They did not wait for dawn.

  If the capital was to remain steady, the departure had to be quiet.

  The decision was made within the hour. No royal proclamation. No visible mobilization. Only a small, deliberate shift beneath the cover of night.

  They could not spare veteran guards.

  The city was already thin.

  So Pratap went to the training grounds.

  The young recruits were still awake—most of them had not been sleeping well anyway. They rose the moment he entered.

  “I need five,” Pratap said simply.

  No embellishment.

  No ceremony.

  “Temporary guard duty outside the capital. Secluded terrain.”

  One of them asked, “Dangerous?”

  “Yes,” Pratap replied.

  The hesitation lasted less than a breath.

  “We’ll go,” another said.

  These were his training companions—the ones who had sparred beside him years ago, who had bled and learned and endured together. They trusted him.

  That was enough.

  Simhagiri lay in relative isolation. Its seclusion was precisely why bandits had once claimed it without interference. Few roads led directly there. Fewer people traveled that way willingly.

  Which meant the group could leave unseen.

  They finalized the numbers.

  Five trainee guards.

  Five scholars.

  Three scouts.

  Meera.

  Pratap.

  Varun.

  Surya and Dharan would remain.

  “I need to stay near the fracture,” Dharan had said firmly.

  “And if the prince disappears,” Surya added, “it creates panic.”

  No one argued.

  They all knew how fragile the capital’s calm remained.

  The departure happened just after midnight.

  No torches.

  No metal clatter.

  Only the quiet rhythm of hooves muffled in cloth.

  They rode light.

  And they rode fast.

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  The sky had barely begun to pale when Simhagiri’s outline rose ahead—dark against the thinning night, its small peak casting a long, cold shadow even before the sun fully touched the horizon.

  The temple waited beneath it.

  Broken.

  Silent.

  Unmoved.

  They did not enter immediately.

  First—they set camp.

  A small perimeter.

  Tents arranged tight, defensible.

  Lookout rotations assigned before packs were even fully opened.

  By the time the sun crested the hill, a modest but disciplined camp stood at the mountain’s foot.

  They gathered briefly around a low fire.

  Food was simple—dried grain cakes, salted meat, water warmed in iron cups.

  But the act of sitting together mattered.

  The scholars were nervous—ink-stained hands unused to holding blades. The trainees, though young, carried themselves with forced steadiness, aware that this was not a drill.

  Meera broke the tension first.

  “So,” she said lightly, biting into her ration, “which one of you plans to discover the ancient secret that saves the kingdom?”

  One of the scholars blinked. “Preferably not me.”

  Laughter followed—small, but real.

  Pratap allowed himself a rare grin. “Good. Because if it is you, I expect footnotes.”

  The trainees relaxed slightly.

  They were young.

  But they were not na?ve.

  They understood that something larger than any of them was unfolding.

  And still—

  They volunteered.

  When the meal ended, the tone shifted.

  Assignments were given clearly.

  Scouts would survey the surrounding forest and lower slopes of Simhagiri—marking paths, mapping terrain, noting anything unusual in animal movement or sound.

  Scholars would begin structural analysis of the temple—measuring foundation angles, documenting carvings, tracing inscriptions hidden beneath roots.

  The guards would maintain rotating watch—two at all times, positioned for both visibility and rapid response.

  Meera moved with the scouts first.

  Pratap oversaw the guard perimeter.

  Varun stepped into the temple without hesitation.

  Inside, the air felt unchanged from their last visit.

  Cold.

  Heavy.

  Waiting.

  The broken Sarabha carving remained half-buried behind roots. The damaged torso, the destroyed head—still defiant in its incompletion.

  Varun ran his hand along the carved lines.

  “Alignment,” he murmured.

  One of the scholars knelt nearby, unfolding measuring cords.

  “Alignment to what?” the scholar asked.

  “Not the city,” Varun said quietly. “The mountain.”

  Outside, the scouts moved through brush and stone.

  One paused.

  “There’s less wildlife here,” he noted softly.

  “Bandits?” Meera asked.

  “No,” the scout replied. “Older absence.”

  That made her glance toward the peak.

  The mountain did not look threatening.

  It looked patient.

  Back in the capital, Surya stood near the sealed district, eyes closed.

  The pulse flickered beneath his awareness—thin as thread.

  Dharan stood a short distance away.

  “Still there,” Dharan said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “But fading.”

  Surya nodded.

  “Then they need to move quickly.”

  At Simhagiri, the first real anomaly appeared by mid-morning.

  A scholar called out softly.

  “Here.”

  They had cleared a patch of roots along an inner wall—exposing faint carvings beneath centuries of grime.

  Not figures.

  Lines.

  Concentric patterns etched subtly into stone—so faint they were nearly decorative.

  Varun crouched beside them.

  “They radiate,” he said.

  “From the mountain?” the scholar asked.

  “No,” Varun replied slowly.

  “Toward it.”

  The realization settled like dust.

  The temple was not merely built beside Simhagiri.

  It was oriented around it.

  Outside, a trainee guard shifted uneasily.

  He could not explain why.

  The wind had changed.

  Not stronger.

  Quieter.

  As if the mountain itself were listening.

  The camp held steady.

  The perimeter remained secure.

  The young guards stood firm.

  The scholars worked methodically.

  The scouts mapped carefully.

  And as the sun climbed higher over Simhagiri—

  The broken temple seemed less abandoned.

  And more—

  Awake.

  They had committed fully now.

  No return to the capital until answers were found.

  And somewhere beneath Indraprastha—

  The pulse thinned further.

  Waiting for whatever would be discovered at the mountain that bore the name of the lion.