The knife split my chest with a crack of bone.
I gasped, blood flooding my throat, but her arms caught me, steady and unyielding.
I screamed, but her hand smothered it. She drew me close, bangles clinking as blood streamed over her wrist, eyes bright with a terrible certainty.
"Do you know what weakness costs, Amogh?" She whispered, twisting the blade. "It costs a rajya. It costs legacies. It costs fathers who burn on their pyres while vultures circle their sons."
I gasped, choking. "Mother… why?"
Her fingers, slick with my blood, pressed against my lips.
"Power, my son. Power is the only truth. Not gods, not love, not loyalty. Power alone enthrones. And you have it but fail to bear the burden of it. Better it bleed into me than rot in your hands."
I shook my head, coughing blood. "I—I am your so..."
"Yes," she said, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath. "I bore you, bled for you, broke myself for you. And I see what you are. Fragile. Bound by sentiment. Do you believe that love wins the right to rule? Love makes widows. Love makes orphans. Love makes fools."
"You loved Father!" I croaked. "You cannot—"
"Your father?" Her smile curved cruelly. "Your father trusted loyalty. He trusted affection. And where is he now? Ash on the wind. His love made me a widow. His love left this hall to vultures. No, Amogh. I loved him once, but I learned. I shall not die his death."
Tears burned my eyes. "Then do it for her! She needs you. She—"
Her eyes flickered, then hardened.
"She will wail, and then she will endure. Daughters are born to endurance. She will live."
I clutched her wrist with bloody hands. "Var—Varanth cannot do this alone—"
"Varanth is iron," she cut me off. "He will not falter. He will bear the weight you cannot. He is his father's son in ways you will never be."
My body shook with pain. "Then for the gods..."
Her laugh was low, scornful.
"The gods? They sat silent when your father bled. They sit silent now. If they demand your life, then I am only their hand. If they curse me, let them. I shall rule even cursed."
I rasped, desperate, "M—mo—er…please"
She cradled my face in her bloodied hand, her smile softening into something almost tender.
"Hush, child. Slaves beg, and you are no slave. You are mine. Mine in birth, mine in death."
She twisted the knife deeper. My body convulsed. Then she rocked me gently, stroking my hair.
"Others would betray you for envy. Others would kill you for greed. But I end you for power, my son. For swaraj. For debts bound upon me, for oaths I cannot break, for shadows you cannot yet see. Even now, you serve me."
Her hand rose, dripping crimson like sacred oil.
"You nourish me even in death, my son. Sweeter than milk, richer than wine. Tell me. Is it not beautiful?"
Blood filled my mouth. I choked, muttering, "I trusted you…"
Her smile widened, radiant and terrible.
"And you were right to. Only I deserved your trust. Only I deserved your life. No god, no Samrat, no warrior will ever take you from me. You die in my arms, Amogh. And that, my son, is the purest love there is."
Her lips brushed my ear. Her voice fell to a reverent murmur.
"Die as mine. Not as a ruler. Not as a warrior. Die as my son. Die beautifully and give me this final obedience."
The fire raged around us, swallowing sound, swallowing light.
Her laughter faded into the dark, and I understood too late that the gods had not cursed me.
My mother had...
Drifting into that darkness, I felt something strange—not an ending, but a pull. The heat of fire, the sting of smoke, the weight of grief. A memory, or perhaps a beginning.
I reached for it as the world dissolved.