The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and ghee as the flames of the pyre raged at the sky above. Crackling embers spiraled upward, as if heaven itself had opened its door to embrace the myth of that man who had swayed the hearts of gods and men alike.
The Samanta's body lay bare in the center of the pyre, draped in a saffron cloth and garlanded with flowers and leaves. His serene face was barely visible as the flames consumed the offering of camphor.
Priests in white chanted mantras, their voices rising and falling like waves merging with the roar of the fire.
To one side stood his wife of twenty years. The fire reached for her face and found not a reflection, but a fixed, hollow gaze. Shards of her bangles clung to her wrists like red teeth; blood threaded down her palms and disappeared into the folds of her white.
Beside her, the daughter clutched at her hands, tears streaming freely, her anklets tinkling faintly as her knees shook under the weight of grief.
On the other side stood her eldest. The sacred thread lay bright against his bare chest. Soot settled on his shoulders and in the hollows of his eyes, making him look older than he was. He held his hands in prayer, but the tension in his jaw spoke of a different devotion—a devotion weighed by burdens and sharpened upon enemies.
And behind him lingered another son.
No more than ten and six, but his eyes were not those of one who had lost a father. Amogh's grief was real, but that was not what bound him. The grief within his heart was overshadowed by the worry that dwelled inside his mind. His gaze stayed fixated on the woman in white—every drop of her blood a crack through his world.
He had never witnessed his mother so distraught, so full of grief, and so...void. His heart was stricken with fear—fear of the uncertain fate that was to follow.
Then, a rustle of wind broke his trance, and his gaze flickered to the retainers who preserved the sacred circle around his father. Their grief-filled gazes betrayed the treacherous plotting that resided in their hearts. The occasional parting of their lips threatened to let free the devious smiles that hid perfectly behind their grim front.
Their eyes glistened not with sorrow but with the sharp gleam of opportunity.
Yet, they managed to maintain the silence, not out of respect for their Samanta but for the blessing of his untimely demise. Amogh shuddered under the weight of that realization.
A priest touched Varanth's shoulder and placed the torch back into his hands. Varanth took it, circled the bier, and lowered the flame. The woods drank it with hunger. A crack echoed, green heartwood giving up a last clutch of sap, and the gathered drew in as one.
"Fear is the only breath before courage, little ones."
When he closed his eyes, he could recall his father's words. He couldn't understand why, but he did.
When he opened them to light, a curl of ash was settling on Yamvitha's cheek. Pranvi reached to brush it away but drew back at the sight of blood. Yamvitha did not seem to feel either.
The priests' cadence shifted. The younger ones fetched water and sprinkled the perimeter, hissing circles of steam into the dust. A brazier of incense passed from hand to hand; men cupped smoke to their brows. The fire leaned, found a seam of resin, and roared.
Varanth finished the last wreath and stood, the torch guttering in his grip. He looked to the high priest. The old man inclined his head. A murmur ran around the circle and ebbed.
A vulture landed on the far tower and folded itself small against the wind. Another wheeled above the cremation ground, patient as law. Someone muttered an omen, and someone else hissed them quiet.
Varanth's grip whitened on the torch.
The high priest lifted a ladle of ghee and flung it into the blaze. The flames brightened and found new tongues. He spoke then, not chants, but words about duty and the turning of the wheel of dharma; about sons and the debts they inherit. His voice was strong for a man so thin.
Varanth bowed his head to the words. Pranvi did the same. Yamvitha did not move. And Amogh continued his pursuit for that last gleam of light in his mother's eyes.
"Young lord," came a voice so shrill that Amogh thought he imagined it, "the head cracks when the spirit departs. If it comes, do not flinch. The circle watches."
Amogh instinctively turned but found no face for the voice. The retainers had their heads bowed.
Hours uncoiled and curled to ash. The priests lowered their voices, then fell silent. The wind cooled.
When it came—the dry, soft crack that lifted the hair along every arm, the circle stiffened and then settled as one.
Yamvitha's shoulders flinched. Her hand opened, closed, and opened again. A ribbon of blood, fresh where old had dried, worked down her wrist and dropped silent into the dust. Pranvi's breath hitched. Varanth's jaw set until the muscles stood out.
Amogh felt the sound in his teeth. It did not unmake him. It did not steady him.
The Samanta's life as a warrior and lord was ending in fire, as was his right, and the sight of it seared itself onto the hearts of those who watched—wife bereft, daughter broken, a son hardened by duty, and the other wary of the glances around them.
It was not just a father who was gone but the shield that had protected their family for years.
Now, the vultures waited, patient and silent, for the flames to die.