Lucknow's palaces still shimmered under the sun.
From a distance, nothing had changed.
The guards wore green. The flags bore crescent moons. Urdu calligraphy still curled across marble like vines. And the Nawab of Awadh, Mir Asadullah Khan, still held evening court with roses in his water and verses in his voice.
But beneath the poetry, rot had settled.
Vikram had seen it in the ledgers.
And now, it was time for the Nawab to see it too.
The invitation was not sent.
It was delivered through dreams.
Two court musicians touched by Magicnet — both gifted with advanced memory absorption — sat behind the Nawab during a quiet qawwali.
One played a forgotten melody.
The other whispered words only the Nawab could hear.
Not aloud.
Not now.
But when the Nawab slept that night, the song returned.
And with it, images.
Files. Letters. Sacks of silver. Passports. Lists.
None of which belonged to him.
But all of which left his palace through secret tunnels beneath the Zenana quarters.
He woke in a sweat.
Summoned his vizier. Screamed. Ordered an internal review.
Found nothing.
Until he ordered a floor broken open — a place no servant had entered in years.
Beneath it: a rusted hatch.
Inside: ledgers, British stamps, secret authorizations signed by his half-brother, Faizan, who now served as a "diplomatic attaché" to the British Resident of Lucknow.
Vikram's voice came that night.
Not in person.Not by letter.But through a cup of water held in the Nawab's hand — after a servant passed by and brushed his skin for three seconds.
"The enemy is not Delhi. It sleeps inside your own house."
The Nawab did not speak for two days.
He dismissed his cooks.
Changed his guards.
Refused to enter the main palace wing.
He stared long at the mosque's dome, wondering if it still heard him.
Then on the third day, he sent an envoy.
Not a minister.Not a cleric.
A woman.
Begum Nilofer — his niece, fierce-eyed, raised in secret to read both Hadith and Chanakya.
She met Vikram outside the temple ruins in Kotla.
Wore white.
Spoke first.
"You want loyalty. He wants dignity. What do you offer us?"
Vikram didn't bow.
He handed her a scroll.
She unrolled it.
Inside: the real inheritance plan of Awadh, drafted by the British Political Department.
Her family name was to be dissolved by 1926.
A "new administrative council" would replace the royal household, citing "reforms."
"They've already written your extinction," Vikram said. "I offer survival."
"Not by wiping your faith. But by burning your leash."
She returned home without a word.
That night, Nawab Asadullah declared a fast — citing spiritual renewal.
Behind the announcement, a wave of silent reshuffling began:
British diplomats were "temporarily relocated"
The palace's maulvis were replaced with those loyal to Bharat
All arms import records were erased
And the Nawab's seal was placed on a document he never showed anyone
The title read:
Declaration of Internal Sovereignty Under Civilizational Union (Akhand Framework Draft)
Signed: Asadullah Mir Khan, Custodian of Awadh
In Delhi, Vikram nodded once.
Then quietly deleted the memory of the servant who had delivered the scroll — for safety.
The transformation of Awadh wasn't loud.
There were no processions. No flags changed.
But within weeks:
Urdu schools adopted Sanskrit as secondary language
Court musicians were taught Hindu ragas
Young boys practiced kalaripayattu in palace gardens
And mosques slowly began omitting political speeches in Friday prayers
And one final thing.
In a sealed vault under the treasury — Vikram's agents discovered 7 crore rupees worth of coins, hidden from British tax eyes.
Half was transferred to the Hidden Bank.
The rest?
Used to fund temples in Eastern UP, centuries old but abandoned.
No announcements.
Only stones cleaned, idols returned, lamps relit.
The Nawab never claimed to convert.
He still read the Quran.
But when his clerics asked him about Muslim League representatives visiting from Aligarh, he replied:
"Tell them my court does not serve maps drawn in England."
And when a British Resident arrived to "investigate internal disturbances," he was met with a quiet hall and a single letter:
"We are loyal to the land, not the empire."
The Resident left that evening.
He never returned.
In the months to come, four more Muslim princely courts made similar shifts:
Bhopal began building temples beside mosques
Junagadh quietly reassigned its British loyal clerics
Rampur stopped funding foreign madrasas
Hyderabad... remained silent. For now.
But the tide had begun.
Not of conversion.
Of return.
Return to soil.To memory.To the civilization that birthed them.