The sun dipped low over the village of Eravati, painting the fields in hues of amber and rose, a fleeting calm after the storm that nearly claimed Mitrabhanu. Alokika stood by a gnarled tree at the village's heart, its bark etched with notices and memories, much like Gharial's wishing tree. Her gaze lingered on Mitrabhanu and the butcher boy, their silhouettes sharp against the fading light. She wondered why Mitrabhanu guarded her so fiercely—beyond duty, beyond the child she carried, a bond she couldn't name sparked both comfort and unease.
"You're too careful," she said, turning to him, her voice teasing yet probing. "What's it for?"
Mitrabhanu's eyes held a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, from his bloodied defiance on the siren's ship. "Someone has to be," he replied, deflecting with a half-smile.
She frowned, sensing a truth he wouldn't share. The butcher boy, ever watchful, leaned against a cart, his silence louder than words. She'd trusted him despite his mysteries—the scar, the sword, the lake he swore to help her find. Yet his presence stirred doubts, like the snake's mark still branding her ankle from a brush with danger in Tapti's wilds, a wound that refused to fade.
The village head's voice broke her thoughts, his agreement to their plan a hard-won victory. "You'll have shelter," he said, wary but convinced. "But tread lightly—our trust is thin."
Alokika smiled, glancing at her companions. "Why are we so clever?" she teased, leaping from the low wall where she'd perched, her sari catching the breeze.
"Unqueenly," the butcher boy chided, though his tone held no sting. "Save your joy for a certain win."
Mitrabhanu nodded, shifting uneasily as he scanned the crowd. The villagers whispered, their eyes darting—some admiring, others skeptical of the trio's bold claim: to unseat a king unworthy of his crown. Alokika had heard the butcher boy's pitch to them, his words sly yet fervent. "This man doesn't deserve the throne," he'd urged, pointing to a distant figure none dared name. "Join us, and you'll see justice."
"Strange," Mitrabhanu murmured, relishing the moment's ease. "It feels too simple."
"Nothing stays simple," Alokika countered, her voice light but her mind heavy with lessons from the diary she'd found in Swarnpura's ashes—a queen's words, now hers. "I want to be irrational, just for now. Let me savor this."
"Don't," the butcher boy warned. "A queen banishes pleasure, like a mother for her child."
The mention of her unborn child tightened her chest, a reminder of Tapti's expectations, the divine heir she was meant to bear. She glanced at her ankle, the snake's mark a stubborn shadow. "It worries me," she admitted, voice low. "The stories—venom that lingers. What if it means something?"
"It's nothing," the butcher boy said firmly. "No hindrance. I promised you safety—I keep promises."
Mitrabhanu's gaze softened. "You're divine, Alokika. No creature's touch can end you."
She laughed, bitter. "This body died once, didn't it? Destiny might have another replacement waiting."
Silence fell, the truth of her otherworldly soul—Abhilasha trapped in Alokika's form—stirring unease. Mitrabhanu, versed in Tapti's magic, seemed to believe her, his eyes tracing possibilities. The butcher boy, skeptical, shook his head. "Don't dwell on it," he said. "You're not dying—not now."
She trusted him, emotions clouding reason. Death felt distant in this moment, with the village's tentative alliance hers to wield. As the crowd dispersed, whispers of their plan—overthrowing a tyrant—rippled through Eravati, a spark not unlike Swarnpura's rebellion.
Mitrabhanu's voice brightened, a rare lightness. "Did you know Eraha was born here?" he said, nodding to the village's modest huts. "A poet, centuries ago."
Alokika's eyes lit up, seizing the chance for levity. "A sign, then! Be a poet-warrior, Mitrabhanu. This queen blesses you with all her will."
He chuckled, but a shadow crossed his face. "Poet?" he echoed, voice soft. "My blood—Yamin's line—demands war, not words. 'Poetry's for low men,' they said. 'Only craft of blade honors our name.'"
She saw pain in his eyes, the weight of a lineage scorned in Chapter 9's blood feud. "Krishna was a poet-warrior," she said, drawing on a shared thread between her world and Tapti's. In her old life, Krishna's Jaya sang of purpose; here, he was god of cowherds and flutists, not Tapti's fire-lord. "He fought for what mattered. You can too."
Mitrabhanu's smile returned, tentative. "Maybe. If Krishna's here, he'd guide us."
The village tree loomed, its notices fluttering—decisions made, disputes settled, just as in Gharial. Alokika felt its pulse, a hub where power gathered. The villagers' murmurs grew—some awed by her presence, others wary of the butcher boy's shadowed past, Mitrabhanu's royal scars. Together, they were a force, unyielding if united.
Her thoughts turned to Swarnchandrapura, their next step. Three days and four nights by sea, a journey that churned her stomach with dread. She needed allies—two women, perhaps, to join their cause, their strength to bolster her own. The lake promise lingered in her mind, its golden waters her path home, but first, she'd face the ocean's trials, with a poet's heart and a queen's resolve.