The Goddess's Wrath — The Lament of Agnikul
The dawn that broke over Tejgarh was not a true dawn. It was a stain. The sun, usually a fierce golden warrior, rose sluggishly, dripping a sickly, bloody light across the sky. Its rays touched the high palace walls of Tejgadh, but instead of warmth, they brought only a crimson gloom, as if the sky itself wept tears of fire and rust.
The grand courtyard, usually bustling with the noise of drills and market chatter by this hour, stood in a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight. The air did not carry the scent of morning flowers or baking bread. It held the distant, acrid memory of war—gunpowder, ash, and a faint, metallic hint that everyone recognized but no one named. No birds sang from the surrounding peepal trees. Nature itself seemed to be holding its breath, mourning in advance.
At the main gate, the returning soldiers formed a ragged, broken line. These were not the proud, cheering victors of ballads. Their armour was scarred and dented, splattered with dried mud and darker patches. Their shoulders slumped not just from fatigue, but from the terrible knowledge they carried. Their eyes, fixed on the ground or staring vacantly ahead, were red-rimmed and empty. They had not just fought a battle; they had witnessed an end.
Through this grim, silent guard, a single chariot rolled forward. Its wheels, caked in the mud of the distant valley, crunched over the courtyard's stone flags. The wood of its frame was charred in places, marked deeply by the kiss of enemy blades. Dragging behind it, almost apologetically, was the remnants of another chariot—a shattered wheel, a piece of banner wrapped around a broken axle. It was a ghost, a piece of the battlefield haunting the palace gates.
In the lead chariot stood Prince Agni.
His once-gleaming armour was a ruin. A deep gash ran across the left shoulder plate, and beneath it, a bandage was already soaked through with a fresh, stubborn red. But it was his face that told the true story. It was pale beneath the grime, his lips cracked and dry. His eyes, however, were the worst. They were wide, unblinking, and utterly hollow. They were not the eyes of a prince returning home, but of a soul that had been left behind on the scorched earth of the border, where two kings had turned to ash and a friendship had shattered like glass. His body had made the journey; his spirit was still trapped in that moment of explosion, in the sight of Neer's tear-streaked, furious face.
As the chariot creaked to a halt, the silence deepened. No conch shells blew in welcome. No ministers stepped forward with garlands. The only sound was the tired sigh of the morning wind and the ragged breathing of the men. The soldiers lining the path bowed their heads, a gesture of profound grief, not of salute.
From the shadow of the great palace doors, an old minister emerged. Viprachit, his beard white as mountain snow, his back bent with age and now, with a new, crushing sorrow, moved with slow, heavy steps. His gaze swept over the scene—the broken chariot, the wounded prince, the silent army—and his wrinkled face seemed to cave in further. He walked not towards Agni, but towards the palace steps, where Queen Arya stood waiting.
Queen Arya was a statue of dawn herself, dressed in a simple, unadorned white sari, the colour of both prayer and widowhood. Her long hair, usually intricately braided, fell in a single, severe plait. For days, her forehead had held the bright mark of hopeful victory, her eyes constantly turned towards the eastern road, holding a silent prayer for her husband and son. She stood straight, her hands clasped around a small, golden kalash of sacred water, her knuckles white with tension.
Minister Viprachit approached her. When he spoke, his voice was a dry leaf scraping on stone, barely audible.
"Maharani…" he began, then faltered. He closed his eyes, gathering strength from a reserve that was now empty. "The news from the battlefield… it is… it is all true."
Queen Arya's breath hitched, but she did not move. "My husband?"
"Maharaj Tejendra," Viprachit said, the words dropping like stones into the silent well of the courtyard. "He fought with the valour of a lion. But in the chaos… there was a blast of divine fire. He and King Anil… they were consumed. There was… there was nothing left to bring home."
A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the Queen's frame. The prayer in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a dawning horror. "And my son? Agni? He lives?"
"He lives," Viprachit confirmed, but his tone held no relief, only a deeper, more terrible gravity. He looked over at the prince, who was now stepping down from his chariot, his movements stiff and mechanical. "He returned. But the fire… the agnibaan that caused the blast…" The old man's voice broke completely. He forced the final truth out in a whisper. "It came from his bow, My Queen. The arrow was his."
For a moment, time stopped. The world narrowed to the Queen's face, to her hands. The golden kalash seemed to grow heavy, then weightless. Her fingers loosened.
Clang…
The sound was shockingly loud in the silence. The vessel struck the marble step, bounced once with a hollow ring, and rolled. The sacred water spilled out, spreading in a dark, shapeless stain across the pale stone, like a sudden, silent outburst of tears.
The Queen did not look at it. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, had found her son. They locked onto Agni, who stood a dozen paces away, finally looking up and meeting her gaze. In that electric space between them, a chasm opened—a canyon carved not by time or disagreement, but by fire and irreversible act. In his eyes, she saw the ghost of the boy she raised, drowning in a sea of guilt and trauma. In hers, he saw the foundation of his world crumble into ash.
She took a step forward, then another, descending the stairs slowly, as if walking through deep water. The crowd of soldiers and servants seemed to blur into the background. The world was now just mother and son, separated by an act that no hug could bridge.
Inside the palace, the heavy velvet curtains had been drawn, shutting out the accusing dawn. The great hall was lit by flickering oil lamps, their flames casting long, dancing shadows that looked like grieving spirits on the walls. The pleasant fragrance of sandalwood had been overpowered by the pervasive, smoky scent of extinguished torches and despair.
Agni walked in, his boots leaving faint prints of dust on the polished floor. The normally serene space felt oppressive. He passed a scattered pile of pearl necklaces and shattered bangles near a pillar—perhaps flung aside in a fit of prior anxiety or grief. Each fragment crunched under his feet, the sound echoing in his skull like accusations: Murderer. Failure. Patricide.
Queen Arya had seated herself on her silver-inlaid throne, but there was no regality in her posture. She looked small, her shoulders curved inward, her hands lying limp in her lap. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. It was as if the shock had been so vast, it had scorched away her very capacity for tears. She was a shell, and the soul within seemed to have followed her husband into the pyre.
Agni stopped before her. He wanted to kneel, to beg, to explain. He opened his mouth, but his throat was a desert. His lips were cracked, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He looked down at his hands—the hands that had drawn the bow, the hands that had, just hours ago, tried to hold a bleeding Neer. They were scratched, bruised, and stained with dark, flaky patches of blood—his own, Neer's, perhaps even his father's. They trembled.
"Ma…" he croaked, the childhood endearment slipping out. "I… I didn't…"
"Don't search for words, Agnivrat," the Queen interrupted. Her voice was not loud, but it was hard and cold, forged in the furnace of her loss. She still did not look at him, her gaze fixed on some distant, ruined point in the shadows. "The sword has done its work. Words cannot reshape its cuts. A king is dead. A husband is gone. And a father…" Here, her voice finally wavered, just for a second, before turning to steel again. "A father has died by his son's hand."
The words were not shouted, but they struck Agni with the force of a physical blow. He staggered back a half-step, the air punched from his lungs. The guilt he carried coagulated into a solid, painful mass in his chest.
"It wasn't meant for him!" The protest burst from him, desperate and ragged. "The battle… it was chaos! Neer, he… I was trying to stop it, I was trying to save Father! My hands were shaking, I couldn't see clearly… the arrow, it just… it went wrong!"
"Wrong?" The Queen's head snapped towards him now. The emptiness in her eyes was suddenly filled with a raw, blistering fury. "The fire that took his life bore your signature, Agni! It was your flame! And if you did not mean it…" She paused, letting the cruel irony hang in the thick air. "The result is still the same. Maharaj Tejendra is no more. And you…"
She took a shuddering breath, her composure cracking to reveal the bottomless pain beneath. Her next words were whispered, but they echoed louder than any scream in the cavernous hall.
"You are no longer my son. You are the one who made the sun of this kingdom set. You are the one who consigned my world to the flames."
Each word was a lash, stripping him bare. Agni felt his knees buckle. Tears, hot and shameful, finally welled up in his eyes, but they would not fall. It was as if the fire he commanded had burned away even his right to weep. He stared at his mother, searching her face for any trace of the love that had been his bedrock. He found only a desolation more terrifying than her anger—a final, absolute severance.
Then, a sudden change. The furious energy that had animated the Queen drained away as swiftly as it had come. Her face paled further. Her eyes, which had been blazing, grew heavy-lidded and dim. She tried to stand, perhaps to leave, to escape the unbearable scene, but her legs betrayed her. She swayed, a delicate vase on the brink of shattering.
Instinctively, Agni leaped forward. He caught her just as her strength gave way, his arms wrapping around her slender, trembling form. The feel of her, so fragile and broken, shattered the last of his own defences.
"Ma!" he cried, panic layering his guilt. "Ma, look at me! Please… don't turn away… I am… I am still your son…"
His voice was a child's plea, lost and frightened. He held her tightly, as if his own heartbeat could somehow jump-start hers, as if his embrace could rebuild the bridge between them.
Slowly, weakly, the Queen raised a trembling hand. Instead of pushing him away, she cupped his cheek. Her skin was cold. The fury was gone from her eyes, replaced by an ocean of exhaustion and a sorrow so deep it had no bottom. She looked at her son—really looked—seeing past the warrior, past the accused prince, to the devastated boy within. And in his eyes, she perhaps saw a reflection of her own immeasurable pain.
"Agni…" she breathed, her voice softening into a ghost of its former tenderness. "My child… Why… why did it have to be your hands…?"
It was not an accusation anymore. It was a lament, the core mystery of her tragedy. Her breath grew shallow, coming in short, difficult gasps. Agni held her closer, rocking slightly, stroking her hair as he had when he was small and she comforted him from nightmares. But now, he was the nightmare.
"Don't go," he sobbed, the words tearing from a raw throat. "Please, Ma… I'll be all alone… I can't… I can't do this without you…"
A faint, almost peaceful smile touched the Queen's bloodless lips. It held no forgiveness, no hatred. It was a smile of farewell, of a final, merciful release from pain. It was a mother's last gift to her child—a silent message that beneath the ashes of this horror, her love, in some fractured way, still existed.
Her lips moved, forming her last words. They were faint, fractured, but perfectly clear in the deathly quiet hall.
"Tejgarh… is yours now… to hold… Hold it well…" A painful pause as she gathered the dregs of her strength. "And… hold yourself… too…"
Then, the light in her eyes, that last ember of maternal love and unbearable sorrow, flickered and went out. Her head grew heavy against his shoulder. Her body, which had been taut with emotion, went completely limp, all its weight a final surrender.
Agni slowly lowered her to the floor, arranging her with a tenderness that was heartbreaking. He brushed a strand of hair from her serene face. In death, the pain had left her. She looked peaceful, as if she had taken all the agony with her, leaving behind only a beautiful, empty shell.
At that moment, from the highest tower of the palace, the great Mourning Bell began to toll.
BONNNNGG…
The sound was deep, resonant, and heavy with finality. It vibrated through the stone floors, up through Agni's kneeling legs, and into his very bones.
BONNNNGG…
With each stroke, something inside him broke. The prince, the warrior, the son each identity splintered and fell away. He laid his head on his mother's still chest, where no heartbeat echoed his own, and finally, the dam broke. He wept. It was not a quiet cry, but a raw, guttural howl of agony that rose from the depths of his soul. It echoed through the silent palace, a sound so purely desolate it seemed as if the fortress of Tejgarh itself was weeping through him.
Outside, as if in answer, the sky finally broke. The ominous clouds that had gathered unleashed a soft, weeping rain. It pattered against the stained courtyard stones, trying to wash away the blood and grime. But for Agni, no rain would ever be enough. His tears had burned away in the internal fire, and now only the ash of grief remained.
He did not know how long he knelt there. Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving behind a cold, hollow certainty. Gently, he stood up. He looked once more at his mother, touched her forehead in a final, loving salute, and turned away.
He walked slowly to the palace balcony that overlooked the main square. Below, the people of Tejgarh had gathered—a sea of anxious, pale faces turned upwards. They had heard the bell. They saw their prince, alone, his armour broken, his face a mask of stark tragedy. In their eyes, he saw fear, confusion, and unasked questions about their vanished king and weeping queen.
Agni looked over them, and he understood. He was no longer just a prince who had lost his parents. He was the unwitting architect of their doom. He was a regicide, a patricide, a man cursed by fate and his own best friend. The throne that awaited him was not a seat of power, but a pyre of responsibility and penance.
He lifted his gaze from the crowd to the weeping sky. The rain cooled his fevered skin. On his lips, a vow formed not shouted, but spoken with a quiet intensity that seemed to still the very air around him.
"I will hold Tejgarh," he promised the ghosts in the wind, his voice flat and firm. "I will protect it. Even if its foundation must be my own ashes."
But deep within, in the new, cold hollow where his heart used to be, he knew another truth. This journey of atonement would not be walked alone. Somewhere, in the rain-lashed towers of Neelgarh, Prince Neer was also drowning in a sea of loss, cradling the ghost of his own father, and hearing the echo of a curse born from his own lips.
The war of kingdoms had ended in mutual ruin. But a new, more intimate war had just begun a war within two souls, bound together for lifetimes not by friendship, but by a shared curse of fire, water, and endless, echoing sorrow.