⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains scenes of graphic violence, gore, and mature themes. Reader discretion is advised. (18+)
Chapter 5 - Promises and Sacrifices - Part 2
Far below, Vina's footsteps faded into the night. Above, in the hush of her private solar, torchlight quivered across marble columns. Rei sat before an ebony mirror, a concubine's nimble fingers threading her dark hair into an elaborate coil.
Rei's voice was a soft caress against the lamplight. "Tell me—what holds your heart above all else?"
The concubine paused, comb suspended, and bowed her head. "My family, Your Majesty."
A single flame reflected in Rei's eyes as she tilted her chin. "Of course. Blood first binds us." She tapped a fingertip against her lip. "Yet… is there nothing more precious than even that?"
The concubine's breath hitched; her eyelids fluttered. "No, my queen."
Rei studied the curve of her sleeve before asking, "How many were you, once?"
A tremor ran through the woman's shoulders. After a long, shattering beat, she whispered, "Four."
Rei's pulse slowed in the stillness. The mirror's surface caught the trembling of the concubine's hands. "What became of them?"
Steel slipped into the woman's gaze. "On the road to the capital—soldiers of the late King Arendra Nali. We had no grain, no coin to pay his tax collectors. They slaughtered my kin…and they…" Her voice cracked, grief flickering like dying embers. "…and they did other things no woman should endure."
A shadow darkened Rei's face. She leaned closer to the glass, as if searching her own reflection for comfort. "And then King Dacra claimed the crown." The words tasted of memory.
"Do you know how King Arendra Nali died?" she asked, voice as steady as stone.
The concubine's gaze flickered with a sudden spark. "Poison, Your Majesty. The court alchemist's handiwork. And… truth be told, I was glad he perished."
Rei's lips curved in something unreadable. "History is written by the victors."
The concubine drew a ragged breath. "He did. When Arendra Nali fell—bitten by a viper—Dacrahindr ascended. He declared every tax‑soldier guilty of their cruelties. I heard they were strung up on the palace walls before dawn. Those who murdered my family… likely swung above us all that night."
Rei's shoulders sagged, the hush of the chamber settling over her. She rose, the silk whispering against marble. Her fingers brushed the concubine's cheek. "If ever you need sanctuary—or a word—I am yours."
The concubine bowed, lips trembling. "Your compassion honors me." She slipped away, and jasmine lingered in her wake.
Rei stood alone, the mirror reflecting empty space. A slow breath escaped her lips. Then—a faint rustle behind her, soft as silk drawn across stone.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked without turning.
The man stepped from the shadowed arch, face half-lost beneath his hood. "Preparations are almost complete, my queen. All that remains… is the birth."
Rei's gaze found him in the mirror—sharp, cold, unflinching. "Good. Now go. I won't have whispers crawling through these walls."
He bowed once and disappeared through the window, the scent of jasmine trailing in his wake, swallowed by the stillness.
Rei stood motionless, the hush of her chamber settling like dust after a storm. The man in black was gone, vanished through the window as if he'd never existed, but the space he left behind still felt occupied—by ghosts, by oaths, by old voices that refused to die.
Her eyes drifted to the horizon, but her mind fell backward.
She was a child again.
The clang of metal filled the courtyard, rhythmic and harsh. Below the balcony, soldiers moved in formation, sparring not with each other, but with her brothers—boys still, but bloodied and breathless beneath the weight of real blades. At the center stood her father, unmoved.
Vistara.
He wore an orange-red robe threaded with gold, the fabric brushing against the wind like flame come to life. His shoulders seemed carved from stone. His arms crossed as he watched one son strike and the other fall.
On the balcony above, Rei leaned forward, small fingers wrapped tightly around the cold railing. Her dress hung loose on her narrow frame. No steel in her hands. No dirt on her skin. She had asked once, to join them.
Once.
Vistara looked up. Their eyes met.
He smiled.
Not with pride.
With dismissal.
Another shift in memory.
A dim room, lit by oil lamps and strewn with maps—vast, intricate, hand-drawn lines sprawled across parchment, ink bleeding from the borders of old wars and broken treaties. Vistara stood before them, pointing with a heavy ringed finger.
"This kingdom was the greatest of them all," he said, his voice low and flint-edged. "When the Snan family ruled, Vastara was the envy of every realm. Our word held weight beyond oceans. We dictated terms—*we* shaped the world. And now?" He slammed his hand against the table. "We are exiled. Banished from the land we built. The mainland belongs to cowards who wear crowns made of lies."
He paced slowly, shadows dancing across his face as he gestured toward a corner of the map. "A kingdom only flourishes when the king and his ministry move as one. But now?" He paused, voice quieting. "The ministry meddles. Interferes. Dilutes the will of the throne." He tapped the map once, hard. "That's why Vastara rots from the inside. But we'll fix that."
No one spoke. But the intent lingered, unspoken and heavy.
Rei sat beside her brothers, smaller, quieter. Vistara's gaze swept over them all.
"My father tried to fix what his father broke. That's why he named me Vistara—so I'd never forget the shape of the land we lost. Now I carry that burden. And you will too. Each of you."
He straightened.
"The kingdom comes first," he said. "Always. Before comfort. Before fear. Before family. If I must sacrifice everything to rebuild what we lost, so be it. And if you are truly my children… you will do the same."
Later, a quieter memory.
Rei's hands were stained with ink and charcoal. Her drawing, clumsy but hopeful, showed a crown perched atop a sun, rays stretching like arms across a peaceful land. She brought it to him, eyes lit with expectation.
Vistara took it without a word. One glance, and his face twisted.
"You are my daughter," he said, folding the page in two. "You won't waste time on dreams. That's not your place."
His voice dropped, cold and final.
"I wish I had a son instead of you. But I won't weep over fate. As your father, I'm giving you an order. Burn it."
Rei froze.
He didn't repeat himself.
She walked to the hearth, the page trembling in her hand, and fed it to the flames.
The fire crackled. The drawing curled into blackened edges and disappeared.
Now, in her chamber, the memory faded like smoke. The curtains hung still. The city lay quiet. Her reflection in the glass looked back without blinking.
Her hand settled on her belly.
*This time... I will make you proud, Father.*
And if it meant fulfilling every unspoken promise—then let it begin.
The candle's last breath curled into the dark, leaving Rei's chambers steeped in stillness.
Far from her solitude, the palace's heart pulsed with uneasy life.
Boots rang against onyx floors—a dozen rhythms, steel-edged and deliberate—as cloaked figures converged in the council hall. Their shadows writhed across marble columns scarred by centuries of intrigue, and above them, the vaulted ceiling loomed, its carvings of ancient conquests blurred by layers of neglect. A chill seeped through the cracks where mortar had crumbled to dust.
They took their seats around the obsidian table, its surface polished to a liquid black. No one spoke. No one needed to. The empty throne at the head said enough—its high back gouged with the crest of Vastara, the gilded falcon's wings chipped and tarnished.
Then: iron hinges groaned.
All eyes turned as the doors shuddered open. Torchlight wavered, then steadied, carving the king's silhouette against the threshold.
Dacrahindr did not stride. He occupied—each step a claim, each breath a reminder. The falcon at his back seemed to sharpen its talons as he approached the throne.
The council bowed. Not to the man.
To the blade at his hip, still sheathed in dried blood.
Dacrahindr lowered himself into the throne, its high back casting a jagged shadow against the council chamber's torchlit wall. One by one, the ministers followed suit, robes rustling, chairs groaning under the weight of silence. Rajeev took the seat beside the king, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, scanning the room.
Dacrahindr's voice broke the quiet.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I know the hour is late, but the matter is urgent."
A subtle shift moved through the room—uneasy glances, tightened jaws, ministers straightening in their seats. Rajeev leaned forward, brows drawn low.
"What's the issue, my king?"
Dacrahindr looked toward the western-facing window before speaking.
"There's been a report. From the west. Asuras were spotted near the riverlands—no proof, but several witnesses claimed they were searching for weapons."
The room stiffened.
Rajeev scoffed, the edge of disbelief flickering in his voice.
"Asuras? Those savages who worship demons from the depths? They were wiped out a century ago when King Vis Nali ordered their extermination."
"They didn't all die," Dacrahindr replied quietly. "At least, not all of them. You've heard the stories… that some can achieve immortality by sacrificing their hearts."
His words lingered. Eyes flicked toward each other across the table.
"I don't know if it's just metaphor, or some dark rite," he continued. "But old texts mention it. An Asura must first kill a hundred men—then offer his own heart in return for eternal life."
Minister Vishw, seated beside Rajeev, folded his hands atop a worn scroll.
"There's a passage in the Book of Dusk that echoes that tale. If even one of them completed the rite, they may still walk among us."
"Nonsense," said Minister Vijay, his voice dry as parchment. He wore the saffron robes of an old priest, his silver beard neatly tied. "Tales told by tired mothers to scare unruly sons. Nothing more."
"Maybe," Dacrahindr allowed. "But the part about them seeking weapons—that we cannot ignore. We can't risk another war. And if the rumors are true, they may already outnumber our army."
A beat of silence.
"We should act first," said Minister Ramey. His voice was cold, firm. "Root them out. Order another purge. Don't give them time to gather strength."
"No." The king's voice cut across the room like drawn steel. "I will not stain this throne with bloodshed born of fear. What King Vis Nali did was wrong. Existing is not a crime."
"But, Your Majesty," Vishw interjected, "what if they've already infiltrated our borders? What if they're waiting for the right moment to strike the capital from within?"
Dacrahindr's jaw tightened.
"They will not. Not under my rule. I will not order genocide."
Rajeev finally spoke again, calm but resolute.
"The king is right. A slaughter would only spark rebellion. Half our people wouldn't stand behind such a decision. We should tread carefully."
Dacrahindr turned to Vishw.
"I want eyes near the Kataki River. That's where they were last seen. Send your best spies. No noise. No aggression."
Vishw inclined his head.
"As you command, my king. I'll deploy my network by sunrise."
The king's gaze shifted to the priest.
"Minister Vijay—you oversee treasury. Collect dues from the smaller kingdoms we've aided. Secure funds discreetly. And reach out to the eastern islands. We'll need weapons, just in case."
Vijay bowed.
"It will be done."
Dacrahindr stood, his presence enough to draw every man in the chamber to his feet.
"That's all for tonight. I won't steal more of your sleep."
Without another word, he turned and strode from the chamber. His cloak whispered across the stone floor, the golden falcon above the throne casting a long, watching shadow behind him.
The council chamber fell behind like a shadow. Rajeev walked the corridor alone, his footsteps swallowed by the thick silence of the palace. The torches lining the walls flickered weakly, casting long shadows that stretched like claws across the floor.
By the time he reached his chambers, the fatigue of diplomacy had sunk into his bones.
He signaled to a waiting concubine. "Send someone from the nearest brothel."
The concubine bowed, hesitated. "The brothel in the southern wing closed early tonight, my lord. But… there is someone else. A girl we keep in the inner quarters. She's new. Young. Beautiful."
Rajeev raised an eyebrow. "Bring her."
Moments later, the doors opened again—and Vina stepped inside.
She wore a deep red silk robe, simple yet arresting. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, her expression demure, uncertain. Rajeev studied her silently, then stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"What's your name, my lady?" he asked gently.
"Vina, my lord," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
His fingers found her cheek, and she flinched slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of what she had to do.
"You don't have to be here," Rajeev said softly, his voice close to her ear. "If this isn't what you want... you can go."
Vina hesitated, then shook her head. "I want this. I've admired you for so long. I... I want to be here."
A faint smile played on Rajeev's lips. He kissed her forehead—slow, gentle. Then their lips met, and she let herself be drawn in. Her thoughts tangled with the memory of the queen's warning. She closed her eyes, letting the act become something distant, something outside of her.
But when Rajeev touched her more intimately, her body tensed. She turned her face away, murmuring a quiet "no."
Rajeev paused.
His hand withdrew. "It's all right," he said. "You don't need to force yourself."
She didn't answer. Instead, she took his hand and placed it against her skin. Her decision—driven not by desire, but by purpose.
The moment deepened. Garments slipped away. For a while, there was only touch, and breath, and the echo of a lie she had to live with.
Their bodies moved as one beneath flickering torchlight, wrapped in silk and shadows. Rajeev's breath warmed her neck, and Vina tried to keep her thoughts buried—deep beneath the heat, beneath the guilt, beneath the voice of the queen that echoed like a curse.
"Don't fail me."
Rajeev was gentler than she expected. His hands were soft, his voice patient. He had paused more than once, giving her a chance to leave. But she stayed. She told herself it was duty. She told herself it was choice.
It wasn't.
She opened her eyes. His face hovered above hers—calm, almost serene.
"My lord," she whispered, catching her breath, "can I ask you something?"
He nodded, his rhythm slowing. "Of course."
"Have you heard the rumors… about Asuras in the capital?"
Rajeev's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't stop moving. "Rumors are cheap distractions," he said. "People want monsters in the dark so they don't have to face the ones in the mirror. Not all who worship demons are evil. Some just want to survive."
He smiled faintly.
Then—snap.
A sound, clean and final.
Rajeev jolted violently. His body spasmed once.
Then went limp.
Blood exploded across her face.
Vina screamed.
An arrow jutted from his left eye, buried deep into his skull. The other eye stared wide and dead. His weight collapsed onto her, pinning her down in a grotesque silence.
She shoved his body off her, gagging, scrambling backward on hands and knees. The sheets were soaked in red. His eye—still intact—rolled onto the pillow beside her, its gaze lifeless.
That's when she saw him.
The assassin.
He stood at the window, cloaked in deep red, face hidden behind a mask etched with fanged patterns. A longbow in hand. Another arrow already notched.
He stepped down onto the floor.
She froze.
Paralyzed.
He moved toward her slowly, methodically, as if time didn't matter.
She tried to scream. Nothing came out. Her limbs refused to move.
He reached her.
And didn't shoot.
Instead, he dropped the bow—and pulled a curved dagger from his belt.
Then he looked down at her—exposed, trembling, blood-streaked.
And something shifted behind the mask.
He pinned her wrist with one hand, shoved her back with the other. She kicked, thrashed, tried to roll away, but he caught her again and slammed her down hard against the bedframe.
"No!" she cried, voice hoarse with panic.
The assassin tore at the last of her robe. His free hand reached for his belt, pulling it loose. She spat at him. He backhanded her across the face, dazing her.
He leaned in.
Hot breath. Leather fingers.
His other hand grabbed her breast—rough, claiming, not human.
Her screams grew louder. She fought with everything she had.
He pinned her again.
And just as his hand reached between her legs—
A sound cut through the air like a whisper turned to thunder.
Shhhhk.
The assassin froze.
For a breathless moment, his whole body trembled—then his head slipped from his shoulders like fruit falling from a branch.
Blood sprayed across Vina's face and chest.
The head hit the floor with a wet thud. The body followed a second later, crashing onto her in a twitching heap.
She shrieked, scrambling back from the corpse, slipping in blood, nearly falling off the bed.
Her hands shook. Her mind screamed.
And then—she saw him.
Rajeev.
Naked. Standing. Breathing.
Alive.
His left eye was gone. In its place, a hollow wound still weeping blood.
He bent slowly, plucked the severed eye from the floor, and without hesitation, pushed it back into the empty socket.
The skin pulsed.
Knitted.
Sealed.
No scar. No wound. Just silence.
He stepped toward her, his voice low, almost gentle.
"Why are you so afraid?"
Chapter 5 ends