The Choice of Hate
The bell tolled again, deep and low, its sound sinking into every corner of the chamber. It reverberated through the marble floor, rolled along the towering walls, and seemed to rattle the very air. Selena's palms pressed against the slick edge of the glowing pool, water cascading down her back. Each drop that splashed against the marble sounded like a countdown to something inevitable.
The choice she had made lingered inside her like fire. Hatred. A conscious, deliberate choice that had marked her in a way she couldn't yet understand. Her chest constricted, every breath a struggle, every heartbeat a warning.
> [SYSTEM: Choice confirmed. Selena Verma — registered as "The Accursed One."]
[Condition applied: Your presence will inspire suspicion, envy, and hatred. Affection toward you will be diminished.]
[Warning: Hatred attracts both danger… and desire.]
The words faded, but the weight remained. Selena wanted to scream, to protest against fate, but no sound emerged. Only the oppressive stillness of the chamber answered her.
Then came footsteps—heavy, deliberate, echoing across the marble like the march of inevitability.
The massive doors at the far end of the pool burst open. Guards stormed in, silver armor catching the pale blue torchlight, spears poised, faces set in expressions that brooked no compromise.
"There!" the captain barked. "A trespasser in the sacred pool!"
Selena froze. Her words caught in her throat. Another guard sneered, his gaze sweeping over her dripping clothes. "Foreign attire. No colors of this land. Not of any house. Not of any order. She is—" he spat on the marble near her feet, "…an insult."
Her stomach twisted.
The Queen.
Devika Rathore.
Two guards seized her arms with a grip that burned her wrists. Every step they forced her to take was heavier than the last. The corridor stretched endlessly before them: pillars carved into writhing serpents, arches that seemed impossibly tall, ceilings painted with celestial battles, gods devouring mortals. Each detail she had admired in the novel now pressed down upon her, alive and accusing.
Finally, the obsidian doors of the throne hall opened with a groan. Selena stumbled, nearly collapsing onto the crimson carpet that ran like a river through the hall. The chandeliers above hung heavy with jewels that scattered light into sharp fragments across the polished floor. Courtiers lingered at the edges, masks glinting, whispers sliding through the air like knives.
At the far end, upon the obsidian throne, sat Devika Rathore. Draped in silk as dark as midnight, she was the picture of imperious control. Every movement was deliberate, every glance sharp, her smile small but cruel, cutting Selena down without words.
"A trespasser," Devika murmured, voice smooth as silk, teeth hidden behind her lips but sharpened in intent. "In my sacred halls."
Selena forced herself upright, though her knees shook. "I didn't trespass," she said, voice trembling but audible. "I was… brought here."
Devika tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. She rose, silk whispering across the marble with each step. Her eyes followed Selena closely, scanning every tremor, every shiver, every sign of vulnerability. She circled her, deliberate, like a serpent inspecting prey. A gloved hand brushed damp strands of hair from Selena's face.
"You do not bow," Devika said softly, dangerous. "You do not plead. And yet you tremble. Are you brave, or simply foolish?"
Selena's throat burned, but she forced herself to meet Devika's gaze. "I am no enemy to you."
Devika's laugh rippled through the hall, soft but sharp, echoing in every corner. "No enemy?" she said. "Child, you bleed insult into my palace merely by existing. You are a stain, and stains…" Her gaze sharpened. "…must be cleansed."
Her hand lifted ever so slightly, and two guards immediately stepped forward, grips tightening on Selena's arms. "Take her to the dungeons," Devika commanded. "Let her learn what despair tastes like."
Panic clawed at Selena's chest. Every instinct screamed to run, but she couldn't. Her arms were bound by iron grips, her body at the mercy of the guards' strength.
Then she felt it—something heavier than fear pressing against her skin.
Her head lifted without conscious thought.
Above the throne, in the shadowed balcony, a tall figure watched. Broad shoulders, cloaked in black, standing perfectly still. Though his face remained obscured, his gaze was impossible to ignore. It penetrated the incense-filled air, cut through Devika's venom, and bypassed the guards' hatred entirely.
Adrian Rathore.
She couldn't see him fully, yet his presence was undeniable. Every subtle movement of his head, every tilt of his body, carried the weight of authority and calculation. The guards nearest the balcony shifted slightly under his silent scrutiny, almost imperceptibly, altering their pace, giving her just the tiniest extra space as they began dragging her toward the dungeon doors.
Selena's pulse thundered. The hatred surrounding her pressed close, but his gaze was different. Not hatred, not pity. Something sharper. Something deliberate, watching, analyzing, waiting.
She didn't understand it yet. She couldn't. But she knew this: while Devika's cruelty was immediate, visible, and threatening, the man in the shadow held something subtler and more dangerous. His interest was a weight that followed her, unseen, manipulating the flow of the hall without a word.
As the dungeon doors loomed, Selena's mind spun with the implications. She was being judged not only by the Queen but by a presence that could bend her fate without even stepping forward.
The chains of hatred that clung to her would only grow. And the silent observer above the throne… he was already shaping her path, though she did not yet know how or why.
She had survived the pool, endured the corridor, faced Devika, and yet she could not shake the feeling that her real trial had just begun.
And somewhere above, in the shadowed balcony, Adrian Rathore remained still, watching, calculating, ensuring that nothing would go unseen, and that every choice she made from this moment on would be noted.
Selena shivered.
The story had begun.
And a predator was already awake
---
The iron doors slammed shut behind Selena with a resounding clang that made the walls tremble. Darkness swallowed the small chamber, broken only by the flicker of a single torch on the far wall. The air was thick with moisture and the stench of damp stone, of rust, of despair. Her wrists ached from the guards' iron grip, her legs quivered from exhaustion, and the lingering cold of the pool still clung to her skin.
She forced herself to stand upright, though the room seemed to lean in on her. Shadows moved along the walls, twisted shapes formed by flickering torchlight that turned even the simplest cracks into grotesque faces. Every breath she drew seemed to echo back, mocking her presence.
Selena's fingers brushed the rough stone walls as she walked a few hesitant steps forward. The curse had begun to gnaw at her edges. She could feel it, like invisible eyes pressing into her, drawing out the whispers of hatred from wherever she walked. Even in this dungeon, where no one yet spoke to her, the air seemed heavier, tainted with judgment.
A sound echoed—a chain dragging along the floor. She froze.
From the darkness, another prisoner emerged. A man or woman, she could not tell in the poor light. Their face was twisted with distrust and malice, eyes narrowing on her instantly. "Who are you?" the stranger hissed. "Don't come near me, outsider. You smell of… wrongness."
Selena flinched, stepping back. Already, she could feel the effect of the curse: suspicion and hatred blossoming around her. Even those who might otherwise remain indifferent recoiled, subtly, instinctively.
"I…" she began, but no words seemed right. She swallowed hard, nodding briefly, "I'm… I don't mean harm."
The figure spat, turning away. "Save your lies. Just stay in your corner if you value your life."
Selena's stomach knotted. Every instinct screamed to run, but there was nowhere to run. The dungeon's walls pressed in, the shadows twisted tighter, and the very air seemed hostile. Hatred wrapped around her like a living thing, testing her strength, forcing her to endure.
Time passed slowly, measured only by the flicker of the torchlight and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. Selena sat against the cold stone wall, her knees drawn to her chest, shivering. Thoughts of the palace above—the grandeur, the courtiers, Devika's cruel smile—haunted her. And somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a chill reminder lingered: the shadow above the throne, watching.
Adrian Rathore.
Though he had not moved, not yet acted, she could feel the weight of his gaze in her bones. Every instinct told her he was there, assessing her, measuring her. Not with hatred, not with cruelty—but with something else, something deliberate, sharp, patient. A dangerous presence she could not ignore.
Hours—or maybe minutes, time had lost meaning—passed. The whispers of other prisoners filled the room, stories of betrayal, envy, punishment. Selena stayed silent, listening, learning how the hatred around her shaped even those who had no reason to notice her. Every glance, every murmur, reminded her of the cost of her choice. Hatred was not abstract. It was tangible. And it had a hunger of its own.
A sudden sound outside the dungeon door made her flinch. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate, echoing off stone. Not guards, not prisoners, but someone moving with purpose. The torchlight flickered, shadows danced along the wall. For a moment, fear threatened to paralyze her entirely.
Then the footsteps stopped. Silence returned, thick and suffocating. Selena's fingers dug into the cold floor, her mind racing, imagining every possible danger that could enter the room. But the door remained shut. Whoever it was, for now, they did not enter.
Selena exhaled slowly, trying to steady her breath. Her body ached, her mind reeled, and the hunger of the curse pulsed in her veins. She realized, for the first time, that this dungeon was not just a prison of stone. It was a test of endurance, of resilience, of survival. Hatred surrounded her, pressed in on every side, but it could be endured. It must be endured.
Above, in the throne room, the balcony remained empty to all eyes—except for one. Adrian Rathore still watched, silent, calculating. Not yet intervening, not yet revealing his presence beyond the subtle influence in the hallways. His attention was sharp, waiting, patient. Every movement, every struggle Selena experienced, was observed, measured.
Selena did not know it, but she had already become a figure in his quiet calculations—a piece in a game she could not yet comprehend. And though she did not see him, did not understand him, she could feel the weight of the unseen gaze pressing, assessing, shaping her path from above.
In the darkness of the dungeon, Selena hugged her knees, shivering from more than cold. Hatred had a presence here, tangible and suffocating, and she was at its center. Yet somewhere, beyond the walls and shadows, a silent observer waited—watching, calculating, waiting for the moment when the game would shift.
The dungeon was only the beginning.
And Selena had only just begun to learn what it truly meant to endure.
---
🔥Episode 2 end🔥