Chapter 8: The Seeds of Rebellion

If before, restoration was only a vision, after this plan, it became only a matter of patience. The marks on my map were all places where the North’s defences were weak, or where I knew people still loyal to Kaveripur were stationed.

I remembered old stories my father told at bedtime—names of loyalists, secret strongholds. Each mark was a promise.

Most of these places were remote and desolate. When the North invaded the south, it drained their resources, and His Highness could hardly spare the strength to suppress those areas.

I knew how hard life was in those outposts—dusty, forgotten villages, borderlands haunted by bandits and ghosts.

Three years would be enough for fifty thousand troops to grow strong.

I prayed to every god I knew for time—three years to turn this hope into victory.

Kabir was a light sleeper. I couldn’t stay long. After issuing my orders, I hurried back.

My heart pounded with every step, afraid I would be missed.

I hadn’t learned much from Mother, but I did learn how to secretly study defence maps.

Her lessons had not gone to waste. I saw the world in lines and symbols, not just faces and names.

It’s shameful to admit, and I don’t know when this cycle of cause and effect will end.

I wondered if I was becoming like her—always plotting, always hiding.

“Where did you go?”

Kabir was awakened by me, his voice hoarse and soft as a kitten’s.

His hair was mussed, his eyelids heavy with sleep. Still, he always noticed when I slipped away.

I did not break my mute act and nestled closer in his arms.

I pressed my face to his chest, letting his warmth soothe me. He stroked my back, content.

Kabir assumed I had only gotten up in the night and thought nothing of it, holding me as he fell back asleep.

He was never suspicious—his trust was a balm and a burden.