I woke to a voice calling my name, soft yet piercing, like a blade through the dark. "Alokika," it whispered, familiar and aching—my father's voice, untouched by the years that had stolen him from me. I lay still on the cot, heart pounding, the room's chill pressing against my skin. The memory of Gharial's ruins lingered: blood-stained snow, vultures circling, Suhashini's fevered breaths. But this voice pulled me elsewhere, beyond the waking world.
It grew louder, desperate. "Abhi, my dear child… where are you? I'm home!" The words echoed, warm with promises he'd once kept—gifts for me, for Mother, moments we'd lost. I slid from the cot, feet bare on the cold floor, drawn toward the call. The window framed the forest beyond Gharial, its trees clawing the night sky, and I knew I shouldn't go. Shamans prowled those woods, their magic a threat to queens like me, their spells woven to unravel crowns. Yet my father's voice was a tether I couldn't cut.
I slipped outside, the town silent save for the crunch of frost underfoot. The forest loomed, its shadows swallowing the starlight. As I stepped beneath its canopy, women appeared—ethereal, their long hair fluttering like silk in an unseen wind. They sang, a haunting melody that wove through my father's voice, now fainter but still clear. "Where's your mummy? Call her, Abhi. Look what I've brought…"
My pulse quickened. I ran, branches snagging my cloak, but the forest stretched endlessly, a maze with no exit. The women's song rose to a chilling pitch, drowning my father's pleas. I needed to find him, to escape this trap—shaman's spell or not. Then I saw it: a lake, its surface a mirror reflecting not the sky but him. My father, beneath the water, arms reaching for me, eyes bright with love. Beside him, my mother, her face etched with sorrow, mouthed, "I'm sorry."
Sorry for dying on my birthday. For leaving me to grow up alone. For not fighting to stay. Anger flared—why hadn't they fought? Parents could defy gods for their children, so why not me? I reached for them, but the lake dissolved, their faces fading into ripples. The song faltered, replaced by laughter—cruel, mocking. The women perched on branches now, clapping, cheering. Not for me, but for something behind me.
Heavy footsteps thundered, shaking the earth. I ran, breath ragged, not daring to look back. The cliff's edge loomed ahead, too close, too fast. My mother's face flickered among the women, her smile faint but real, urging me forward. "Mummy!" I cried, tears blurring my vision. The ground vanished. I fell, stomach lurching, lungs seizing—then, thud.
I hit the floor, ankle twisting, elbow throbbing. The dream shattered, leaving me sprawled beside the cot in the dim room. Suhashini slept fitfully nearby, her breathing steadier now, thanks to the butcher boy's care. The weight of Gharial pressed in—the ruins, the wishing tree, my forbidden longing for him. I wiped tears from my cheeks, heart still racing.
Mitrabhanu's knock came swiftly, urgent. "Your Highness?" The attendant stirred, groggy, guilt flashing across her face for sleeping on watch. She lit a lamp, its flicker casting shadows that danced like the forest's ghosts.
"I fell," I mumbled, rubbing my elbow. "Just a dream." It sounded clumsy, but it was true. I'd tumbled from beds before—childhood habits die hard—but never here, never like this.
The attendant knelt beside me, voice soft. "Why are you crying, lady?" Her concern stung, laced with her own shame for dozing.
"The dream… it was sad," I said, avoiding her eyes.
Mitrabhanu lingered in the doorway, his gaze steady. "Was it just a dream?"
I met his eyes. Of everyone—Indrveer, with his kingly burdens; the butcher boy, with his quiet pull on my heart—Mitrabhanu was the one I could trust with this. "It felt real," I admitted, voice barely a whisper. "My father was calling me, desperate. In the forest out there."
He stepped closer, thoughtful. "The forest beyond Gharial?"
I nodded, glancing at the window. By night, it looked alien, its warmth from daylight gone. "There were women, too. On the trees, singing about tears."
He frowned, considering. "A mourning song, maybe. For the dead, to help them move on."
The words sank like stones. "Mourning?" I echoed. "Why now? Why me?" My mother's face flashed—her smile, her apology. "She was there, Mitrabhanu. My mother. She recognized me."
He was silent, his pause heavy with meaning he didn't voice. "It's a sign," he said at last, cautious.
"Of what?"
"For what," he corrected gently. "I'm not saying she's gone, Alokika—"
"She's not," I snapped, anger flaring. "This is why I'm here—to find them. Everything—the war, the crown, Suhashini's poison—it happened to lead me back to them. I've played destiny's game, worn its chains. Isn't it my turn now?"
My voice broke, tears threatening again. The room felt smaller, the weight of tradition—queen, savior, stranger to my own heart—crushing me. Mitrabhanu crouched beside me, his voice soft but firm. "Acceptance might ease the pain."
"I don't believe in reason anymore," I said bitterly. "Not after this."
"Everything has a purpose," he insisted. "Even your dream. It's time to ask who your real enemy is."
I glared at him, frustration boiling. "Right now, it's you."
He didn't flinch. "I'm not. But we can't fight shadows without proof."
I sank against the wall, exhausted, tears spilling freely. "I'm so tired, Mitrabhanu. All I can do is cry. She smiled at me—she knew me. But you won't believe it."
"I do," he said, his voice a lifeline. "But belief isn't enough. If we're to prove she's out there, we need evidence."
I stared at the forest beyond the window, its darkness a mirror to my doubts. Suhashini stirred, a reminder of why we'd come—to save her, to survive. But my dream had cracked something open, a longing deeper than duty, stronger than love. Tradition demanded I stay the queen, but what if my heart demanded I run—into the forest, into the unknown, to find the family I'd lost?