The cold bit deeper with every step, but I couldn't stop—not when Suhashini's fever burned hotter than the dawn breaking over Gharial. My legs trembled, screaming for rest, yet I pushed on, tethered to the others by a shared, unspoken vow: we would survive this. The sun clawed its way above the horizon, casting fractured light on a town scarred by war—a graveyard of brick and mud, where blood stained the snow like spilled wine.
Gharial was a ghost of itself. The war had ended weeks ago, the old king dethroned, his lands annexed by a new ruler. For those in high towers, it was a footnote, a shift in power. But here, among the ruins, survival was a daily rebellion against hunger, cold, and despair. Shattered homes gaped like open wounds, their roofs torn away, walls crumbling. The snow crunched underfoot, and with each sound, hollow eyes turned toward us—survivors, barely clinging to life, their gazes flickering with hope and fear before sinking back into resignation.
Vultures watched from skeletal trees and broken rooftops, their hunger a mirror to the town's. Carcasses—human, animal—lay untouched, too heavy for the weary to move. Death was patient here, waiting for the cold to claim what starvation hadn't.
I stole a glance at my companions: Indrveer, my husband and king, his jaw set as he carried his sister Suhashini; Mitrabhanu, my loyal bodyguard, scanning the ruins with quiet resolve; and the butcher boy, whose steady presence both comforted and tormented me. They weren't as shaken as I was—perhaps they'd braced for this desolation—but their silence spoke of grief. "No life left," Mitrabhanu muttered, peering into a pair of twin huts, their doors hanging like broken promises.
He nudged one open, and bats erupted in a screeching flurry. I flinched, heart lurching, but Suhashini—already unsteady—crumpled to the snow. Her collapse yanked us to her side, a knot of guilt tightening in my chest. We'd walked all night, driven by fear of pursuit, with no thought to stop. The snake poison had been drawn from her body, but its shadow lingered. Her skin burned under my touch, fever raging, her breaths shallow and ragged. We'd seen it hours ago, her flushed face and faltering steps, but hadn't spoken the truth: we'd pushed her too far.
"She needs rest," I said, my voice cracking as I looked to Indrveer. "Now."
He nodded, his eyes meeting mine—not with the warmth of a husband, but the resolve of a king. "We'll find shelter."
Suhashini stirred faintly, her guilt heavier than her fever. She'd insisted on coming, knowing her husband's cunning would find her if she stayed. Indrveer, her brother, was her shield, though their bond felt fragile, forged in the belief they were the last of their bloodline. I wondered if they'd ever learn to lean on each other, or if the weight of their past would keep them strangers.
My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the butcher boy. I caught Suhashini watching him sometimes, her gaze soft with curiosity, as if she saw something familiar in his quiet strength. Did she feel it too—the pull I fought daily? I was Alokika, queen of a fractured land, bound by duty to a man I barely knew. To love another was betrayal, yet my heart didn't care. The butcher boy's kindness, his steady hands checking Suhashini's pulse, haunted me. I'd tried to bury it, to banish him from my thoughts, but fate mocked me, weaving him deeper into my life. Was I a queen, or just a woman trapped in a crown's cage, yearning for a choice I'd never been given?
"We can't stay here," Mitrabhanu said, breaking my reverie. He gestured to the huts. "Wild dogs have claimed them."
A low grunt sounded, and a gaunt dog slunk from the shadows, eyes glinting with defiance. Mitrabhanu's hand rested on his sword, but his voice was calm. "Looking for a fight? We're no threat—find your own kind."
The dog held its ground, growling softly. I stepped closer, heart pounding. "It's just hungry," I said. "Don't make it worse."
He glanced at me, a faint smile softening his weathered face. Mitrabhanu, once a prince, now my protector, had lost his kingdom but not his heart. "Not unless it forces my hand," he said.
The butcher boy knelt beside Suhashini, oblivious to the dog. "Her breathing's too fast," he said, pressing a hand to her sweat-soaked cloak. "The herbs were too strong—her body's fighting them." He sniffed the fabric, grimacing. "This is poisoning her again. She needs new clothes, dry ones, now."
Indrveer scooped her up, careful not to jostle her, and I brushed snow from her hair—until the butcher boy grabbed my wrist. "Don't touch it, Your Highness," he warned, his touch electric, gone too soon. I pulled back, cheeks burning, caught between shame and longing.
We moved deeper into Gharial, Mitrabhanu scouting ahead, checking houses that stood like hollowed skulls—doors dangling, walls collapsed. I walked with him, grateful for his steady presence. He'd guarded me since girlhood, since his own royal lineage crumbled. His half-brother fought beside us, both dreaming of a reclaimed throne, but Mitrabhanu's loyalty was simpler: he stayed for me, for the king, for a cause bigger than revenge.
"Why bring her here?" he asked, more musing than questioning. He rarely expected answers—just needed to speak.
I smiled faintly. "What about that dog?"
He chuckled. "Think he likes me. Grunted like he was grateful when I freed his door from the rubble. Now he can hunt for his pack."
"You're softer than you let on," I teased.
"Wild dogs are loyal," he said. "Like sheep, they'll follow you to the end."
"Even in my world?"
He grinned. "Some truths don't change."
Our eyes drifted to the others, who'd stopped at a crossroads. A massive tree loomed there, its bare branches clawing the sky, unnatural in its size. "A wishing tree," Mitrabhanu murmured. "They say it grants desires, but winter's stripped it bare."
I nodded, a shiver running through me—not from cold, but something deeper, like the tree held secrets we weren't ready for. Beyond it, a marketplace lay silent, its stalls abandoned. Shadows moved in the distance—a line of figures, slow and deliberate. "Soldiers?" Mitrabhanu whispered, exchanging a glance with Chandramukha, who'd joined us.
Before we could answer, a door creaked open. A man stood in the frame, his frown masking fear that eased as he saw us. His eyes lingered on Suhashini, limp in Indrveer's arms. "What do you want?"
"A place to stay," Indrveer said, voice firm but strained. "She's sick—needs warmth, food, rest."
The man scoffed. "What, you think your father owns this town? No one told me to roll out a banquet."
His tone grated, his smirk worse. Behind him, his wife hovered, curiosity outweighing caution. She stepped forward, nudging him aside. "It's dawn," she said sharply. "Guests bring luck—don't curse us further." To us, softer: "What's wrong with her? Your sister?"
"Yes," Indrveer said. "Fever's got her. Just a day, a warm room. I'll pay."
The man's eyes gleamed. "How much?"
The butcher boy cut in, hand on his sword, voice like steel. "Room first, talk later. She's dying while you barter."
The wife led us inside, and I hurried after, Suhashini's breaths now shallow gasps. Indrveer laid her on a cot, and I moved to shut the window, sealing out the cold. My husband's gaze met mine—gratitude, not love, but enough. We were strangers bound by duty, yet in moments like this, we were allies, king and queen fighting for one life among many.
As I knelt beside Suhashini, the weight of Gharial's ruins pressed on me. Tradition demanded I play my part—queen, wife, savior—but what if tradition was the cage? What if love, forbidden or not, was the only truth worth chasing? Outside, the wishing tree stood silent, and I wondered if it could grant me that answer—or if I'd have to find it myself.