I was eating raw mango only moments ago, and now I find myself drowning in the middle of the sea—with my family, my kingdom, and my happiness.

I did not cry, nor did I lose hope. To show weakness was never an option; I chose to stay strong for everyone.

When Bapu Sa, the king of Devrat, replied to the scroll with "I don't care about anything. You start this, and I will end this," the palace echoed with laughter once under the golden sun, but now it burns beneath the scorching heat, echoing only with panic.

War does not arrive with soldiers on horses alone. . . it comes with sacrifices, with the cries of thousands of families, with the blood of warriors.

And here I sit before the vanity, my eyes swallowing tears that dare to fall. Tulsi whispers, "Princess, please think again."  I do not answer. I do not need to.

If my death can stop this war, I will embrace it gladly. "I am not the first who doing this. If this war begins with me, then it shall end with me. They will never find me."

I wear the heavy lehenga, diamonds glimmering in the dark. Attendants adorn me with necklace, rings, and hair ornaments, while Tulsi stares as though I am already a ghost.

I smile at her reflection. "How do I look?" I ask. Her breath catches, eyes glassy. "Never in my dreams did I think you would prepare yourself for sacrifice..."Her words die in her throat.

She wipes her tears. "I am coming with you." I shake my head. "Stay here. Death is not a game to play."

I know Devrat will lose this war. Bapu Sa cannot fight at his age, and Bhai Sa must already be tortured. War is never the solution.

I close my eyes, fold my hands one last time. "Hey Maa Kali... please accept my death." And with that, I step forward, ready to leap into the river.

✧

He was strong, broad‑shouldered, heavy in stature, his long hair wild as both hands gripped swords. His eyes burned with rage, his face hollow devoid of emotion. Armor covered him like a second skin, and he looked like the very wrath of life given human form.

He killed mercilessly. His blade twisted deep into the gut of a soldier who dared to stop him, but he did not pause. He left the sword buried, rushing forward with a violent push, driving his second blade into another man's chest. He did not care for the blood, nor the screams only the slaughter that followed in his wake.

The ground turned from brown to red, a pool of blood spreading wide. He saw no one else his target was clear, King Vikram Raj Singh. He charged forward, but soldiers on horseback circled him, their spears pointed at his chest.

The soldiers smirked at his helpless state. Yet when he looked at them, his lips curled into a smirk of his own. He pushed his hair back, and with a flicker of his eyes, his sword moved with the speed of light. Horses screamed as his blade cut them down, their riders crashing to the earth with cries of agony. His smirk deepened.

And then, with unstoppable force, he pressed on closing the distance to his true target. 

Their swords clashed, metal ringing in the air. He pressed his blade forward with brute force, but the King did not retreat nor was he afraid. Vikram Raj Singh fought with every ounce of strength left in him.

"This time you will lose," the King growled, stepping forward with fire in his eyes. "You cannot demand my pride, my strength... nor my princess,"

He laughed dryly. "Ah, age shows no mercy to you. Perhaps you have forgotten who you are speaking to—and to whom she belongs, King Vikram Raj Singh." His words cut the air like knives, slicing straight through the King's pride.

"You..." the King roared, crashing his sword against his foe's.

"Devil?" he mocked, lips curling. "Yes. I am."

With a final, brutal tug, the King's sword clattered to the ground. The warrior's blade rose, its sharp point pressing beneath the King's chin, angled at his throat.

"War is over," he said dangerously.

And with those words, the battlefield fell silent. Hands dropped to sides, blades lowered. The nightmare had come true.

✧

He turned to the priest seated nearby. In a final, commanding tone he said, "Begin the mantras. The bride is here." His grip tightened around her wrist as he dragged her to the mandap. She did not resist—not anymore.

The priest's eyes fell upon the princess, the same one foretold to wed Shiva's Rudra form. His throat went dry, fear choking him. "You want to die?" he said looked straight into his eyes.

"She does not look like a bride," the priest stammered. "Her hands and feet bear no henna. It is auspicious when a bride's red‑stained feet enter the home—it means Lakshmi herself has arrived."

He hummed darkly, pulling a dagger from his waistband. "Red? Huh?" With a savage thrust, he drove the blade into his own chest where his heartbeat. Blood spilled over his hands.

He looked at her small figure beside him—frightened, yet unyielding. With a pull, he seized her feet, dragging them against his chest, smearing his blood across her skin as though coloring them in henna. The crimson spread in uneven strokes, staining her delicate feet with the mark of his wrath.

Gasps echoed through the hall. The priest's lips trembled, his voice faltering as he tried to remember the mantras. The princess sat frozen, her breath shallow, her eyes wide caught between horror and disbelief.

He looked down at his work, the blood painting her feet in circles, red lines trailing like sacred designs. His smirk deepened. "Now it is complete," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The priest, terrified, nodded and began chanting, his words shaking as they filled the mandap. The hall fell silent except for the rhythm of the mantras, echoing against the walls like a dirge. The nightmare had become ritual.

  ✧

He stood first—tall, strong, and masculine. But she remained unmoved, deaf to the call. "Rajkumari..." the priest repeated softly.

This time, she heard. Her gaze lifted to the man beside her, now rising to his feet. She tried to stand as well, but her limbs betrayed her, weak and trembling. She faltered, collapsing—yet before she touched the ground, firm and unyielding arms caught her.

A gasp escaped her lips as he lifted her into his embrace. Around them, the gathering lowered their eyes, but the charged air was unmistakable.

He ignored the weight of their stares. Without hesitation, he began circling the sacred fire, his steps steady and deliberate. When the first phera was complete, the priest's voice rang out again, asking them to repeat the vachans.

Seven pheras completed, he returned to his seat, pulling her onto his lap. She tried to move, but his grip tightened around her stomach. His whisper was a blade against her soul "Try again, and it's payback to your father."

✧

"Aaj se aapka sthan yahan hai... humare seene pe. Chahe barbaad kariye... ya aabaad." His smirk lingered, slicing through the silence.

I hated that smirk. I hated him. Yet when his lips brushed the same leg once stained with his blood, something inside me shifted.

Wasn't this the man who had slaughtered thousands, who had shackled my brother? In the fight against my father, the cruelty of something less than human emerged.

("So much freedom... to your enemy?")

"Apne shatru ko itni azadi?" My hands moved, signing the words. He understood.

("Enemy? You are my wife.")

"Shatru?" His brow arched, laughter spilling low. "Aap to humari ardhangini hai."

His palm slid upward, finding the anklet. Silver glimmered under the moonlight. He kissed it, then unfastened it with his teeth, the chain slipping away.