The Bhujraj Palace mirror was a jealous one—too quick to catch every blemish, but it couldn't dull the vision reflected in its glass.
Rasmika Bhujraj sat in front of it, wrapped in a saree of midnight blue silk, silver peacock feathers embroidered around the borders. The cloth hugged her curves, a brush against her skin, cascading in folds from her waist to the marble floor. No maiden's delicacy tempered her beauty. Hers was the beauty of ripened sensuality, of a woman who had led armies, shattered hearts, and eaten with kings without ever once lowering her eyes.
A thin bindi, wine-red as spilled wine, graced her brow. Her inky tresses were braided into an intricate plait, threaded with sapphires that glimmered like fallen stars in the lamplight.
She painted on the kohl slowly, with the delicacy of a surgeon.
"Do you like it, Shadow?" she asked, not glancing in his direction.
From the shroud of shadow at the hewn pillars, a voice replied. Low, as gravel laid over silk. "Bhujraj's moon always glows brightest when blood obscures the sky."
Rasmika's lips smiled—perilous, decadent.
"Tell me," she stood, the saree rippling like night fluid, "how deep have the Mithras sunk their decay beneath my table?
The Shadow, in black silks that defied man from shadow, advanced. He bowed low. "Deep, my lady. The Paatal Rasoi teems with more than rumors. Their 'experiments' are no longer hearsay. We took a slaver—half-mad—talking of spirits bound in glass, warped into weapons."
Rasmika's fist clenched, silver bangles clicking softly.
"And Chirag Mithra smiles, sitting beneath my roof, spinning webs of deceit like garlands."
The mole inside our walls provided them with passage, my lady. One with close acquaintance of the lower wards."
"One who thought himself invisible under my nose." She spun, her voice a blade with velvet casing. "Names, Shadow. Names."
The Shadow hesitated. "Not yet. The web is extensive, the threads complex. But this night, we can rip it asunder.
Rasmika's smile went cold and razor-sharp. "Good. Tonight, we shame Chirag Mithra in his victory. Let his pride fall before his tumble."
She grasped a dagger—short, curved, its ruby-encrusted hilt glinting in the faint light.
"Call my Seekers. Stealthily. The Diamond Table will feast, and Bhujraj will eat betrayal."
The Shadow bowed again, disappearing into darkness.
Alone, Rasmika belted the dagger around her waist, the chill kiss of metal anchoring her seething fury. Before the glass, she saw her own reflection once more—not the domineering noblewoman, but the tempest brewing in her eyes.
"I constructed this empire upon loyalty," she whispered, "and I will destroy it upon the same."
The banquet loomed.
Somewhere else, under the shining halls of the Diamond Table, Chirag Mithra sat in his own salon, cloaked in finery that advertised silent power. His robes, garnet colored dark as drying blood, seemed to shimmer with each motion. He fussed with a golden cuff, the lion's head motif a quiet hint at his desires.
On the low table in front of him, mantra plates shone with vicious beauty.
Perfect tools," he muttered to himself, though nobody heard. "Tonight, Ashwan will witness advancement."
He stood up, walking round and round, fingers tracing the intricate wall mural—a distant war, Bhujraj's forebears defeating inferior enemies. Ironic, how the powerful so willingly become blind.
He stopped in front of the mantra plates, their swirls of red script glowing softly. These were not incantations. Due to the slim man's horrific experiments, these plates could now bind bound spirits—shapeless but deadly. Weapons that gnawed through walls, dissolved through armor, strangulated breath itself.
"They are afraid of death because they cannot command it," Chirag pondered. "But we—oh, we will use it like a sword."
A knock snapped him out of his daze.
"Enter," he ordered.
A lean attendant slipped in, bowing low. "Sir, the last preparations have been made. The gallery corridors are barricaded as you desired. The—" he paused, selecting his words, "—the 'assets' are deployed unobtrusively."
"Good." Chirag's smile was reptilian and slow. "And Shaurya Jaydev?"
The attendant's lips compressed. "Slum gossip grows louder. He is agitated. But… predictable. He will come to the Paatal Rasoi."
Chirag's fingers stroked the rim of a mantra plate. "Let him. Tonight, the hunter is quarry."
He leaned forward, his voice intimate as to a lover. "When he enters my snare, these plates will release their choir. Bound spirits—silent, swift, obedient. His strength is raw. My strength is refined."
But what Chirag did not know—what gnawed invisible at the border of his control—was the woman above, shrouded in midnight, whose patience had unraveled to a single thread.
Rasmika Bhujraj knew.
And her game was older than his ambition.
As Chirag put on his final ring, an elaborate piece forged in the form of a serpent consuming its own tail, he looked at his reflection. Confidence, heartless and all-consuming.
"Tonight, Bhujraj comes into line. And Shaurya Jaydev falls to his knees."
He walked into the corridor, each step measured, calculated.
The banquet would be resplendent.
The Diamond Table had never sparkled more.
Silken banners flowed from vaulted ceilings, embroidered with the entwined sigils of Bhujraj and the Mithra clans. Crystal and gold chandeliers poured rivers of light, each reflection a shard of a dream—or an illusion.
The main hall thrummed with life.
Nobles draped in zari-brocade and rich jewels pranced like peacocks, laughter being thin veneer over the undertone of plotting. Silver trays glided between guests carried by liveried servants bearing delicacies to shame emperors: saffron-scented biryanis, venison cooked in almond paste, sweets gleaming with edible gold.
A nautch party danced to the haunting melody of sarangi and pakhawaj, their anklets ringing in harmony with the beat of the hall.
At the head of the hall, under an archway carved of ivory, Rasmika Bhujraj sat.
Her very presence was intoxicating. Words failed when her eyes swept past, her smile a promise of favor—or destruction.
Chirag Mithra stood by her side, basking in his perceived supremacy, toasting dignitaries with honeyed phrases.
But beneath the tinsel, the Diamond Table seethed.
Whispers darted like unseen moths.
"The Paatal Rasoi… they say it's beneath us."
"Experiments… spirit-binding. Unholy things."
"And Bhujraj stands for this?"
Over the mutters, Rasmika's laughter rang—a silver bell hiding a wolf's snarl.
Tonight, she would reply to those mumbles.
In the unclean darkness of the Diamond Table's underside, where servants did not go, a shadow shifted.
Shaurya Jaydev laid his palm on the chill stone and sensed the subtle vibration of mantra texts seeped into the walls. The web of the foe was complex—but webs burned.
Behind him, Udai and Mira Kesari trailed, their breathing slow.
"The one above the hall sings of excess," Udai breathed, adjusting the hold on his sword. "But down here, this silence—it's the pause before the leap."
Shaurya's mouth twisted into a hard smile. "Let them think they are safe."
The parched aqueducts led into a weedy tunnel, the walls smooth with ancient blood.
In front of them, the dimmest pulse of mantra light glowed—red and pulsing.
"They're waiting for us," Mira whispered.
"Let them." Shaurya's fingers relaxed, tendrils twisting gently around his wrist. "Tonight, the earth recalls every sin. And so do I."
As they advanced, the corridor engulfed them.
The Diamond Table above thundered with laughter and music.
But below its golden floors, war had already commenced.