The night had no stars.
Only the color of wounds.
Wind moaned like an ancient beast as King Vikramaditya stood before the steps of the Shrine of Shandilya, his golden armor smeared with dust and blood. Behind him, the torches of his soldiers trembled — not from wind, but from the fear that crept through their bones. The forest ahead, Vaitaalvan, was not a place where even death dared to whisper.
The trees were twisted like ribs of a giant corpse, their roots pulsing faintly, as though the earth itself was alive… and listening.
"Your Majesty," whispered the high priest, voice quivering, "the ritual demands your blood. Once the oath is sealed, there is no turning back."
Vikram's eyes burned beneath his iron crown. His kingdom — Ujjayini — had been plagued for months: children born without souls, wells whispering in the night, shadows that laughed before killing. The oracle had spoken only one name — Betaal.
A spirit. A myth.
And tonight, Vikram would drag him out of the darkness.
He drew his sword — a blade forged from the bones of fallen kings — and sliced his palm open.
Blood dripped onto the black soil.
The earth hissed.
> "By my life and my empire," Vikram spoke, voice echoing in the cold void, "I swear to bind the ghost that defies heaven. I am Vikramaditya, son of the Sun. If fear seeks me, I shall devour it whole."
The priest began chanting — ancient syllables that crawled through the air like serpents. The torches dimmed, one by one, until only the moonlight remained, staining everything silver and red.
Suddenly, a scream burst from the forest.
Then another.
And another.
Soldiers turned — but their shadows didn't.
One by one, their bodies fell as if unseen hands had plucked the life out of them.
Vikram didn't flinch.
He simply walked forward, into the whispering trees.
---
🌑
The forest was older than memory.
Each leaf seemed to murmur forgotten prayers; each gust of air smelled of ash and honey. Somewhere, deep within, a bell tolled — slow, rhythmic, as though counting the heartbeats of the damned.
"Who calls my name…"
The voice wasn't a sound. It was an intrusion — sliding directly into his skull, whispering from behind his thoughts.
Vikram raised his sword. "Show yourself."
A laugh — brittle, cold — rippled through the fog.
> "You bleed. You breathe. You still believe the forest belongs to men."
Something moved between the trees — a shadow shifting inside another shadow. When it emerged, Vikram's grip tightened.
It was a corpse — hanging upside down from a banyan branch.
Naked. Eyes glowing faintly blue. Lips curved into a smile far too alive.
Betaal.
The ghost opened one milky eye.
"Ah… so the king has come to claim me. Again."
Vikram frowned. "Again?"
"Time is a loop," the corpse sighed, voice echoing like a flute in a graveyard. "You've been here before. You just never remember."
Vikram ignored the words, stepping closer. "Spirit, you have haunted my lands. Tonight, I'll carry you back to the sage who seeks you. Resist, and I'll cut your tongue from your skull."
The corpse chuckled softly. "Such fire. Such lies. Kings always speak of justice while dragging gods through mud."
Vikram sliced the rope, catching the corpse on his shoulder. The weight was strange — not heavy, not light — as if he were carrying air soaked in centuries.
"Tell me your name," he demanded.
The corpse's lips twitched.
"I am what remains when stories die. I am Betaal, the storyteller of the dead."
---
⚰️
They walked.
The forest grew thicker, darker, until even the moon vanished behind branches that looked like claws. The air tasted metallic — like the inside of a dying mouth. At times, Vikram swore he heard footsteps behind him, though he knew no one followed. The silence pressed against his ears.
Betaal began to hum. A tune old as sorrow.
Then, softly, he said, "Would you like to hear a story, King Vikram? One last tale before you deliver me to that treacherous sage?"
"I did not come for riddles."
"Ah, but riddles are all you'll ever find in me," Betaal whispered. "And perhaps… in yourself."
Vikram didn't answer. His steps were steady, but the forest felt infinite, like he had been walking in circles. The fog thickened until the ground disappeared.
And then, the voice changed.
Betaal's tone was no longer teasing — it was almost tender, almost human.
> "There was once a prince," he began, "who could speak to his own shadow. Each night, when the moon rose, his shadow would whisper secrets — of enemies plotting, of lovers betraying, of brothers conspiring. The prince grew powerful, wise… but never slept."
> "One day, the shadow said, 'You have learned everything from me. Now let me live in your place.'"
> "The prince laughed, but when dawn came, only the shadow remained."
Vikram said nothing.
But in his heart, something twisted — the faintest flicker of recognition, as if he had heard this before.
Betaal's voice deepened.
"Tell me, O King — was the shadow evil for taking life, or was the prince evil for giving it?"
Vikram replied coldly, "A shadow can't live without light. The prince was the fool who forgot that."
Betaal smiled faintly. "Ah. So speaks the righteous. But what happens when the light itself forgets it once had a shadow?"
Before Vikram could reply, the forest shuddered.
The trees groaned like dying beasts, and a rain of blood fell silently, drop by drop.
His armor hissed as each drop touched it, steaming like acid.
---
🩸
Vikram dropped the corpse from his shoulder.
His sword gleamed — now reflecting faces that weren't there. Hundreds of them. Some looked like him. Some looked like kings he'd never met.
"What trickery is this?" he growled.
Betaal laughed softly. "Not trickery. Memory. You've lived this path countless times. You've always failed."
The forest around them shifted — shapes bending into scenes. A battlefield. A burning city. A throne room drowned in blood.
Vikram saw himself — standing above corpses, his crown made of bones. His eyes hollow.
"No," he muttered. "This isn't real."
But his sword dripped blood. His own.
"You think this forest lies?" Betaal whispered. "This is your creation, Vikram. Every life you took, every oath you broke, every truth you buried — they've all grown roots here."
The wind howled, carrying whispers:
> King of righteousness… murderer of time… slave of the loop…
Vikram swung his sword wildly, slicing through mist. "Enough!"
When the fog cleared, Betaal was gone. Only the hanging corpse remained on the tree again — as if nothing had happened.
Vikram's breath trembled.
He wiped blood from his face, but it smeared instead of cleaning.
Then, a voice behind him:
"Leaving already, King?"
He turned — and saw himself.
Another Vikram. Identical. Smiling. Eyes hollow.
"What—" he began, but the other Vikram spoke over him.
> "You never learn. You always swear the same oath. You always fail the same way. How many times will you walk this cursed path?"
The other raised a sword.
The same sword.
Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying, echoing like thunder across centuries. Vikram's heart pounded as he fought himself — every move mirrored, every strike anticipated.
Finally, he drove his blade through the copy's chest.
The figure smiled as it dissolved into ash.
"Remember this, O King," the voice faded. "The forest ends where you end."
---
🤫
When silence returned, Vikram fell to his knees.
His breathing was ragged; his hand still bled.
From above, the corpse's head tilted — slowly, unnaturally.
"Do you see now, Vikram?" Betaal murmured. "You are not hunting me. You are chasing yourself through the echoes of your sins."
"I don't believe you," he spat.
"Then answer me this…" Betaal's eyes glowed brighter, piercing the mist.
"When you wake each dawn, do you remember how you arrived there? Or do you simply exist — like a story that has forgotten its first page?"
Vikram's sword lowered slightly. The question stung — because he couldn't remember the journey to this forest, only the purpose. The oath. The command.
The ghost's voice grew softer, almost sorrowful.
"We are not enemies, you and I. We are bound by the same chain. The sage who sent you here… he forged it."
The name Shandilya whispered through Vikram's mind like venom.
Betaal continued, "He fears what I know. He fears what you were before the crown. Bring me to him, and I will tell you the truth you buried beneath a thousand lives."
For the first time, Betaal's tone wasn't mocking — it was pleading.
Vikram stared at him, torn between duty and the faint pull of something deeper, older, familiar.
At last, he said, "You will tell your tales. And I will decide what truth they hold."
The forest seemed to sigh — a thousand unseen voices exhaling at once.
As Vikram lifted Betaal once more, a distant rumble echoed through the dark — not thunder, but the sound of a heart the size of the world, beating beneath the earth.
---
🌘
Hours passed. Or perhaps lifetimes.
Vikram emerged from the first circle of the forest, blood dripping from his hand onto the ground that swallowed every drop greedily. The air was heavy with anticipation — as if the trees themselves waited for the next story.
Betaal whispered in his ear,
"Tell me, O King… when you look at the moon, do you ever wonder why it bleeds?"
Vikram said nothing.
But somewhere, deep inside, something cracked open — a memory of a woman's scream, a temple of fire, a promise he had once made to someone who looked like Betaal, but wasn't.
He blinked — and it was gone.
The forest loomed behind him like a nightmare refusing to end.
The path ahead was crimson.
As he walked, the whisper of the ghost trailed behind him:
> "The first tale is told.
The curse begins anew."
End of Chapter 1 — The Oath of Blood