Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara – Late 1711 CE

The wind carried the scent of something strange.

Not smoke, not rain—but sulfur. Burnt powder. Something artificial.

We stood on the eastern watchtower and stared into the forest beyond the hills. The signal drum beat a slow pattern. Not a warning. Not yet. But close.

"They're testing something," Kshiraja said.

Devika squinted. "That wasn't natural lightning last night."

Bhairav nodded. "Gunpowder."

The Dutch were sending messages—their kind of messages.

---

We met that night in the war hut. A small building behind the main granary, shielded with wet clay to muffle sound.

The map of the region lay open before us, dotted with colored pebbles representing alliances, paths, and scouts.

"They're building cannon platforms near the coastal hills," I said. "Three confirmed. Possibly more under construction."

"They plan to control both the water and the sky," Devika muttered.

Stone gnawed on a scroll edge and huffed.

Kshiraja traced a path from the coast to inland Velikara.

"If they move fast, we'll be caught between two fronts: artillery from the coast, and political pressure from Eravanad."

"What's our counter?" Bhairav asked.

"Smoke," I said. "And mirrors."

---

We called it Project Phantom Flame.

Using a compound of resin, cinnamon powder, dried banana peel, and coal dust, we created a thick, clinging smoke when ignited.

Harmless—mostly—but completely blinding.

Kshiraja perfected the venting mechanisms. We filled small clay pots with the mixture and buried them across our vulnerable high roads.

When triggered, the pots would crack open and flood the area with thick, white smoke.

"From above, it'll look like we've been attacked," I said. "Or retreated."

Devika grinned. "And when they enter the fog—"

Bhairav finished, "—they find the Ironvine waiting."

---

But deception needed more than fog.

It needed mirrors.

I had Thelliyoor artisans craft polished copper plates. We placed them along cliff walls, angled to reflect the sun into valleys we controlled.

From afar, it looked like moving fires, flashes, perhaps even signaling torches. Dutch scouts grew restless. Their reports became vague.

"They see us everywhere," Bhairav chuckled. "Because we've taught the jungle to lie."

---

But illusions do not stop bullets.

So we began training.

Every villager, every merchant, even children learned how to load, signal, and scatter.

We taught coded phrases for danger levels.

> "The rice is soaked" meant immediate retreat. "The monkey sings" meant decoy engaged. "The goat yawns"—Stone's personal favorite—meant a trap was ready to spring.

---

It was Devika who suggested archery signal fire rounds—small flaming arrows tipped with sulfur-soaked cotton.

Each color had meaning. Blue flame for backup needed. Green for hold position. Orange for attack.

One night, she and Kshiraja stayed up refining the arrow designs.

I found them shoulder to shoulder at dawn, covered in ash and grinning like thieves.

"I think they've become friends," Bhairav whispered.

"Or co-conspirators," I muttered.

---

In week two of Phantom Flame, we staged our first illusion.

A mock evacuation.

We emptied one of the smaller outpost villages near the Ironvine's edge. Smoke pots were triggered. Mirror signals sent false messages.

Dutch scouts arrived to find smoldering footprints, half-burnt grain, and one goat sitting calmly atop a crate labeled "Confiscated Salt – Property of Dutch East India Company."

Stone looked smug for days.

The Dutch filed a formal protest to Eravanad the next morning.

Aranyaka's reply was simple:

> "Villagers are not responsible for goats."

---

But the Dutch adjusted quickly.

Their next move came by sea.

Fishing boats, disguised scouts, and trade emissaries flooded southern routes.

They weren't just looking for control now.

They were looking for cracks.

A single betrayal could break us.

So we did what I had feared we would need to.

We formed the Velikara Shadows.

A network of whisperers, traders, travelers—eyes and ears bound by no uniform. Not spies, exactly. Listeners.

Bhairav ran the first cell.

Kshiraja provided ciphers.

Devika trained the extraction teams.

I funded it by selling Thelliyoor irrigation secrets to a Rajput emissary in return for blackpowder recipes.

Stone… well, Stone followed the shadows at night and scared off cats. We counted that as success.

---

Week four saw an unexpected visitor.

A Tamil noblewoman named Rajam Devi arrived unannounced. She brought sandalwood gifts, a sealed letter, and three oxen bearing cloth and spice.

Her proposal was simple:

> Join her in a fortified trading alliance in return for grain shipments and access to northern maps.

The catch?

> Marriage. Again.

I met her on the second day.

She was intelligent, wry, and startlingly blunt.

"You're clever," she said. "And too honest to stay alive long. Marry me and I'll keep you politically immortal."

Kshiraja watched from a nearby window.

Devika sharpened her blade slowly.

I told Rajam I'd consider it.

That night, Stone vomited in my bedroll.

Coincidence? Probably.

---

At week six, the mirror plates caught a glint no one expected.

Ships.

Seven, maybe eight, clustered along the southern inlet.

Dutch flags. Cannon shadows.

They weren't just testing anymore.

They were preparing for invasion.

And our time for tricks was nearly over.

I closed the logbook.

> Next protocol: Emberfall.