The wishing tree stood barren in Gharial's heart, its gnarled branches clawing at a sky heavy with autumn's chill. I'd passed it countless times, wondering what it meant—a silent sentinel in a town scarred by war. To me, it had been just a tree, unremarkable despite its size. But today, it bore a weight far darker than its leafless limbs could carry.
I'd slipped out of the house alone, craving solitude after months of watchful eyes. Mitrabhanu trailed a respectful distance behind, his presence a quiet promise of protection. No one else understood my need to breathe, to be Alokika—not the queen, not the mother-to-be carrying a child whose future felt as uncertain as my own. They fretted over my pregnancy, doubting I could be careful enough, but Mitrabhanu trusted me to know my limits.
Gharial's streets stirred with more life than when we'd first arrived a year ago, when ruins and despair choked the air. The snow was lighter now, dusting the ground rather than burying it, but the ghosts of that winter lingered—blood-stained frost, vultures perched like grim sentinels, survivors' eyes flickering with terror and hope. Those images haunted me, as vivid as the dream that had shaken me months ago: my father's voice, my mother's smile, the forest's mournful song. I'd buried the hope of returning to my old world, to Abhilasha's life. Here, I was someone—queen, soon a mother, tethered to a land that needed me. Yet my heart ached for the grandmother my mother would never be.
"She'd be a cool grandmother," she used to say, her laughter bright as she danced the bihu in her red-and-cream Mekhela chador, hands fluttering like butterflies. That memory—of her singing, my parents' joy—was all I had left. Abhilasha had dreamed of a romantic marriage, a happy life, but that was a child's wish. As queen, I bore a crown's weight, its expectations crushing any chance of love freely chosen. These months in exile had let me be Alokika, unguarded, but soon I'd have to don the mask again.
I glanced back. Mitrabhanu kept his distance, his loyalty no longer just duty but friendship. I'd once thought him a fool, his easy grin a mask for naivety. But I'd seen his steel—the blood on his face as he slew the siren who'd lured me, her cry fading under his blade. He played the fool to survive, just as I played the ordinary woman to hide.
At the crossroads, the wishing tree loomed, its barrenness unnatural. In a year, no leaf had sprouted, no bud bloomed. Why? No one spoke of it, as if it held secrets too heavy for words. Today, a crowd gathered beneath it, their murmurs sharp with grief. Proclamations usually hung here—royal decrees, stern warnings—but now, a woman's wail and a child's sob cut through the air. My stomach twisted as I looked up.
A man dangled from a branch, his long hair knotted around it, his gouged eyes staring blankly. The pot-maker. We'd visited him two evenings ago, his hands shaping clay with quiet pride. He'd been alive, kind, unbroken. Now he was a warning.
Mitrabhanu reached my side, his face pale with horror. "Get back," he urged, gripping my arm. "It's not safe."
Before I could protest, he pulled me away, forgetting—or ignoring—my queenship, my condition. I didn't resist; the sight had stolen my breath. But six soldiers blocked our path, their armor glinting like vultures' eyes.
"Where are you running, friend?" one sneered, eyeing Mitrabhanu, then me. "Who's the lady?"
Mitrabhanu steadied himself, slipping into his fool's act—nervous, bumbling. "My brother's wife, mistress of the house. Just helping her along."
The soldier raised his mace, knocking Mitrabhanu's hand from mine. "Hands off her, then. Where's your respect, lad? Why the hurry?"
"She's in pain," Mitrabhanu said quickly, nodding to me.
I kept my eyes down, as custom demanded—women here spoke only to husbands, their gazes locked to the ground. "I'm pregnant," I said softly, voice steady despite my racing heart. "On my way to the shaman, but I felt dizzy. My brother-in-law's helping me home."
They muttered among themselves—one checking for a shaman's house, another scoffing, a third complaining about trivial duties. Rage simmered in me, doubled by the life stirring within. This land's laws—its suspicion, its cruelty—had broken Gharial's spirit. Ordinary folk lived in fear, dodging offenses to survive, while bloodshed stained the streets.
The crowd's murmurs grew louder, then erupted. Men surged forward, faces twisted with fury, aiming for the soldiers. "Cowards!" one shouted, driving a stake into a soldier's chest. Blood sprayed, flecks landing on my arm. I froze, horror rooting me as Mitrabhanu yanked me back. Three soldiers drew swords, seizing the attacker by the throat.
"What right did you have to kill him?" the man screamed, gesturing to the pot-maker. "A poor man, earning his living, bothering no one—why murder him, you brutal cowards?"
"Treachery's a crime," a soldier growled, pressing his blade to the man's neck, drawing blood. "We tried reasoning, but your kind's born with filthy tongues."
"Cowards!" the man spat, unflinching. "Thieves' blood runs in you!"
The soldier's blade flashed, and the man crumpled, lifeless, his eyes wide with defiance. The crowd's breath hitched, anger swelling, but the soldiers stood firm. "The traitor's hanged," one declared. "We'll find who he fed secrets to. No mercy for betrayers."
I wasn't afraid—not of them. Gharial's people loathed their rulers; a kingdom despised by its own was already crumbling. But now wasn't the time to fight. With my child to protect and our departure looming, silence was safer. Mitrabhanu's face held rage cloaked in feigned fear, his act shielding us from suspicion. "You're alright?" he asked, wiping the blood from my arm with a cloth from his belt. I nodded, grateful, though the stain lingered in my mind—blood of the pot-maker, the rebel, now on me.
We walked back, questioned twice more by soldiers who mocked my speech, amused by its foreign lilt. I answered sparingly, their laughter a blade twisting in my pride. Freedom came only when we reached the house—the same one where we'd sheltered Suhashini a year ago, where I posed as the owner's niece, my "husband" tending his farm. Indrveer played the role well, his hands adept at soil, though his heart remained a king's.
The man's wife had soured toward me. At first, she'd been kind, her hospitality a flicker of warmth in Gharial's cold. But our secret bound her family—a truth we'd uncovered, a shame they hid. I pitied her, a woman starved of love, her gentleness warped by resentment. Guilt gnawed at me for using her pain to secure our place, but survival demanded sacrifices.
Inside, Suhashini greeted me, her strength returning since the fever broke. The butcher boy lingered nearby, his quiet care a reminder of my heart's betrayal. "This was a mistake," I said to Mitrabhanu later, voice low. "Staying undercover here—it's wrong."
He nodded, eyes distant. "The butcher boy thought it'd be easier—turmoil blinds them, he said. Forge papers, break rules, slip through their revenge. They only care for the throne, not the land."
I shook my head. "A land fresh from war, where people died in ruins, slaves made of royals—it felt right to hide here. But winter's coming. We leave for Tapti before Phagun, don't we?"
"Soon," he said. "No word of this to anyone."
"I know," I snapped, tired of warnings. Indrveer, Mitrabhanu, the butcher boy—they all drilled silence into me. But I'd held my tongue, even when guilt burned. The pot-maker's death haunted me. His skill—gold, silver, clay shaped with pride—hadn't saved him. He'd been poor, likely cheated by the king. Treachery? No. They'd killed him to bury their own shame.
As I lay down that night, the wishing tree's shadow loomed in my mind, its barren branches holding secrets I couldn't unravel. My dream of my parents, the forest's song, the pot-maker's blood—they wove a truth I wasn't ready to face. Tradition bound me to this land, but its cost was growing too heavy. For my child, for myself, I had to choose: stay a queen, or become Alokika again.