The sunlight broke through the tree canopy like divine threads weaving golden patterns on Veer's shoulders. He stood alone at the edge of the jungle, the heavy scroll of the Voice of the Bell secured within his satchel. His eyes remained fixed on the far horizon, where rolling hills cradled the ruins of a long-forgotten citadel—Kandhara Fort, the supposed meeting place of the Nine Chosen Tribes.
And for the first time in days, the Vakya system remained silent.
No new verse. No flashing prompt. Only a lingering echo in his mind—"Their words shall shake kings."
He didn't know what that meant yet. But he could feel something shifting—within him and around him. The air carried tension. The birds didn't sing. The forest watched.
The journey ahead wasn't just about strength anymore. It was about influence. Command. Leadership.
Veer's pace quickened as he descended a narrow trail. Each step felt heavier, not from fatigue, but from the weight of what was coming. The tribes weren't mere factions—each carried centuries of mistrust, pride, and blood. Uniting them meant more than making promises. It meant proving worth. It meant shaking their beliefs until they saw what he saw.
A kingdom.
Not of thrones, but of purpose.
As he approached the outer clearing before Kandhara Fort, Veer saw the first sign of the gathering.
Smoke.
Not from battle—but from cooking fires. Dozens of them.
Then—banners. Different hues and symbols fluttered in the spring breeze. A red sun with spears for the Agni Clan. A crescent moon pierced by antlers for the Vanars. The thundercloud emblem of the Gari Warriors. They were all here.
All nine.
Veer's hand instinctively went to his satchel. Speak true. Shake kings.
He breathed deeply and stepped into the clearing.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward him.
Some stared with curiosity. Others with disdain. A few—most notably the elders—looked with outright suspicion. These were people who had buried friends in tribal wars. Who had built their lives on legends that taught them never to trust outsiders.
He was not one of them.
Yet he was all of them.
Veer stopped before a raised stone platform where nine thrones—crafted crudely of ironwood and bone—had been arranged in a semicircle. One seat remained empty at the center.
"Who are you to walk between us without kneeling?" called a deep voice.
It came from a broad-shouldered man with ash-streaked arms and a scar across his cheek. His chest bore the sigil of the Vanars. He held no weapon, but his gaze was sharp enough to cut through bone.
Veer didn't flinch.
"I kneel only to the truth," he said. "And the truth is—we will not survive what's coming unless we stand as one."
Murmurs rippled across the crowd.
The man stood. "You speak like a prince."
"I am not a prince," Veer replied calmly. "I was a beggar once. Then a servant. Then a warrior. I have no bloodline. Only will."
The Vakya flared.
> Resonance Detected: Echo Command Passive Engaged.
Nearby listeners experience heightened emotional response to your words.
Veer's voice grew stronger. Not louder—but deeper, more certain.
"You all know what's coming. You've seen it in the skies. The beasts that walk in shadows. The sickness in the rivers. The silence in your temples. The world is turning—and we are not ready."
He looked from one chieftain to the next.
"You want to wait until it swallows your sons? Your fields? Your gods?"
A woman stood. Her eyes were old and filled with storms. She bore the eagle crest of the Alaka tribe.
"And what would you have us do? Share our grain? Trust the Gari not to poison our wells?"
Veer didn't hesitate. "No. I want you to teach us how not to need grain. I want the Vanars to teach us how to walk without leaving tracks. I want the Agni to forge a language of fire we can all speak. I want you to become more than tribes."
He stepped up onto the center dais.
"I want you to become a people."
Silence.
Then a small sound broke through the crowd—a slow, deliberate clap.
From the edge of the gathering, an old man emerged. His robes were tattered, but his eyes burned with mischief. Veer recognized him.
The mad priest from the Forgotten Valley.
"You speak like a man who knows history," the priest said. "But history rarely listens."
Veer met his eyes. "Then it's time we write a new one."
The priest chuckled and looked toward the elders. "The boy has the fire of Rudra in him. Perhaps he's mad enough to try."
Another voice, younger this time, rang out from the crowd.
"I saw him walk through flame and carry a dying child from the maw of a black cobra," a young warrior shouted. "I say let him speak!"
One by one, voices joined.
"I saw him call lightning from the sky!"
"He healed my sister when no one else would."
"He didn't steal from us when he could have. He gave back."
And then—
"Let him speak."
"Let him lead."
Veer's heart pounded—not from fear, but from awe.
This is what truth does, he thought. Not when shouted, but when lived.
The elders exchanged looks. Nods passed between enemies. Then the old Vanar chieftain stepped forward.
He placed a heavy medallion—half sun, half serpent—into Veer's hand.
"A king does not rise by crown, but by cause," he said. "We give you cause. Show us if you are worthy of the crown."
And just like that—he became more than a traveler.
More than a warrior.
More than a dreamer.
He became a symbol.
The first breath of a kingdom waiting to rise.