year. One full year in Kamar-Taj, as a disciple. You will learn to see the threads of reality, to shape them, to understand the rules that bind our world to others. You will not become 'all-powerful'—that is a child's dream—but you will no longer be blind when cosmic threats move."
"And my kingdom?" he asked.
"You can arrange it so that it believes you on pilgrimage," she replied. "Most kings vanish into the mountains for such things; yours will not be the first. Your Prime Minister, your councils, your regent-wife—they will handle the day-to-day. For truly dire emergencies, you and I will leave a path."
A year. To a man who could choose his death, it was both a blink and a heavy stone.
Narasimha nodded slowly.
"Then I will come," he said. "One year. But I warn you, I hate unnecessary chanting."
"You have no idea what you're walking into," she said dryly. "We will see who complains first: you or the apprentices who have to listen to you."
The golden light faded. The shrine returned. He was back in his body, the talisman cool against his palm.
For a long moment, he sat, listening to his own heartbeat and the tick of a brass clock.
Then he rose.
He had a country to prepare for his absence.
III. The Council of Truth
The most secret meeting in Kesarinagara's history took place in a small, plain room.
No banners. No scribes. No courtiers. Only a heavy wooden table and eight people.
Narasimha sat at its head—not on the lion-seated throne, but on an ordinary chair. To his right sat Kaveri, her expression composed. Beside her, Rama Sastry, spectacles glinting. Next to him, Sri of Rahasya Seva Mandal, arms folded, eyes alert. Further down, the chiefs of the Army and Navy, both veterans who had watched him charge across battlefields. On his left, Savita from the Mandala of the Unseen, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and finally the Head of Trinetra—known publicly only as "Mitra", a nondescript man whose eyes missed nothing.
Narasimha looked around the table and felt, unexpectedly, a flicker of pride. This was no royal durbar filled with flatterers. These were people who could tell him when he was being an idiot.
"Thank you all for coming," he said. "No scribes. No minutes. If any of you has suddenly developed a habit of writing diaries, please stop now."
Sri snorted softly. The Navy chief smothered a grin.
"I will speak plainly," Narasimha went on. "You all know that since the demon incident, we have been in closer contact with Kamar-Taj. You know that mystic anomalies are increasing, and that our Mandala of the Unseen, while improving, cannot handle everything. What you do not yet know is that I have accepted a proposal."
He let that hang for a second, then continued.
"I will be going to Kamar-Taj. As a student. For one year."
The silence was immediate, heavy.
The Army chief, an old Rayalaseema warrior with scars on his hands, was the first to react.
"Your Majesty," he said bluntly, "you are the Chakravarti. Your presence alone calms half the fools in this land. You cannot just… walk away for a year."
"I said I would be a student," Narasimha replied evenly. "I did not say I would walk away from my duties. The Constitution already limits my direct interference. The councils run much of the Federation. Kaveri is capable of acting as Regent. Rama Sastry can manage the daily grind. You"—he looked at Sri, Savita, Mitra—"will keep an eye out for trouble."
The Navy chief frowned.
"Is this truly necessary?" he asked. "We have ships, cannons, fortresses. Our alliance with Kamartaj already grants us help when needed."
Savita's voice was quiet but firm.
"With respect, Admiral," she said, "that is… optimistic. Kamar-Taj has its own duties. They cannot be our private fire brigade. And we have already seen that some threats move faster than warnings can travel. The last demon only died because Narasimha could hold it long enough for Yao to arrive. Next time, there may be no such luck."
Mitra of Trinetra nodded.
"We also have intercepted hints," he said, "of foreign groups—Hydra, certain European occult societies—exploring artifacts and rituals beyond their understanding. The more the world industrialises, the more foolish people become about the unseen. We need someone at the very top who understands both the mundane and the mystic. Preferably someone who cannot die by accident."
Rama Sastry adjusted his spectacles, thinking.
"From a constitutional perspective," he said slowly, "there is no prohibition on the Chakravarti travelling, even for extended periods, as long as the line of governance remains unbroken. We already have a Prime Minister's office, councils, and courts. And in truth, Your Majesty, you have structured things so that the Federation does not depend on you for every decision."
He looked up, a wry smile ghosting his lips.
"It is almost as if you were planning for this."
"I am planning for the day I finally choose to die," Narasimha said quietly. "This is just practice."
Kaveri's hand tightened on the edge of the table, but she said nothing.
Sri leaned forward.
"What are the terms?" she asked. "How reachable will you be? If, say, the British decide to forget their treaties, or some idiot opens a portal in Calcutta, how quickly can we drag you back?"
A ghost of a grin touched Narasimha's mouth.
"You make it sound like I'm a lazy clerk taking unauthorized leave," he said. Then he sobered. "Yao and I will establish a link—a ritual signal that Mandala of the Unseen and Trinetra can trigger in true emergencies. Not every riot. Not every border skirmish. But for events that threaten the Federation's existence, or the balance of this plane. When triggered, it will summon me to a designated sanctum in Kamar-Taj. From there, if possible, I will return via portal."
"And if it is not possible?" the Army chief pressed.
"Then," Narasimha said, "you will do what all good commanders do when their general falls: follow dharma, follow law, and don't panic. The Federation is not a toy I will carry in my pocket. It must stand even when I am elsewhere."
Kaveri finally spoke.
"And the people?" she asked. "What will we tell them?"
He met her gaze, and there was a softness there reserved only for her.
"The truth," he said. "Or rather, a part of it. That their king is going on a yātrā—a pilgrimage. That after wars and reforms, he wishes to visit holy places, to pray for the Federation's future. It is not even a lie. Kamar-Taj sits on ground that has seen more prayers than some temples."
The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself.
"You will be the only pilgrim who comes back able to punch demons in the face," she murmured.
"And shout at gods with footnotes," Sri added dryly.
The Army chief grunted, then nodded reluctantly.
"If the Regent and the councils are in place," he said, "if emergency lines are clear, then… perhaps it is time. Wars will be different in the next century. Guns, machines, and… whatever it is you plan to learn. Better you are ready."
The Navy chief sighed.
"I will pretend," he said, "that I am not terrified by the idea of a world where ships are not the scariest thing in the sea."
Savita bowed her head.
"The Mandala of the Unseen will work closely with Kamar-Taj during your absence," she said. "And we will liaise with the intelligence department quietly. Most of our staff will think you are simply visiting tīrthas(holy places)."
Mitra smiled faintly.
"And if anyone asks too many questions," he said, "we will tell them His Majesty grew tired of paperwork and went to argue with the gods directly."
Narasimha snorted.
"Do not give them ideas," he said. "The last time rumours spread that I was arguing with the gods, three temples built extra shrines, just in case."
Laughter eased the room.
Then Kaveri spoke again, voice low but clear.
"As Regent," she said, "I accept this. On one condition."
Narasimha raised an eyebrow.
"Which is?"
"You come back," she said. "In one year. Not fourteen like Rāma. Not 'when fate allows'. One year. If you die in some cosmic corner before that, I will personally drag you out of whatever loka you are hiding in and kill you myself."
He grinned.
"Yes, Dear," he said. "One year."
They sealed it with no oath but their shared gaze.
The Council of Truth broke up with no proclamations, no fanfare. Only a quiet understanding: that their king was about to step into a different kind of battlefield.
IV. Farewells in the Lion's Den
Telling the country was easy. Telling his children was not.
Rudrama Devi found out when she barged into his study, demanding more practice time with the Tiger Corps.
"Father," she said, throwing open the door without knocking, "if you think I don't know you've been reassigning my sparring partners to 'real' missions just to make me focus on theory, you are—"
She stopped. He was not alone. Kaveri sat near the window, and Rama Sastry stood by the shelf. The air had that particular heaviness of "adult conversation".
Rudrama's eyes narrowed.
"What did you all break?" she asked. "Or who is getting married?"
"Close," Narasimha said. "Sit."
She sat, but with the cautious wariness of a soldier walking into an unexplored ruin.
"I am going on a pilgrimage," he said without preamble. "For one year."
Her mouth fell open.
"A… what?" she asked. "Appa, you are the pilgrimage. People come to you."
"Insufferable child," Kaveri muttered, but there was pride under it.
Narasimha smiled, then sobered.
"I have spent years fighting the British, rewriting laws, bullying nobles, stopping riots, forming alliances," he said. "All of that is important. But there is a wider sky. You remember the demon we fought. You have heard whispers of Hydra, of stranger things in the north. I cannot face what is coming as just a strong man with a sword and some prana tricks."
Rudrama's brows drew together.
"You're going to that mage place," she said slowly. "Kamar-Taj. Where Yao comes from."
He inclined his head.
"Yes," he said. "To learn. To be humbled. To find ways to protect this land from bigger things."
Rajendra, who had slipped in behind her and was hovering by the door, finally spoke.
"Won't they… miss you?" he asked. "The councils, the nobles, the people? You're the reason half of them behave."
"The law is the reason half of them behave," Narasimha corrected gently. "I am the most visible part of that law, perhaps. But even now, much work is done by others. Your mother. Rama Sastry. Sri, Savita, the chiefs. It is time that the Federation learns to stand on its own legs. And it is time I learned how to punch something bigger than an empire."
Rudrama swallowed.
"And us?" she asked. "What do we do while you go off to learn how to juggle dimensions?"
He looked at her with an expression that mixed love, regret, and something like pride.
"You," he said, "will do what I could not do at your age. You will learn to rule without needing war to justify your authority. You will sit in more councils. Travel to more Realms. Listen more than you speak, at least at first."
She made a face.
"That sounds… boring," she said.
"Good," he replied. "Boredom is the privilege of those not living in constant crisis. Learn to cherish it."
He turned to Rajendra.
"And you," he said, "will train with both army and navy. You need to understand land and sea. Learn how logistics work, how supply lines can decide wars before swords clash. Also, finish your homework."
Rajendra groaned.
"Even when you are preparing to go to a magical fortress, you nag me about homework," he said. "Have you no shame, father?"
"None," Narasimha said cheerfully. "If you fail your exams while I'm away, I will ask Yao to open a portal and drop you into a library dimension where the only thing you can read for a month is tax code."
Kaveri snorted with laughter. Rudrama smiled despite the tightness in her chest.
"Is it dangerous?" she asked quietly. "Kamar-Taj. The… training."
He hesitated, then nodded.
"Yes," he said. "But so is not going."
Silence stretched.
Then Rudrama stood abruptly and walked around the desk. Before he could react, she bowed low—a full, formal bow, forehead almost to the floor, the way a subject might bow to a king or a disciple to a guru.
"Then go, Your Majesty," she said, voice steady. "Learn what you must. Come back alive. Or I will go to this Kamar-Taj myself and cause such trouble that even your Ancient One will regret letting you in."
His throat tightened.
He rose, pulled her up, and hugged her fiercely.
"Deal," he murmured into her hair.
Later, in the privacy of their chambers, the conversation with Kaveri was quieter, sharper.
"So," she said, as she brushed out her hair, "you are finally doing what the Trimūrti hoped when they shoved you into this age."
He frowned.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
She looked at him in the mirror, eyes steady.
"You were meant to be More," she said. "Not just a king, but a lawgiver for ages. You already rewrote man's laws. Now you go to learn the laws of… the rest. It fits."
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees.
"I worry," he admitted. "Not about leaving the Federation—that we have prepared for—but about… changing. You have seen what power does to sorcerers. To kings. If I return with more… tools, I must not become the kind of man I would have rebelled against, once."
Kaveri turned, set the brush aside, and walked to him.
"You will not," she said simply. "Do you know how I know?"
"How?"
"Because you hate paperwork more than you love power," she said. "Any man who complains this much about forms is unlikely to turn into a tyrant. Also, if you start misbehaving, we will stage a very polite constitutional crisis and vote you out."
He laughed, tension breaking.
"You realise," he said, "that most queens in history would not threaten their husbands with elections."
"I am not 'most queens'," Kaveri replied. "I am Kaveri Wadiyar Reddy, wife of a man who can choose when to die. I must keep you slightly afraid, or you will become insufferable."
He pulled her into an embrace.
"When I am gone," he murmured, "if you feel overwhelmed—"
"I will be overwhelmed," she interrupted. "Regularly. I will cry in private. I will shout at Rama Sastry. I will threaten to exile Sri. Then I will drink tea, wipe my eyes, and go to the council chamber. You taught me that is how leadership works."
He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of jasmine and sandalwood.
"One year," she said again, into his shoulder. "Not a day more."
"One year," he promised.
V. The Pilgrim's Proclamation
The official announcement was made three days later, in the great courtyard of Kesarinagara.
Banners hung from balconies. Citizens filled the space—farmers, merchants, nobles in simpler attire, soldiers off-duty, children craning their necks. Word had spread fast: The Chakravarti is going on a yātrā.
Narasimha stood on a raised platform, wearing not the full regalia of war but the simpler, dignified robes of a pilgrim-king. A plain rudrāksha mala around his neck, a tilak on his forehead, the lion insignia small on his chest.
Kaveri stood beside him, dressed in queenly grace, a visible anchor. Behind them, members of the Council of Commons and Realms, the Dharmic Defense Council, and representatives from various faiths.
When the murmur died, he spoke.
"People of the Mandalic Dharmic Federation," he said, "children of Bharat, my brothers and sisters."
His voice filled the courtyard, carried down alleyways, echoed from walls.
"For years now," he continued, "we have walked through fire together. We have driven out British armies from our southern soil. We have stood shoulder to shoulder—Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian, Jain, Parsi—to stop those who would tear us apart. We have written a Constitution that says even your king must bow to law. We have dug tanks, built schools, reformed land, tamed nobles."
Laughter and applause rippled.
"In all this," he said, "I have stood among you as soldier, as chieftain, as Chakravarti. I have given orders and taken oaths. But there comes a time in every life when a man, however busy, must stop and ask: Why did the gods put me here? What dharma do I still not understand?"
He paused, letting the question hang.
"In this land," he went on, "we have always believed that journeys purify. That to walk to Kashi, to Rameswaram, to Srisailam, to Gokarna, to holy rivers and sacred hills, is to wash the dust from one's soul. I have carried the dust of wars and politics on my feet long enough. So I am going on a yātrā. A pilgrimage. One year."
A collective intake of breath.
"I will visit holy places across this land," he said. "I will pray for you in every temple, every dargah, every church, and gurdwara that opens its doors. I will ask for strength for our Federation, for wisdom to wield the power you have given me, for protection against enemies seen and unseen."
He gestured to Kaveri.
"In my absence," he said, "Maharani Kaveri will act as Regent. The Prime Minister and councils will continue their duties. The Constitution remains. The courts remain. Your rights remain. I am not leaving you leaderless; I am simply changing how I lead, for a while."
He smiled then, that half-wry expression his people had come to recognise.
"And if any of you are thinking, 'The king is going to enjoy a long holiday while we pay taxes,' let me assure you: the places I am going are full of old men who make you chant and climb hills. This is not a vacation; it is penance."
Laughter broke the tension.
He raised a hand.
"One more thing," he said. "I have always said this land is a mother, not a battlefield of gods. While I am away, remember that. Do not let anyone—British agent, jealous noble, or overexcited priest—tell you that your neighbour is your enemy because his prayer sounds different. If I return and find that you have made my job harder by starting new fights, I will be very annoyed. And a very annoyed immortal king is bad for everyone's blood pressure."
Even the guards chuckled.
He bowed deeply.
"Pray for me," he said. "I will pray for you. And in one year, by dharma's grace, I will stand here again—not as a different man, but as the same man with a wider sky behind his eyes."
The crowd roared.
VI. The Road to the Hidden Fortress
The journey north began like any other royal tour.
Officially, Narasimha's itinerary listed visits to major tīrthas: Srisailam, Kashi, Prayag, and Haridwar. The Federation's bureaucracy hummed; local administrators prepared receptions. Trinetra quietly edited the route.
Rudrama and Rajendra accompanied him for the first leg, along with a small escort. In towns and villages, people garlanded their king, his queen, and his children. He prayed at temples, sat cross-legged in dargahs, listened to local grievances, and gave small, precise orders that made administrators sweat and commoners grin.
At Srisailam, he spent a night in deep meditation before the jyotirlinga of Mallikārjuna, feeling the old, old presence that had watched over these hills long before the British knew where India was. At the ghats of Kashi, he watched cremation fires flicker and thought of how many timelines could have ended in ash already if not for small choices. At Prayag, he bathed at the sangam, laughing when Rajendra complained about the cold.
"Remember this, chill," Narasimha told his son. "The Himalayas will be worse."
"Then I will stay here," Rajendra replied immediately. "Very devoted to Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati. No need for extra snow."
Rudrama rolled her eyes.
Near Haridwar, Kaveri and the children turned back, escorted by a reliable contingent. The farewell was less dramatic than the emotional storm they had already weathered in Kesarinagara, but no less real.
"Write," Rudrama ordered him. "Or… whatever sorcerers do. Send visions. Illusions. Annoying dreams. Something."
"I will ask Yao to haunt you," he promised.
Once they left, his escort thinned further. Only a handful remained: two trusted Tiger Corps captains, one Trinetra operative, and Savita from the Mandala of the Unseen, ostensibly travelling to inspect northern shrines.
Deep in the mountains, beyond where normal pilgrim paths went, they left even the last village behind. The air grew thin, the wind sharp. Snow patched the ground like scattered cotton.
At a certain pass, Savita stopped.
"From here," she said, "they will take you."
Narasimha frowned.
"They?"
Before she could answer, the air in front of them shimmered.
A circle of sparks appeared, rotating like a burning coin. Through it, he saw… another place: courtyards of stone, prayer flags snapping in cold wind, robed figures moving with quiet purpose.
One of them stepped through.
Yao, in her saffron robes, bowed slightly.
"Welcome, Narasimha Reddy," she said. "To those with you, this is as far as they go."
Savita bowed in return.
"We will tell the world," she said, "that the Chakravarti has gone deeper into the mountains for solitude and tapas. Which will not even be a lie."
Narasimha turned to his captains.
"Go back," he told them. "Guard my family, my land. Obey Kaveri as you obey me."
They saluted, eyes suspiciously bright in the cold.
Then he stepped toward the portal.
The air tingled against his skin as he crossed. For a moment, his senses rebelled; the world bent sideways and then snapped straight.
He stood in a stone courtyard. The sky was a deeper blue here, the air sharper. Around him rose the buildings of Kamar-Taj—ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of feet, carved doors, faint glowing sigils etched where only the mystically attuned would see.
Behind him, the portal closed with a whispering hiss, like a secret being folded away.
VII. The Ancient One's Bargain
"Bow your head," Yao said softly.
Narasimha turned.
She was not standing alone. Behind her, at the far end of the courtyard, an older man sat cross-legged on a raised stone platform. His head was shaven; his robes simple; his eyes closed. The air around him felt… heavier. As if gravity itself respected him more.
"The true Ancient One," Yao said quietly, following his gaze. "My teacher. He has withdrawn from most worldly concerns. But when I told him you were coming, he wished to see you. Briefly."
The old man's eyes opened.
They were clear, bright, and very, very old.
Narasimha felt, for a heartbeat, like the boy he had once been in another life, standing in front of a school headmaster after being caught reading novels in class. Then he remembered who he was now—soul of a failed Manu, immortal king, lion of the south—and bowed deeply.
"Ancient One," he said. "I greet you."
The old man studied him for a long moment.
"You carry many threads," the Ancient One murmured. His voice was gentle, but it carried. "Mortal, divine, cosmic. A first child, broken and reforged. You build much. You worry more. Good."
He shifted slightly.
"Yao tells me you wish to learn," he went on. "To see beyond your atmosphere. To defend your people against forces that do not care about flags."
"Yes," Narasimha said simply.
"And you understand that power taken without understanding is poison," the Ancient One said. "That we do not train kings to win wars, but guardians to hold the line. That you will be required to let go of certain illusions about control."
Narasimha thought of his Constitution, his councils, his children. Of how much he already could not control.
"I have been learning that lesson my whole life," he said. "In several lives. I know that every system I build will one day be tested by people I have never met. I still build it."
The Ancient One's eyes crinkled at the corners.
"Good," he said again. "Then my part is done."
He closed his eyes once more.
"Yao," he said. "He is yours. Try not to break him."
Yao bowed.
"I will do my best," she said. "Though he may break himself before I have the chance."
She turned to Narasimha.
"Come," she said. "There is much to show you, and little time."
VIII. First Lessons in the Storm
Kamar-Taj smelled of incense, tea, old paper, and cold stone.
Yao led him through its courtyards and halls, explaining in spare, precise words.
"Here," she said, nodding at a group of apprentices practicing simple hand forms, "they learn to feel the lattice under reality. There, they will be scolded for trying to open portals too early. Over there, books that would melt the minds of most men sit quietly on shelves, waiting for someone foolish enough to read them at three in the morning."
Narasimha took it in, mind mapping similarities and differences.
"It is like a gurukula," he observed. "If the gurukula sat on the skin of the universe instead of on a hill."
Yao smiled.
"Brahmins, monks, peasants, princes," she said. "All come here. Most leave with sore fingers and headaches. A few stay long enough to be useful."
She stopped at a balcony overlooking a training yard. Below, a young woman struggled to form a proper sling-ring portal. Sparks appeared and vanished.
"You already have an advantage," Yao said. "You understand prana. You have walked in your own astral space. Your soul has been hammered by gods and time. But you also have… habits. Here, we do not draw only from our own life force. We borrow from dimensions, guide energy through shapes. You must learn to combine these without tearing yourself."
He flexed his fingers.
"I have spent decades learning to use my own strength," he said. "You are asking me to admit that it is not enough, and then… reach outside."
"Yes," she said. "Uncomfortable, is it not?"
He grimaced.
"Very," he admitted.
"Good," she said. "Discomfort is the beginning of learning. Come."
The first lesson was deceptively simple: standing still.
On a circular platform etched with sigils, Narasimha stood as Yao instructed, feet aligned, spine straight, breath even. She walked around him, adjusting a shoulder here, a hand there.
"Feel the world," she said. "Not as a king, not as a warrior. As a node in a web. Your prana is strong; it shouts. Tell it to listen."
He closed his eyes.
At first, he felt only himself: the familiar roaring presence within, the disciplined currents of breath. Then, slowly, other things emerged. The hum of wards around Kamar-Taj. The faint pull of distant leylines, like rivers underground. The soft crackle of spells being cast in other rooms.
Beyond that, like a whisper at the edge of hearing, the vast, indifferent thrum of the cosmos.
His eyes snapped open, chest tight.
"Too much?" Yao asked calmly.
"It is like… standing at the edge of a waterfall, knowing if you slip, you will be pulverised," he said.
"Good description," she said. "We will teach you to step into the spray without being crushed. Later. For now, learn to open and close your senses at will. You cannot be king if you constantly hear ten thousand prayers and five demons."
He spent hours simply shifting his awareness and expanding and contracting. At times, he felt like a novice again, frustrated at how clumsy he was with something that should have been easy.
At one point, a younger apprentice stumbled nearby and muttered, "Who is the old guy sweating so much just to feel leylines?"
Yao's head snapped around.
"The 'old guy' is a Chakravarti who has fought more battles than the years you have been alive," she said sharply. "If he can be a student, so can you. Now go fix your stance before I make you scrub the entire library floor with a toothbrush."
The apprentice fled. Narasimha hid a grin.
"Now you are using my reputation as a teaching aid," he said. "I feel exploited."
"Good," Yao replied. "You exploit your titles all the time. Consider this balance."
Later, she handed him a sling ring.
"You have seen me and others open portals," she said. "This is one way. Combine movement, focus, and borrowed energy to cut a hole in reality. You, of all people, should appreciate doors."
He studied the ring, then slipped it onto his hand. It felt… ordinary.
"Draw on the space you stand in," she instructed. "Feel Kamar-Taj's anchors. Reach for where you want to go—just the other side of the courtyard for now, not your palace. Then… carve."
He tried.
Nothing.
He tried again. A spark. Another. A brief crescent of glowing embers that faded when his concentration wobbled.
Hours passed. Apprentices came and went, opening smooth, clean circles with the ease of practice. Narasimha, king of a vast Federation, could not manage more than a jagged cut.
At one point, sweat dripping down his neck, he growled, "If this were a battlefield, I would have solved this by now."
"If this were a battlefield," Yao said dryly, "you would have already died. You cannot punch space into obedience. Try again."
He did. Again and again.
Finally, near sunset, a proper circle flickered into existence—unstable, wavering, but open. On the other side, the courtyard.
He grinned, exhilaration washing away fatigue.
"I did it," he said.
"And now close it," Yao instructed.
He blinked.
"How?"
She sighed.
"One year," she murmured. "This is going to be a long one."
He laughed, even as the portal wobbled dangerously.
With her help, they closed it.
He lay back on the cool stone, chest heaving, sky deepening overhead.
For the first time in a very long while, Narasimha Reddy—Lion of the South, immortal king, builder of a Federation—felt entirely, gloriously like a beginner.
It was terrifying.
It was wonderful.
Far below, in Bharat, the Federation continued its slow, patient work. Councils argued. Kaveri signed decrees. Rudrama trained with generals. Rajendra cursed over ledgers. The Mandala of the Unseen sealed small tears. Trinetra watched shadows.
Above, in Kamar-Taj, a king traced circles in the air, learning how to carve doors in the fabric of the universe so that, when the time came, he could stand between his people and whatever came through.
Between nation and cosmos, between dharma and the void, the Pilgrim of Two Worlds took his first, clumsy steps.
✦ End of Chapter 57 – "The Pilgrim of Two Worlds" ✦