Present Time
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At the heart of the palace stood a colossal banquet hall. Hundreds of flame-lit lamps, woven with golden creepers, hung from the towering dome above. Their glow spilled across the polished marble floor, reflecting the kingdom's immense prosperity. The air was thick with the fragrance of incense—a heady blend of musk, sandalwood, and night-blooming jasmine.
The victory feast resembled an epic vision. From jewel-studded chandeliers poured streams of golden light, while silk-wrapped carpets were spread across the floor. The finest royal chefs had prepared over a hundred varieties of dishes using exotic spices and luxurious ingredients gathered from countless realms. On golden platters and in silver goblets, delicacies were arranged one after another—worthy of kings.
Emperor Kayotran entered the grand hall alongside Trishanvita. The moment they stepped in, all chatter, laughter, and praise ceased. Every gaze turned toward Trishanvita—adorned in ornaments, possessing a weary beauty, yet her eyes burned with deep, silent resentment.
Emperor Kayotran—ruthless tyrant, peerless warrior, bearer of the banner of conquest—seemed to cast a terrifying shadow across the hall merely by his presence. He took his seat upon the throne.
Gesturing toward the throne beside his own, Kayotran signaled Trishanvita to sit. Silently, with her head lowered, she obeyed.
Just then entered Emperor Albaric—the ruler of the northern lands. With him came several courtiers and strikingly beautiful men and women, who were, in truth, a kind of "envoys." The moment Albaric stepped inside, he burst into loud laughter.
Bowing respectfully, he declared,
"Victory to Emperor Kayotran!"
Kayotran welcomed him cordially.
Emperor Albaric (raising his goblet of wine):
"Ha ha ha! Emperor, you truly are extraordinary! You captured the mightiest warriors of Sindrabhumi. After conquering the land, you imprison the warriors and turn them into slaves for a princess's bedchamber. Congratulations, Emperor—congratulations!"
His sharp gaze slid toward Trishanvita.
Albaric thought to himself, So this is the famed Trishanvita—the woman whose beauty is said to shatter chariots and touch the sky? The Emperor's only sister! This foolish tyrant destroyed his own lineage, sparing only her. And now she must rule over male captives!
Kayotran gently brushed Trishanvita's cheek and said,
"As a gift for my victory, I have presented the captives to my beloved sister, Trishanvita. I want the greatest warriors to bow their heads before her."
Yet there was no joy in Trishanvita's heart. She knew exactly what was done to these slaves—how much pain they were made to endure. She did not want to witness their suffering, especially their deaths. The thought alone sent shivers through her body.
At that very moment, a royal messenger appeared at the banquet hall's entrance.
Bowing low, he announced,
"Your Majesty, news has arrived—your ancient enemy, the Bloodmall forces, are gathering at the southern border. They have declared their intent to seize part of Aranyalohit."
Kayotran did not grow grave.
Instead, he laughed.
"Now? My hands are still stained with the blood of a hundred rebels! Do they crave death so badly? Foolish idiots! They will be crushed soon. Send troops to the southern border at once."
Even his laughter made the messenger tremble. And with him, every soul present shuddered.
Turning to Trishanvita with a faint smile, Kayotran said,
"My dear princess, I must leave now. I hope this night brings you pleasure. Tonight has been arranged for you. Eighteen handsome war captives are devoted to serving your will."
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Trishanvita's Captive Palace
An exquisite, opulent palace—every wall, corridor, and arcade a testament to unmatched beauty.
The main gate was enormous, carved and gilded with gold, adorned with vines and regal beasts. On either side stood towering pillars like frozen flames, decorated with royal murals and jewel-inlaid stone.
Inside lay vast marble thresholds draped in silk carpets woven with golden threads and strewn with colorful flowers. From the ceiling hung crystal chandeliers; when light struck them, rainbows danced across the palace.
Each chamber held royal furnishings—beds, chairs, mirrors, tables—every piece a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Along the walls hung oil portraits of Trishanvita's ancestors, their eyes seeming to watch everything even now.
In one corner lay a circular fountain where cool water cascaded endlessly, beside gardens of jasmine and night-blooming flowers encircled by golden leaves.
Yet beneath all this splendor lurked a deep loneliness. This was a captive palace—for Trishanvita was confined here, cut off from the outside world, shrouded by a secret curse.
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The Corridor
The palace corridor was its most terrifying and cruel part—nearly two hundred cubits long, with thick stone walls draped in sinister shadows. The air carried the stench of blood, sweat, and humiliation. Through small glass openings in the ceiling, light entered, carrying with it memories of suffering like floating silver dust.
Tonight once again, the corridor began to resonate with the music of pain. Vast, endless, and brutally echoing, every footstep seemed to shake the walls. Each stone, steeped in shadow, bore witness to tales of crimson blood.
Along both sides of the corridor, heavy iron chains were fastened, binding eighteen strong, handsome young war captives. Their bodies were sculpted, veins prominent, eyes sharp. Each looked like a living statue—some princes, some generals, some great warriors.
They wore torn gray garments, many bearing wounds, blood stains on their shoulders. Their heads were bowed, yet their dignity remained intact.
Chains bound their necks, wrists, waists, and legs, fixing them to the walls like animals. Behind them, bloodstained marks marred the stone. In some eyes burned rebellion, in others resentment, and in some a silent plea. The corridor reeked of sweat, blood, and iron.
Carved into the wall behind each captive were their names, lineage, and the date of their capture.
Soldiers stood beside them—faces hard, eyes mocking.
The commander, known as Bharadwaj, shouted,
"Slaves! Lower your heads! You are no longer princes, warriors, or commanders. You are now the dust beneath the feet of Emperor Kayotran and Princess Trishanvita!"
All lowered their heads—except two.
One was a fair-skinned prince named Ritupriyan. Fury blazed in his eyes, contempt curling at his lips. Bound yet unbroken, his head remained proudly raised.
The other was Jyotishman, a copper-toned, darkly handsome general. His eyes resembled a sunset—warm yet filled with profound valor. The prince's command was sacred to him; he would follow it even unto death.
Though shackled at hands, feet, neck, and waist, Prince Ritupriyan showed no lack of courage. His skin, white as a conch shell, was streaked with vivid red blood. His gaze was sharp, his face proud. With a sudden jerk, he yanked at his chains and roared,
"I am Prince Ritupriyan! Heir of Sindrabhumi! I bow to no one—certainly not to your tyrant emperor! I did not come to be the slave of a woman!"
His shout echoed through the corridor. Silence fell.
Commander Bharadwaj stepped forward, eyes blazing.
"So, your courage is boundless?" he snarled. "We will crush that pride piece by piece. No enemy lives with honor in Emperor Kayotran's palace."
The soldiers were enraged. A chained prince who still refused to bow? Such defiance would have to be broken swiftly to crush the others' spirits.
Ritupriyan thundered,
"Free me once. I will tear your emperor apart, and kill every one of you in agony that will make Mother Earth herself tremble!"
Bharadwaj erupted with fury.
"Still roaring, you eunuch? Smash his mouth!"
At his signal, two soldiers advanced, wielding light iron whips tipped with barbed hooks.
One sneered,
"A prince—or fit for the rod?"
Suddenly, General Jyotishman lunged forward, chains clanking, knocking one soldier aside.
"No one touches the prince!" he roared.
Blood streamed from his body as soldiers piled onto him, beating him with iron batons—shoulders, back, face. Still he shouted,
"I may die, but I will not witness the dishonor of my prince!"
Ritupriyan roared in rage,
"Do not lay a hand on my general!"
Bharadwaj laughed coldly.
"Excellent. Two prides shall be broken together. Let us see who falls silent first—the prince or his loyal dog."
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To be continued…