Mrinalini's roar ripped through the night like a war drum struck by the gods themselves.
"Vritraketu!"
The name wasn't just a shout. It was a curse, a challenge, a vow.
The flames from the burning tents danced wildly, throwing long shadows over the battlefield. Smoke crawled through the air like a living thing, choking the soldiers, stinging their eyes, turning every breath into pain. Steel clashed. Men screamed. Horses shrieked and broke free, galloping madly through the camp with burning cloth stuck to their saddles.
And in the middle of it all, the queen collapsed beside her husband's body.
Her saree soaked up blood the way dry soil drinks rain. Her hands trembled as she gathered the severed head of the King of Kashi into her lap. Her fingers brushed his face, as if she could still wake him, as if she could still call him back by force of love alone.
"Maharaj…" her voice cracked like old wood splitting. "No… no… open your eyes… please…"
Her cry rose again, louder this time, raw enough to tear the sky.
The soldiers nearby faltered when they heard it. Even men who had seen battle their entire lives paused for a heartbeat, because there are some sounds that pierce straight through armor and courage.
Above them, Vritraketu floated in the air like a dark omen.
Black tendrils coiled around him, thick and shifting, like smoke that had learned how to hunt. The firelight reflected off his eyes, making them gleam like a predator watching trapped prey. He didn't look like a warrior enjoying victory.
He looked like someone enjoying cruelty.
He tilted his head, watching Mrinalini, who stood there in rage, and a slow smile stretched across his face.
"My dear fiancée," he called out, his voice cutting through the chaos like a sword dragged across stone.
Every soldier within hearing range stiffened. Even the rakshasas paused, grinning, waiting.
"This will be the day you never forget," he continued, his tone calm, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "Today, every soldier here will die. Your mother will die. And you…"
He let the pause hang, savoring it.
"You will lose your chastity. After I enjoy you until sunrise, I will take your voice. And your legs. You won't walk again. You won't scream again. You won't even crawl."
Mrinalini's arms trembled as her rage built up more and more.
Vritraketu smiled wider, enjoying triumph.
"And then," he went on, "the entire Kashi will hear a beautiful story, Mrinalini. But not what happened, but what I tell them. They will hear that your dear warrior Vasusena laid a trap for you, after charming you and using you to bring your father. They will hear that he slaughtered your soldiers, your parents. That he humiliated you.
His voice dripped with satisfaction.
"And I," he said, tapping his own chest as if he deserved applause, "I will arrive as your savior. The noble prince who fought Vasusena to the death. The heroic man who saved your life, although I was too late to protect your chastity in the process."
The soldiers of Kashi heard his words, and some shouted in fury, struggling against the shadow chains binding their limbs. Others looked at Mrinalini, their eyes filled with helpless rage, their mouths stuffed with fear they couldn't spit out.
Vritraketu leaned forward slightly, still floating, as if he were speaking directly into Mrinalini's ear.
"Naturally, the betrothal will be annulled," he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Kashi will be disgraced. Its princess who will be spoken of like a shameful tale told to frighten young girls. They will use it as an example of how befriending a stranger just because he saved you turn into a curse."
His gaze sharpened, and his grin turned crueler.
"By the way, it reminds me of the story of your ancestor," he said, voice rich with mockery. "How she was abducted by Mahamahim Bhishma even after she had chosen her husband. And how she was thrown away from Hastinapura. How she ran from king to king, screaming for justice, but no one dared stand with her. In the end, she went to Parashurama. But even Parashurama could not defeat Bhishma. So she killed herself."
He spread his arms like a performer finishing a dramatic story.
"Now tell me, Princess. Where will you go after this? Who will save you? Which king will fight for you when they couldn't even understand you? Which god will answer you?"
For a moment, the battlefield felt strangely quiet, as if even the fire was listening.
Mrinalini's trembling stopped at once, and she no longer screamed. For a moment, she went completely silent.
The trishula in her hand gleamed brighter, as if it sensed her fury and agreed with it.
"Today," Mrinalini then opened her mouth, her voice low and controlled, "Vitraketu… you have not only shown your asuric nature, but you have crossed every line that only death can answer for."
Vritraketu burst into laughter, loud and shameless. His laugh rose over the screams of dying soldiers, over the crackling flames, over the cries of widows.
"Keep acting brave," he said, wiping imaginary tears from his eye. "No one is coming to save you, Mrinalini."
Then his expression hardened.
He lifted one hand and made a sharp gesture.
The rakshasas surged forward.
They moved like a black flood spilling through the camp.
Their claws tore through armor as if it were cloth.
Their teeth sank into flesh, ripping men apart.
Spears snapped in their hands. Swords bounced off their thick skin. The Kashi soldiers fought like lions trapped in a pit, but there were too many monsters, too much darkness.
Some soldiers screamed for their mothers. Some screamed prayers. Some didn't scream at all, dying with their mouths open and their eyes wide.
Shadow chains tightened around the men who were trapped, dragging them down, forcing them to watch their comrades die.
Mrinalini's breath then turned sharp.
Her body moved before her mind could even finish thinking.
She leaped, and the trishula flashed through the firelit darkness as she aimed straight for Vritraketu's chest.
The prongs of the trident were inches away from piercing his heart when he vanished.
Mrinalini landed hard, her feet digging into the dirt. The trishula's tip sank into the ground, splitting the earth. She yanked it free instantly and spun around.
However, it was too late as Vritraketu had already appeared behind the queen.
The queen was still kneeling beside her husband, clutching his severed head like it was the last thing anchoring her to life. Her face was soaked in tears. Her hands were trembling, but she refused to let go.
Vritraketu then suddenly grabbed her from behind.
One arm locked around her throat. And the other pressed a dagger against the soft skin under her jaw.
The queen gasped, her whole body stiffening, but she did not scream. She did not beg. She did not thrash like a frightened animal.
Mrinalini froze at the sight, and she stopped.
Vritraketu's laugh returned, quieter now, more satisfied.
"Mrinalini," he said lazily, as if he was giving friendly advice while pressing the dagger harder, "you should really calm down."
As a thin line of blood appeared on the queen's throat, shining dark red in the firelight, he added, "Or your mother will die."
Mrinalini's eyes flared.
"You coward," she snarled. "You call yourself a maharathi? You're not even a man enough to fight a woman."
Vritraketu didn't get angry, but instead, he tilted his head and let out a smile. "What can I say, Dear?" he replied. "I am a kshatriya. We do not fight women in battle."
Mrinalini took one step forward as she lifted the trishula slightly. "You..."
Vritraketu's dagger then pressed deeper.
A fresh trickle of blood ran down the queen's neck.
Mrinalini stopped again.
Her jaw tightened. Her breath came fast, but she forced herself to keep her grip steady. The trishula trembled slightly, not because she was weak, but because her entire body was screaming to strike.
The queen's eyes then met her daughter's.
She spoke softly, but her voice carried clearly through the burning camp.
"Do not yield, my child."
Mrinalini's throat tightened. "Mother…" she whispered, and the word came out broken.