The air choked with ash and screams as Swarnpura burned, its golden glow swallowed by flames that devoured homes, taverns, and temples alike. I stood frozen, words tumbling unspoken in my mind, a silence heavier than the chaos around me. Men and women ran, their cries swallowed by the fire's roar, but my eyes fixed on her—my friend, the woman whose name I'd never fully grasped, now torn from her lover by death's cruel hand.
"Don't! Don't! Don't!" she screamed, her voice piercing the heat, mingling with the shrieks of others fleeing the forest's encroaching blaze. A soldier held her back, her lover's name lost to me—too foreign, too fleeting—but vital to her. I'd promised to protect them, yet here I was, dragged away by Mitrabhanu, his arms a shield I didn't deserve.
Her voice echoed in my memory, bright and hopeful on our journey to Swarnpura months after my confrontation with the butcher boy. "He won't believe I've got a queen for a friend," she'd chirped, her every sentence orbiting the man she loved—a revolutionary, a lyricist, her world. "You gave me your word," she'd said, eyes gleaming with trust.
"Yes," I'd replied, confident then, before the shadows of doubt deepened. "I'll help you and him, if you show me the lake." The golden lake from my dream, the butcher boy's cryptic key to my return—a bargain struck with hope.
"Deal," she'd agreed. "Once he clears his head, we'll marry, live happily."
"He's a revolutionary," I'd cautioned. "Will he settle?"
She'd glared, fierce. "Say good things, for the gods' sake. Some deity might hear you, turn blessings to curses."
I'd humored her, looking skyward. "O divine lord, grant her a baby girl and a happy life with her handsome, flirty lyricist." She'd laughed, her joy cut short by an interruption—his name left unsaid, now lost forever.
Tonight, that promise crumbled. The fire spread from Swarnpura to the forest, trapping the fleeing in a fiery cage. I slumped by a well, Mitrabhanu and the others—Suhashini, the butcher boy, attendants—gathering around. My torn sari hung heavy with mud and soot, my face scorched, but the burn in my heart dwarfed it all. I'd failed her, my one chance at a good deed in this world turned to ash.
"Are you alright?" Mitrabhanu asked, his voice soft against the crackling flames. Attendants offered fresh clothes, their eyes averted, but I barely moved.
The young attendant who'd cared for me since Gharial, pulled me up, guiding me to a sheltered corner. She draped me in a new sari, washed my hair with trembling hands, and sat me before a mirror set in concrete. I stared at my reflection—hollow eyes, wild hair, a stranger's face. "You're a victim," I muttered, cursing myself. "Always pitying yourself, never enough. Victim, victim, victim."
Guilt gnawed, sharp and unrelenting. Why did I always end here—helpless, sorry for myself? In my old world, this one, I was misfortune's child. Tears wouldn't come; I didn't deserve their relief. Standing abruptly, hair unbound, I stormed outside, ignoring the attendant's gasp. Shaggy and defiant, I broke every rule of royal decorum—women here cast their eyes down, but I faced the king, Indrveer, unflinching.
"I promised her," I said, voice steady despite the chaos in my chest.
He nodded, guilt flickering in his eyes, but no one challenged me. They knew their failure matched mine. With a clap, he dismissed the crowd—Mitrabhanu, the butcher boy, attendants—all left, though I nearly called them back. I didn't.
"What you did was reckless," Indrveer said, alone with me now.
"Before queen, I'm someone," I shot back. "I've followed every rule thrust on me. This promise mattered."
My anger burned, its source unclear—her loss, my failure, or this world's cruelty? "You saw her scream," I said, voice breaking. "Her lover burned alive before her. You call yourself king—what kind?"
"He was warned," Indrveer replied, calm but strained. "I can't defy their laws, or I'd lose more lives."
"How many more?" I snapped. "How many make 'more,' Your Highness?"
"You're emotional," he said. "You see one person. I see a town—searching for him sparked this fire. Interference would've worsened it. And you—why forget your duty to Tapti? People protect you for a reason."
"To bear an heir?" I shouted, rage spilling free. "That's all I am—a vessel for this divine body, this child?"
He frowned, confused. "That's it? Your duty's greater. The child from your womb won't be ordinary."
I closed my eyes, the weight of his words suffocating. A special child, a divine destiny—what kind of world demanded this? "No one's special," I said, defiant. "Hear me—no one."
He didn't argue. "Not special," he conceded, "but extraordinary when they fight the extraordinary."
"Then stop glorifying this child," I said, glancing at the scar on my arm blood-sprayed horror. "If he knew how many died for him, he'd curse his birth."
"He doesn't need happiness," Indrveer replied. "Destiny's his purpose, not joy."
My hair whipped wild in the smoky breeze. "And mine?" I asked, tracing the scar. "How do I return to my world, satisfied?"
He had no answer—never did. He'd humored my "other world" talk, dismissing it as quirks, but now he reached for me, not as husband but as comfort. I flinched, his touch a reminder of duty I loathed.
"I didn't mean to belittle you," I muttered, troubled. "I promised her. She needed me, and I failed. I feel filthy."
"You weren't wrong," he said gently. "You tried. Some things—destiny—can't be changed."
"I hate that word," I spat, tears breaking free now, raw and unbidden. "He didn't want to die. He fought for his land—who's killed for that?"
Indrveer's eyes softened, guilt shadowing his duty. "You question destiny, yet it binds you. Don't blame yourself—I'll share it, before the gods if I must."
I brushed off his hands, annoyed. "Blame or not, who cares about the afterlife? I ruined her life here."
"No one's that powerful," he said, stepping back. "Destiny shapes lives, not you. Are you greater than it—or just naive like your people?"
His truth should've soothed, but it didn't. I'd grown up believing my actions rippled, affecting others—a slap from my mother taught me that. Accepting his words meant forgiving myself, and I wasn't ready. Standing, I faced him, unyielding. "I want that man hanged—the one who burned him. No—capture him, torture him. I want him to pay."
Indrveer's jaw tightened. I rarely demanded, and he knew my power in this moment. Without a glance at his reaction—or Mitrabhanu and the butcher boy watching from the shadows—I swept out, a swift wind through the smoldering night, my unbound hair a banner of defiance.
Behind me, Mitrabhanu and the butcher boy exchanged silent looks before entering the king's chamber. "She wants him captured," Indrveer said, voice heavy.
"He's no bird to cage," Mitrabhanu replied.
"We wronged her," the butcher boy added, his tone flat. "This might atone."
"Not for us," Indrveer countered.
"For her," the butcher boy insisted.
They stood, united in agreement, yet wary. Capturing the man—a bird-hunter clansman from Tapti—risked unraveling their fragile hold. His clan's wrath could weaken them, a limp in battle they couldn't afford. Still, they'd find a way, balancing her demand against revolt, mending her broken word with theirs.
In my chamber, I sat before the mirror, not admiring but condemning. Killing him wouldn't repay her loss. The attendant braided my hair, her touch gentle, but my mind replayed her joy—his name on her lips, her trust in me. I'd used her, promising aid for the lake's path, a selfish bargain now ash in my mouth.
"You'll never find love, Abhilasha," a voice hissed—not mine, but Alokika's, staring back from the mirror with disgust. "What you've done is unforgivable."
I froze, her face—my face—twisting into something foreign. I couldn't look away, trapped by the eyes of a queen I'd stolen, her judgment a flame I couldn't extinguish.