The bruised purple of the twilight sky deepened to the colour of old ink. For a long time, Aditya did not move. He sat on the damp earth, the chill seeping into his bones, and let the chaos in his mind settle. The five hundred years of raw, undiluted history did not feel like a memory. It felt like a vast, dark ocean he had fallen into, and he had only just now found the surface.
He began to triage the knowledge. He instinctively pushed aside the wonders—the soaring metal birds, the cities of glass, the screens that held libraries of information. They were useless to him now. He suppressed the horrors—the trenches, the famines, the world-ending flash of light. Grief was a luxury, and terror was a paralytic.
Instead, he focused. He sifted through the torrent for simple, actionable principles. Hygiene prevents disease. A professional, paid army is more reliable than a feudal levy. Control of information is as vital as control of territory. A technological advantage is the greatest force multiplier in any conflict. These thoughts were not his own, but they were the tools he now possessed.
He stood up. The aches and pains of his body were distant, unimportant things. The boy who had been consumed by grief and fear was gone. In his place was a mind that saw the world as a series of problems to be solved.
The first problem: survival.
He moved with a new, unnerving purpose, back toward the skeletal ruins of the city. He knew others would be hiding, and he knew a leader without followers was just a man taking a long walk to his grave. He found them an hour later, huddled in the crumbling sanctuary of a small temple dedicated to Hanuman. There were perhaps fifteen of them, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames of a pathetic fire, their expressions united by the same hollow despair he had seen on the riverbank.
He walked into the circle of firelight. Heads turned slowly, listlessly. Someone recognized the tattered remains of his princely robes.
"Prince Aditya," a man whispered, his voice raspy. It was one of the palace guards he had seen earlier, his arm in a crude sling.
Aditya let his gaze pass over them. They were starving, injured, and broken. They were perfect. A well-fed man fears loss. A starving man fears only that tomorrow will be the same as today.
He spoke, his voice clear and cold, cutting through their lethargy. "You are waiting to die. I am not. Those of you who wish to live will listen."
He crouched and used a shard of broken pottery to scratch lines in the dirt floor. "The city is being looted by an army, but an army is still just a collection of men. They are drunk, disorganized, and focused on the high-value targets—the Royal Quarter, the Great Temple, the homes of the wealthy merchants. They are ignoring the infrastructure."
He drew a small square. "The southern granary of the merchant Devappa. It is three leagues from here. It is hidden, and it is full."
He drew another. "The armory at the western gate. It was overrun quickly. The valuable ceremonial weapons are gone. The practical, useful steel is not. It will be largely unguarded."
The grizzled guard stared at him, suspicion hardening his face. "You speak with great certainty, boy. How could you know these things? The city is chaos. No one knows anything."
Another man, gaunt and wild-eyed, pointed a trembling finger. "He is too calm. Look at his eyes. It is not natural. It is the work of a demon, a possession!"
A murmur of fearful agreement went through the small group. They were looking for any explanation for the horror that had befallen them, and a supernatural one was easier to accept than the simple, brutal fact of their defeat.
This was his first true test. His entire future, the future of the subcontinent, rested on this moment, on the lie he was about to tell. It needed to be perfect.
Aditya did not flinch from the accusation. He met the wild-eyed man's gaze, his expression one of cold pity.
"My calmness is not from a demon," he said, his voice steady. "It is from the clarity that comes when everything you have has been burned away. You see me as a prince. For the last six years, my tutors and my family have seen me as a fool."
He looked around the circle, meeting each of their eyes. "While other boys learned the sword, I was in the Royal Archives. I read the ledgers of every merchant guild. I memorized the contracts for every public work. I did it because I found the systems of the city beautiful. A useless hobby. Or so I thought."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly, drawing them in. "I know of Devappa's silo because I remember the appeal he filed against his tax assessment three years ago. The appeal detailed the silo's location and its unique construction, meant to disguise it as a simple cellar. I remember the plans for the western armory because its construction was funded by a special levy, and the records noted its exact dimensions and inventories. I remember the chief stonemason complaining that the ground was too soft there for heavy traffic, which is why the main army never used it as a primary supply route."
He let the details settle. They were specific. They were mundane. They sounded, impossibly, like the truth.
"My mind… collects these facts," he finished, a flicker of something that looked like pain—the memory of his tutors' scorn—crossing his face. It was a masterful touch. "It is all I have left of our city. Not memories of festivals or family. Only the dry, cold facts of how it worked. So, yes. I am certain. We will go to the silo. Then we will go to the armory. And then we will begin."
He stood and waited. The silence stretched. The grizzled guard stared at the lines in the dirt, then at Aditya's young, determined face. The boy's story was strange, but his confidence was absolute. And a plan, any plan, was better than the slow, hopeless wait for death.
The guard pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his broken arm shifted. "I have followed princes to their doom," he said to the others, his voice rough. "I will follow this one to a meal. It is a better bargain."
One by one, the others rose, a spark of purpose returning to their empty eyes. They looked at Aditya not as a prince or a demon, but as their only, improbable chance.
Aditya gave a single, sharp nod. He turned and led them out of the ruined temple and into the night. The first lie had been told. The first followers had been gained. The weight of it all, the beginning of a lifetime of deception, settled on his shoulders. It was heavier than any crown.