Chapter 1: The Peacock’s Shadow
The early morning sunlight bathed the golden domes of Chozhapuram, Mayilnadu’s hidden capital, in a soft amber glow. The city stretched across the valley like a hymn to its ancient lineage, its architecture a fusion of Chola artistry and futuristic brilliance. Towers adorned with intricate carvings of Tamil deities pierced the sky, while faint, ethereal energy fields shimmered above them, cloaking the city from any modern detection methods. Hidden from the world for centuries, Mayilnadu was not merely a relic of the past—it was a living, breathing fusion of tradition and technological wonder.
In the bustling Velmandapam Square, vendors lined the streets, their stalls a kaleidoscope of vibrant silks, golden jewelry, and intricate statues of Lord Murugan, the kingdom’s guardian deity. Above them, drones hovered silently, their graceful flight resembling peacocks gliding through the air. They carried messages and deliveries to various parts of the city, a modern twist to a city rooted in devotion.
The people of Mayilnadu bustled with anticipation; today marked the Festival of the Vel, a celebration of Lord Murugan’s divine spear. It was a time of music, dance, and prayer, but it was also a reminder of the kingdom’s sacred duty. For centuries, Mayilnadu had protected the secrets of Thandavam Ore, a mystical metal that lay at the heart of their existence, powering everything from their advanced infrastructure to their legendary defenses. The ore was revered as a gift of Shiva’s Tandava, the cosmic dance of creation and destruction, and the kingdom guarded it fiercely.
In the heart of the city stood Chandrapura Palace, a sprawling complex that seamlessly blended Chola temple architecture with shimmering modern alloys. Inside its grand halls, carved with intricate murals of Rajendra Chola’s naval conquests, the royal family prepared for the festival. The smell of camphor and sandalwood lingered in the air as priests moved through the corridors, chanting verses from the ancient Tamil scriptures.
Queen Meenakshi, matriarch of the Chola lineage, stood at the balcony overlooking the city, her gold-embroidered sari catching the morning breeze. Her sharp, regal features were framed by streaks of silver in her dark hair, but her expression was distant, troubled. She watched the crowds gathering below for the ceremonial procession, their cheers rising like waves crashing against the shore.
Behind her, the palace’s high-tech holographic communication system flickered faintly, reflecting her dual role as both the custodian of her ancestors’ legacy and a leader of a kingdom quietly navigating the 21st century. But today, her mind was preoccupied with her son.
“Where is Arinjaya?” she asked sharply, turning to the royal steward, Manivannan, who stood nearby, his crisp white attire perfectly pressed.
“He was last seen near the southern training grounds, Your Majesty,” Manivannan replied, bowing his head.
Meenakshi sighed. “The training grounds,” she repeated, her voice edged with frustration. “When will he stop running from his responsibilities?”
Meanwhile, on the southern edge of Chozhapuram, Arinjaya Chola, heir to the White Tiger mantle, leaned casually against the trunk of a banyan tree, watching a group of young warriors spar in the open courtyard. The morning air was filled with the sharp clang of wooden practice weapons and the rhythmic calls of instructors shouting commands.
Arinjaya, twenty-two years old and strikingly handsome, had the look of a warrior: broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and a piercing gaze. But his posture betrayed a reluctance, as if he carried the weight of his ancestry with little enthusiasm. Clad in a simple tunic and trousers, he twirled a blade of grass between his fingers, more interested in the sunlight filtering through the tree’s leaves than the drills before him.
“You know,” a voice interrupted, “they say the White Tiger doesn’t just defend the kingdom. He inspires it.”
Arinjaya turned to see Kanna, one of his childhood friends and now a captain in the royal guard. Kanna was lean, quick-witted, and always ready with a challenge.
“Inspire it?” Arinjaya scoffed, tossing the blade of grass aside. “I doubt these warriors would be inspired by someone who can barely throw a spear straight.”
Kanna smirked. “You could always join them, you know. Prove your worth instead of sulking under a tree.”
Arinjaya sighed, running a hand through his unruly black hair. “Prove my worth? To whom? My mother? The council? The ancestors? It doesn’t matter what I do. I’ll never be Rajendra Chola.”
Kanna’s expression softened. “No one’s asking you to be him, Arinjaya. They’re asking you to be yourself. Mayilnadu needs a leader, not a ghost.”
Before Arinjaya could reply, the distant sound of temple drums echoed across the valley. The festival was beginning.
The grand procession snaked its way through Velmandapam Square, with dancers in vibrant peacock-feather costumes performing intricate routines. Elephants adorned with gold and silk marched majestically, their tusks painted with symbols of Murugan’s blessings. At the center of it all was a golden chariot carrying the Vel Spear, encrusted with jewels and radiating an aura of divine power.
Arinjaya joined his family on the palace balcony, standing silently beside his mother. He could feel her eyes on him, her unspoken disappointment heavier than the ceremonial armor he was expected to wear.
“Do you even understand what this festival means, Arinjaya?” she asked quietly, breaking the silence.
He hesitated before responding. “It’s a celebration of Murugan’s victory over darkness. A reminder of our duty to protect Mayilnadu.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “It’s more than that. It’s a reminder that our strength lies in unity—between our past and our present, between our traditions and our advancements. One day, you will lead this kingdom. You must decide whether you’ll embrace that unity or let it fracture.”
Arinjaya said nothing, his eyes fixed on the procession below. The truth was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lead Mayilnadu at all.
But far beneath the city, in the depths of Chozha-Nagari, shadows moved. And the peace of Mayilnadu was about to shatter.
The ceremonial feast was underway in the Velmandapam Hall, a vast chamber within Chandrapura Palace. Chandeliers carved from translucent jade hung overhead, their light casting a soft green glow over the polished black stone floors. Rows of long, intricately carved tables were laden with delicacies: steaming dosas wrapped in golden leaves, silver platters of spiced prawns, and fruits so bright they seemed plucked from divine gardens.
Dignitaries, scholars, and warriors sat side by side, their laughter mingling with the rhythmic beats of mridangams played in the background. Priests moved between the tables, sprinkling holy water and muttering blessings over the gathering. At the head of the hall sat the royal family: Queen Meenakshi, a silent and imposing figure as always, and beside her an empty chair reserved for Prince Arinjaya.
“Where is he?” Meenakshi’s voice cut through the lively hum of the banquet as she leaned toward Manivannan, her ever-loyal steward.
“I have sent word to the prince, Your Majesty,” Manivannan replied, though his nervous glance toward the door betrayed his doubt that Arinjaya would appear.
The queen’s lips thinned, her irritation barely concealed. “This is not the time for his whims, Manivannan. Every dignitary in this room expects to see him. The prince must understand that his presence matters to his people.”
Manivannan gave a deferential bow but did not dare reply.
Far from the feast, Arinjaya sat cross-legged in the Royal Armory, surrounded by ancient artifacts of Mayilnadu’s glorious past. The armory was a labyrinth of relics: swords forged from Thandavam Ore, shields adorned with the inscriptions of long-forgotten battles, and spears that had once pierced the hulls of enemy ships.
Arinjaya wasn’t here to study or admire them. He sat slouched on the floor, twirling an old dagger in his hand while his back rested against a rack of shields. The silence of the armory was far more comforting than the overbearing expectations of the banquet hall.
“Skipping the feast again?”
The voice startled him, and Arinjaya glanced up to see Devika, her silhouette framed against the dim amber glow of the corridor behind her. She stepped into the armory, her temple dancer’s anklets jingling softly with each step. Devika was vibrant, full of life and energy, with a sharp wit that had often left Arinjaya on the defensive in their conversations.
“I thought temple dancers weren’t supposed to leave the festival,” Arinjaya said lazily, leaning his head back against the shields.
“And I thought princes weren’t supposed to hide in dusty armories,” she retorted, arms crossed.
Arinjaya gave her a faint smile. “I’m not hiding. I’m… taking a break.”
Devika raised an eyebrow. “From what, exactly? Sitting on a throne you’ve refused to even acknowledge?”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You sound like my mother.”
“Good,” Devika shot back, “because she’s right. The people adore you, Arinjaya. They look up to you. And all they’ve gotten in return is a prince who’d rather twirl an old dagger than step into his father’s shoes.”
Her words stung, but Arinjaya didn’t let it show. Instead, he stood and placed the dagger back on the rack. “Maybe I don’t want to be like my father. Did you ever think of that? Maybe the great Rajendra Chola isn’t such an easy legacy to live up to.”
Devika softened, her arms falling to her sides. “It’s not about living up to him. It’s about finding your own place in this world. You can’t keep running from who you are, Arinjaya. You are the White Tiger of Mayilnadu, whether you want to be or not.”
Arinjaya didn’t reply. He turned and walked past her, heading for the door.
“Tell my mother I’ll join the feast soon,” he said over his shoulder.
But Devika’s voice followed him, sharp and unyielding. “You can’t keep avoiding it forever. The world won’t wait for you to decide when you’re ready.”
Back in the banquet hall, Queen Meenakshi rose from her seat, her patience finally worn thin. The room quieted as she addressed the gathering, her voice firm and commanding.
“I thank you all for joining us on this sacred day, a day that reminds us of our duty to Mayilnadu and the legacy of the Chola Dynasty. My son, Arinjaya, will honor you with his presence shortly.”
Her words were a promise, though not to the dignitaries. They were a promise to herself that her son would fulfill his destiny—whether he liked it or not.
But as she spoke, a faint tremor rippled through the floor beneath her. It was subtle, so much so that most dismissed it as a trick of the imagination.
Meenakshi, however, felt it clearly. Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of unease passing across her face. Somewhere deep below the city, something had stirred.
Far beneath the bustling streets of Chozhapuram, hidden under layers of protective energy fields and miles of ocean rock, lay Chozha-Nagari, the underwater jewel of the Chola dynasty. A city carved into the ocean floor, it pulsed with bioluminescent light emanating from its domed structures, their surfaces shimmering with inscriptions of Tamil scripts and celestial constellations. Its existence was a secret known only to the royal family, a closely guarded sanctuary housing treasures, technologies, and the Thandavam Ore—the lifeblood of Mayilnadu.
The city had thrived in secrecy for centuries, its intricate labyrinth of tunnels and chambers sealed with ancient mechanisms designed by Vishwakarma, the divine architect. These defenses ensured that no outsider could ever breach its sanctity.
But tonight, shadows moved where they should not have.
In the northern sector of Chozha-Nagari, four guards patrolled the gleaming corridors of Rajarajeshwaram, the fortress-like vault at the city’s core. The air here felt dense, alive with an unspoken power. The walls glowed faintly, etched with carvings of Lord Shiva performing the Tandava, his cosmic dance of creation and destruction. At the center of the chamber lay the prize: a towering monolith of Thandavam Ore, pulsating with a rhythm like a heartbeat.
The guards, clad in ceremonial armor, exchanged brief, bored glances. The defenses had never been breached. To them, this was another uneventful shift.
Until the lights flickered.
A faint ripple of unease spread among the guards as the bioluminescent glow dimmed, plunging parts of the chamber into shadow. Before they could react, a deafening clang echoed through the hall, followed by a low, mechanical hum.
“What was that?” one of the guards whispered, his voice tight.
Before anyone could answer, a figure emerged from the shadows. Rudrajit Chola, draped in black combat armor that hugged his lithe frame, stepped into the dim light, his face obscured by a golden mask carved in the likeness of a snarling tiger.
He moved like a predator, each step deliberate, his presence radiating an unsettling calm. Behind him, a small team of mercenaries followed, their weapons humming with stolen fragments of Chozhakanda technology.
“Who goes there?” one guard barked, drawing his spear.
Rudrajit didn’t respond. He merely tilted his head, a glimmer of amusement in his golden eyes. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled a small, circular device toward the guards. The device hit the ground and exploded in a flash of white light, disorienting them.
The guards stumbled, their vision clouded, as Rudrajit and his team advanced. He moved with ruthless efficiency, striking vital points on the guards with precise blows that left them crumpled on the ground. His movements bore the hallmarks of Varma Kalai, but twisted, sharper—lethal instead of disabling.
One guard managed to regain his footing, lunging at Rudrajit with a desperate cry. Rudrajit caught the spear mid-thrust, twisting it effortlessly out of the man’s grip before driving the blunt end into his chest. The guard fell, gasping for air.
“Pathetic,” Rudrajit muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with contempt.
“Secure the perimeter,” he ordered his mercenaries, who spread out with practiced precision. Rudrajit approached the monolith of Thandavam Ore, its pulsating glow reflecting in his golden mask.
For a moment, he stood in silence, his gloved hand hovering just inches from the surface of the metal.
“You’ve kept this from the world for too long,” he said softly, as if addressing the ore itself. “This… this is the key to power, the key to dominance. And you hoard it beneath the waves like a forgotten relic.”
He turned to his second-in-command, a towering mercenary named Kalki, who carried a handheld scanner.
“Begin extraction,” Rudrajit commanded.
Kalki hesitated. “The energy field around the ore—it’s unstable. If we tamper with it too quickly—”
Rudrajit’s gaze snapped to him, icy and sharp. “Do it. Now.”
Kalki muttered a curse under his breath but obeyed, activating the scanner. The device emitted a high-pitched whine as it began destabilizing the protective energy field around the Thandavam Ore. Sparks danced across the monolith’s surface, and the carvings on the walls began to glow ominously, as if warning against the intrusion.
Rudrajit’s team worked swiftly, attaching harnesses and transport devices to the ore. The process was loud, disruptive—far from subtle—but Rudrajit didn’t care. His plan wasn’t just to steal the ore. It was to send a message.
As the final restraints were secured, a sudden tremor shook the chamber. The ground beneath their feet cracked, and a deep, guttural sound echoed through the halls, as if the fortress itself were groaning in protest.
One of the mercenaries stumbled, panic flashing in his eyes. “What was that?”
Rudrajit didn’t flinch. “The defenses. Old mechanisms. They were built to react to unauthorized extraction.”
Another tremor followed, this one more violent. Chunks of stone began to fall from the ceiling, and a low rumble signaled the approach of something massive.
“What now?” Kalki asked, his voice tight with urgency.
Rudrajit smiled beneath his mask. “We leave.”
He raised his hand, revealing a small, ancient relic—a key artifact said to have been forged by Rajendra Chola himself. Rudrajit pressed it into a slot on the chamber’s wall, and with a deafening click, a hidden door slid open, revealing a narrow escape tunnel.
“Move,” he barked, and his team hurried into the passageway, hauling the ore behind them on hover sleds.
As they ascended toward the surface, Rudrajit allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The ore was his now, and with it, he would shatter Mayilnadu’s illusion of invincibility.
“They think they can hide forever,” he murmured to himself. “But the world is changing. And I will ensure they remember the name Rudrajit Chola—not as a prince, but as a conqueror.”
Far above, in the quiet streets of Chozhapuram, the tremors faded into silence. But deep below, in the now-abandoned halls of Chozha-Nagari, the pulse of the Thandavam Ore grew erratic, its rhythm no longer a steady heartbeat but the frenetic drumbeat of impending chaos.
The escape tunnel was suffocatingly narrow, its stone walls slick with condensation from centuries of seawater pressing against it. Dim, flickering light emanated from Thandavam Ore veins embedded in the walls, their natural glow providing just enough illumination for Rudrajit’s team to navigate the labyrinthine passages.
The stolen ore, strapped to hover sleds powered by salvaged Mayilnadu technology, hummed faintly as it was pulled through the uneven path. Despite the weight of the monolith, Rudrajit’s team moved efficiently, their movements practiced and unerring. They had been preparing for this for years.
“Status,” Rudrajit demanded, his voice cutting through the rhythmic thrum of the ore.
Kalki glanced at his scanner, beads of sweat dripping down his temple. “We’re nearing the final chamber, but the energy signatures are spiking. Whatever defenses are tied to the fortress—they’re waking up.”
Rudrajit smirked beneath his golden tiger mask. “Let them wake.”
The tunnel opened into a cavernous chamber—the Heart of Rajarajeshwaram. Unlike the angular precision of Chozha-Nagari’s architecture, this space was a shrine to chaos. The walls twisted in jagged, otherworldly patterns, as though the rock itself had danced to the violent rhythm of Shiva’s Tandava. Massive columns spiraled upward like frozen whirlpools, and the air thrummed with an electric charge.
At the center of the chamber stood The Gate, a towering archway carved from black stone, its surface etched with Varma inscriptions—ancient Tamil glyphs detailing the art of vital energy. It radiated an eerie blue glow, pulsating in sync with the Thandavam Ore monolith.
This was the final seal, the impenetrable barrier protecting Rajarajeshwaram’s secrets. Beyond it lay the ancient weapons and technologies forged by Vishwakarma and Rajendra Chola himself. It was here that the balance of power in Mayilnadu had been maintained for centuries.
Rudrajit approached the gate with reverence, his movements uncharacteristically careful. In his hand, he held the Chola Key, a relic passed down through their bloodline, stolen by Rudrajit years ago when he had first abandoned the royal family. The key was a small, intricate object shaped like a coiled serpent, its body carved from Thandavam Ore and its eyes set with blood-red gemstones.
He held it up to the light, inspecting it like a predator sizing up its prey.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Kalki asked from behind him, his voice tinged with unease.
Rudrajit didn’t bother turning around. “I know enough.”
“The gate—” Kalki hesitated, his usual bravado faltering. “They say it’s bound by dharma. That only someone pure of intent—”
Rudrajit’s laugh echoed sharply through the chamber. “Dharma?” He spat the word as if it were poison. “Dharma is a leash for the weak. Power doesn’t belong to the righteous, Kalki. It belongs to those who seize it.”
Without waiting for further argument, Rudrajit stepped closer to the gate. He placed the Chola Key into a small, serpent-shaped recess at the base of the archway. The moment the key clicked into place, the inscriptions on the gate flared to life, their glow brightening until the entire chamber was bathed in searing blue light.
The ground beneath them trembled violently, and a deep, guttural sound reverberated through the air, as if the fortress itself were groaning in defiance.
The gate’s surface began to shift, the carvings twisting and contorting as though they were alive. A sudden burst of energy shot outward, slamming into Rudrajit and forcing him to take a step back. His mercenaries scrambled, shouting in panic as cracks appeared in the columns surrounding them.
For a moment, it seemed as though the gate would hold. But then Rudrajit stepped forward again, his hand resting against its surface. He closed his eyes, murmuring an ancient incantation under his breath—a fragment of the Dhanurveda text he had uncovered in forbidden archives. The words were harsh and guttural, their syllables reverberating unnaturally through the air.
The inscriptions on the gate reacted violently, their glow pulsing erratically. And then, with a deafening roar, the barrier shattered, the pieces disintegrating into a fine, glowing mist that swirled around Rudrajit before fading into the ether.
A deep silence followed, broken only by the faint hum of the exposed mechanisms within the gate’s frame. Beyond the shattered archway lay a corridor of golden light, leading to the heart of Rajarajeshwaram.
Kalki stared at Rudrajit, his disbelief evident. “You… you broke it. The seal.”
Rudrajit turned to face his team, his golden tiger mask gleaming in the soft light. “Of course I did. That’s what happens when someone with vision wields power.”
He gestured toward the corridor. “Move. We’re not leaving without what’s on the other side.”
As Rudrajit’s team advanced into the corridor, the air grew heavier, charged with a power that felt almost sentient. The walls shimmered with the same golden light, and faint whispers seemed to echo through the space, like voices trapped between dimensions.
At the end of the corridor, they found themselves in a circular chamber, its floor carved from a single piece of obsidian. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, upon which rested an ancient scroll case, its surface inlaid with intricate designs of lotus flowers and tridents.
Rudrajit approached the pedestal with measured steps. He could feel the energy radiating from the scroll case, a power unlike anything he had ever encountered. He reached out and lifted the case, its weight surprisingly light in his hands.
As he opened it, unfurling the ancient parchment within, his eyes widened. The scroll contained detailed schematics—plans for weapons and devices powered by Thandavam Ore. But more importantly, it revealed something far greater: the secrets to manipulating the ore itself, turning it into an energy source capable of reshaping the balance of the modern world.
Rudrajit’s lips curled into a triumphant smile.
“The Cholas hid this from the world,” he murmured, his voice filled with both awe and contempt. “But no longer.”
Before his team could react, the chamber began to quake violently. Ancient alarms, dormant for centuries, roared to life, their piercing wails echoing through the fortress.
“We need to go!” Kalki shouted, his voice barely audible over the din.
Rudrajit didn’t argue. With the scroll in one hand and the stolen Thandavam Ore in tow, he led his team back through the crumbling passageways of Rajarajeshwaram. But as they ascended toward the surface, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of exhilaration.
The seal was broken. The fortress had fallen. And Mayilnadu would soon learn the price of its secrets.
The grand halls of Chandrapura Palace were eerily quiet, save for the faint crackle of the holographic map hovering above the council table. It displayed the sprawling expanse of Chozha-Nagari, its glowing domes and intricate tunnels now overlaid with red alerts pulsing like alarm bells. Each flash represented a breach—signs of the chaos Rudrajit had unleashed.
Seated around the massive table carved from ancient sandalwood were members of Mayilnadu’s Council of Guardians, their faces drawn with worry. Priests in saffron robes whispered urgent prayers, while military commanders barked low orders into communication devices, their normally stoic expressions betraying a rare hint of panic.
At the head of the table sat Queen Meenakshi, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her face was a mask of calm, but her piercing gaze scanned the room like a predator waiting for an opening to strike. Across from her, Manivannan relayed updates, his voice steady despite the growing tension.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “we’ve confirmed that Thandavam Ore has been stolen from Chozha-Nagari. The defensive mechanisms at Rajarajeshwaram were breached as well.”
The murmurs around the table grew louder.
“How could this happen?” demanded General Vedan, an imposing man with streaks of gray in his thick beard. His armor gleamed under the glow of the hologram. “The seals of Rajarajeshwaram were impenetrable! Who could have bypassed them?”
“The seals respond to blood,” Meenakshi replied coldly. “Only a descendant of the Chola lineage could have opened them.”
Her words hung in the air like a blade, cutting through the confusion. The council turned as one toward the only other Chola bloodline in the room—Prince Arinjaya, standing against the far wall, his arms folded, his face shadowed.
“Rudrajit,” Arinjaya said, his voice low but resolute.
It wasn’t a question.
“Who else?” Meenakshi replied, her gaze boring into him. “Your cousin has spent years nursing his grievances against this family. It seems he’s decided to act on them.”
The council erupted into a chorus of voices, some filled with anger, others with panic.
“If Rudrajit has the ore—”
“He could destabilize the entire kingdom!”
“We must act immediately—”
Arinjaya stepped forward, raising his voice over the din. “Enough!”
The room fell silent. It was rare for Arinjaya to assert himself, and the weight of his tone caught everyone off guard.
“What do we actually know?” he asked, turning to Manivannan. “Has Rudrajit left Chozha-Nagari? Is he still within range?”
Manivannan adjusted the hologram, zooming in on the northern tunnels of the underwater city. “Our scouts report that he fled through the escape passages near the Bay of Bengal Expanse. He’s surfaced somewhere along the eastern coast. His exact location is unknown, but we believe he’s moving inland.”
Arinjaya stared at the map, his jaw tightening. “And the ore?”
“It’s gone with him,” Manivannan admitted. “Along with ancient schematics from Rajarajeshwaram.”
Arinjaya closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. His mind raced with questions—Why now? Why would Rudrajit risk so much for the ore?—but deep down, he knew the answer. Rudrajit wasn’t just after power. He wanted to break Mayilnadu’s secrets open for the world, to burn the kingdom’s carefully maintained balance to ash.
“Your indecision is a liability.”
Meenakshi’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and unyielding. She rose from her seat, her royal presence filling the room. “This is exactly why I have pressed you, Arinjaya. You were born to lead. And now, your hesitation has left us vulnerable.”
Arinjaya’s frustration boiled over. “My hesitation? Is it my hesitation that let Rudrajit grow unchecked all these years? Is it my hesitation that kept him in the shadows while we sat here ignoring the threat he posed?”
The council shifted uncomfortably, but Meenakshi didn’t flinch. She took a step closer to him, her voice lowering but losing none of its force.
“Blame me if you like. Blame the council. Blame your father’s legacy if it makes you feel better. But none of that will change what’s happening. Rudrajit is out there, with a weapon that could destroy everything our ancestors built. And whether you like it or not, it falls on you to stop him.”
Her words hit like a hammer, and for a moment, Arinjaya was silent. He looked around the room, seeing the fear and expectation in the eyes of the council, the priests, the guards. All of them were looking to him now, the reluctant prince who had spent his life avoiding this very moment.
Finally, he nodded, his voice steady. “What do you need from me?”
A flicker of relief passed through Meenakshi’s eyes, but she didn’t let it show. “You will lead the recovery mission,” she said. “Manivannan will provide you with the latest intelligence. General Vedan will supply a unit of elite warriors. And you will track Rudrajit to wherever he’s hiding and bring the ore back.”
“And if Rudrajit won’t give it up?”
Meenakshi’s gaze hardened. “Then you will do what must be done.”
As the council dispersed, Arinjaya lingered by the hologram, studying the map in silence. He didn’t hear Devika approach until she was standing beside him, her arms crossed.
“You finally agreed to something,” she said, her tone teasing but soft.
Arinjaya glanced at her, managing a faint smile. “Don’t get used to it.”
“You’re going after him, aren’t you?” she asked, her expression more serious now.
“I don’t have a choice,” he admitted. “If Rudrajit exposes Chozha-Nagari, if the world finds out about the ore… everything falls apart.”
Devika nodded, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Be careful, Arinjaya. You’ve spent your whole life trying not to be your father. But if you’re not careful, you might make his same mistakes anyway.”
Arinjaya didn’t respond. He simply turned back to the hologram, the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him like a physical burden.
Far to the north, Rudrajit’s forces were already regrouping, their stolen treasures in hand. The game had begun, and Arinjaya knew the stakes were higher than ever.