Swarnchandrapura's air was thick with secrets, its streets silent as Abhilasha stood, heart pounding, in a place she couldn't name. Memory clawed at her—hands slick with blood, a white cocoon cradling an infant, its cloth stained crimson under moonlight, a haunting vision. Whose blood? The question choked her, fear twisting her gut. The child's cry, piercing through, echoed in her mind, its limbs crumbling to bone before her eyes—a skeletal specter, its hollow gaze weeping blood, bony fingers at her throat.
"Who's there?" she called, voice trembling, scanning the dark. Footsteps faded into silence, a presence lurking unseen, in forest of shadows. The cocoon stirred, a flicker of life easing her dread—It's alive—but the cry shattered hope, its pitch knifing her chest. Her breath caught, trapped at her throat's edge, as if time itself held her still. The skeleton advanced, its grip tightening, death's certainty closing in.
Something yanked her back—hands, strong and real, breaking the specter's hold. "Alokika? Alokika?" a voice called, urgent, but darkness swallowed her, consciousness slipping like Tapti's tides.
Morning light pierced the fog of her mind, from Swarnchandrapura's warmth a stark shift. Abhilasha woke, body aching, surrounded by faces—Mitrabhanu absent, but the butcher boy sat closest, his gaze steady. Others hovered, their eyes heavy with questions. "Is everything alright?" she asked, voice hoarse. "Where's Bhanu?"
"Did you see the infant?" the butcher boy asked, cutting through her haze.
"What infant—" she began, then stopped, the bloodied cocoon flashing, its weight as real as guilt. Exhaustion pinned her; her legs buckled when she tried to stand.
"Sit," he urged. "Meditate on your energies—you've been drained twice now."
"Drained?" she pressed, confusion mounting. "What happened?"
The maidens, once oblivious in bath house, now bowed low, eyes downcast, aware of her queenship—or her curse. Radha, Mitrabhanu's sister-in-law, stood silent, her tenderness gone, replaced by a guarded calm. Did she believe I killed a child? Abhilasha wondered, sensing a shift—no hatred, but doubt lingered.
"Tell me," she whispered to the butcher boy.
"The infant was here," he said, voice low. "Its cry—we heard it in the village, on the shore. I knew it was the dead child."
He paused, glancing at the others, their ears straining. "You're safe now," he continued, pointing to her chest. "Your breath's uneven—a distracted mind. Even it out."
"It pulled my hair," she said, voice small, catching his reluctance. Is he protecting me because of Tarish's destiny? Does he think I'm a murderer?
"It's an innocent energy, just furious," he said. "It needs a proper funeral."
"They gave it one?" she asked, desperate for closure.
His eyes flickered—knowledge withheld, like secrets. "They haven't buried it," he admitted. "It was here last night, its anger overpowering you, no matter your strength."
He turned to leave, then paused, cautious. "Breathe evenly. Uneven breath fuels illusions—spirits thrive on them. Don't fear what you see; it's not real."
Her mind reeled, guilt and horror colliding. Illusion? The blood felt real, the cry too raw. Downstairs, Swarnchandrapura's tavern hummed, simpler than a queen's life, but she craved Mitrabhanu's clarity, his humor absent. Denied a walk—You're not to go out, Radha insisted—she focused on her breath, uneven the moment her guard slipped.
Meditation called, a chance to face Alokika, whose voice had taunted since. Without her book, its insights lost, Abhilasha climbed to the tavern's terrace. Rabbits darted around a marble pool, a swing draped in creepers swaying gently. She sat, sun faint behind clouds, and closed her eyes, drawing breath to her heart, where Alokika's echo lingered.
"You'll die if you don't claim your power," Alokika's voice snapped, sharp as mirror.
"What power?" Abhilasha asked.
"Queen's power."
"What queen is exiled, framed in her own land?"
"Even the ordinary face trials," Alokika countered. "Stop whining—your energy's drained. Don't waste it on useless questions."
"I have questions," Abhilasha pleaded. "Is that my fault?"
Silence answered, the voice faltering. She strained, heart racing, but focus slipped—random images flooded he, Tarish's king sneering, her hands bloodied. I didn't choose this destiny, she thought, rage flaring. The king feared her heir, yet Mitrabhanu, rightful ruler, spurned the throne for poetry.
Thrones corrupt, he'd said, honoring heroes who fought for freedom, not power.
"What are you doing?" a voice broke through—Mitrabhanu's, real, on the swing, a rabbit in hand, seven others scampering.
She opened her eyes, relief flooding. "Were you there last night?"
He hesitated, stroking the rabbit. "There were eight rabbits yesterday."
She counted—seven. Dread sank in. "Did I… take another life?"
Silence stretched, his eyes soft, denying her guilt as he had months ago, after the infant's death. He sat beside her, rabbits fleeing her gaze, their fear mirroring the mob's in Chapter 6. "Listen," he said, voice steady. "You could've harmed the maiden who came to help. You dragged her here."
"Harmed?" Horror gripped her. I felt my hair pulled.
"Whoever it is, it craves virgin blood—infants, creatures," he said. "I searched the library, spoke to locals. Your signs point to a Dayaan, a witch draining human energy. Keep your breath even, always—it's your shield."
Tears fell, her voice breaking. "Did I kill that infant?"
He knelt, insistent. "You're human, caught by a witch. The blood wasn't your fault."
But the blood on her hands, shining under moonlight, felt like truth—a husband's shadow, accusing her still.