Chapter Three: Ledgers and Lines
Money, Aryavardhan learned, had a sound.
It was not the clink of coins or the rustle of notes. It was softer than that—paper against paper, the faint scratch of ink, the pause before a clerk answered a question he did not expect to be asked.
The treasury hall of Varunadesh smelled of dust and sandalwood. High ceilings, narrow windows, and long tables worn smooth by decades of counting. Men worked quietly, their posture respectful but unafraid. This was not a place of fear. It was a place of routine.
Aryavardhan sat among them like he belonged.
Because he did.
He asked for the accounts as a prince would—casually, without urgency.
No one refused.
The first ledgers were simple.
Land revenue.
Port duties.
Salt taxes.
Customs fees.
Predictable. Seasonal. Stable.
Aryavardhan's eyes moved steadily, absorbing figures without emotion. He did not react when he saw the totals—because he already knew what wealth looked like.
What interested him was movement.
He requested older books next. Five years. Ten.
Patterns emerged.
Agricultural income rose and fell with the monsoon—but port revenue climbed regardless. Shipping fees increased even in years of drought. British merchant houses paid more each year, not less.
War preparations, he thought.
Not officially. Not yet.
But quietly.
He turned a page and paused.
Loans.
Small ones. Discreet ones.
British firms borrowing capital from Varunadesh-backed banks. Short-term, high-interest, secured against future contracts.
Aryavardhan frowned slightly.
This was not generosity.
This was positioning.
He felt a faint pressure behind his eyes, like a thought trying to surface before it had words.
He ignored it and continued.
The royal accounts were kept separately.
Gold reserves.
Foreign holdings.
Trusts managed in Bombay and London.
The numbers were… impressive.
More impressive was how little of it was visible.
Most of the wealth was not in palaces or jewels. It was in paper. In signatures. In agreements that bound distant factories and ships to this quiet coastal kingdom.
Aryavardhan leaned back slowly.
We are already playing the game, he realized.
We just don't know the stakes yet.
That afternoon, he asked for an advance.
Not a demand. Not an explanation.
Just a request.
A modest one—for a prince.
His father signed without hesitation.
"Use it wisely," Rudradev Varma said, not unkindly.
Aryavardhan bowed his head.
"I will."
That was not a promise.
It was a statement.
The money moved through intermediaries—clerks, agents, trusted merchants. Small investments. Spread wide. Shipping insurance here. Textile machinery there. Warehouses leased near ports that were suddenly… busy.
Too busy.
Aryavardhan reviewed reports nightly, alone.
That was when it happened.
He was staring at a shipping manifest when the numbers shifted.
Not physically.
Something else.
Routes he had not consciously traced seemed to align. Trade volumes from different regions curved toward the same conclusion. Prices, demand, insurance premiums—they stopped being separate facts and became… lines.
Intersecting.
Flowing.
He blinked.
The sensation intensified.
Not images. Not visions.
Structure.
He could feel where things were going.
Coal prices rising—not because of scarcity, but because of distance.
Shipping insurance tightening around certain seas.
Factories ordering machinery months before official contracts were announced.
The world was leaning forward.
Aryavardhan's breath slowed.
"This is…" he whispered.
The pressure behind his eyes sharpened, then eased, leaving clarity behind.
Not prophecy.
Recognition.
He sat back, heart steady.
I don't see the future, he realized.
I see direction.
Where money wanted to go.
Where power was about to move.
Where silence would soon break.
Outside his window, the port horns sounded—ships arriving, ships departing, all unaware that they were following paths already drawn.
Aryavardhan closed the ledger gently.
War had not begun.
But the pattern was already complete.
And for the first time since his memories returned, he smiled—not with relief…
…but with intent.