From afar came the thunder of parai drums—deep, pulsating, relentless. Their rhythm rolled across the land like a war heartbeat that refused to fade. Women moved through the celebration carrying pots of liquor, pouring them freely for the warriors who had returned soaked in triumph and blood alike. Some women offered more than drink—offering laughter, bodies, and fleeting warmth to men who believed victory entitled them to everything that breathed.
It was a celebration of conquest.
A celebration of the King Sengol Warrior's victory.
Gold harvested from the conquered lands, and women taken as slaves from that very soil, were paraded as trophies. The land itself was not vast—only a small region—but even that fragment stirred an unquenchable hunger in Sengol Warrior's heart. To him, size meant nothing. Ownership meant everything.
Wealth, gold, water, land—he desired them all. To claim them, to brand them as his.
Though he had taken many wives, he seated only one woman beside him on the throne. Not for love, but for lineage. For the continuation of his rule. For the future of his kingdom.
She bore him two sons.
While carrying the last child, the queen died.
With an heir secured, the king never raised another woman to the throne again. His duty, as he saw it, was complete.
His firstborn son was Nayagan.
The favored one.
The child of pride.
He was fierce—taming mad elephants in open markets, wrestling their rage into submission with bare will and bone. A master of control, a beast commanding beasts. He was his father's mirror, carved sharper, stronger.
The next king.
That truth was unquestioned.
And then there was the second son.
I am Kumaran.
This celebration brought joy to them all.
But not to me.
The revelry clawed at my senses, leaving only revulsion behind. The laughter curdled. The music scraped. I stood on the palace balcony, my face twisting in disgust, and turned away from the sight below.
At my feet, wings fluttered.
Paravani—my companion—leapt from the balcony rail and landed beside me, walking as though he shared my burden. He was a peacock, radiant and proud, yet to me he was more than that.
My friend.
My brother.
Closer to my heart than Nayagan ever was.
I placed a golden plate before him, filling it with millet grain, and watched him eat. Then I turned toward the golden mirror standing in my chamber.
I looked at myself.
And the reflection stared back with sorrow etched deep into its bones.
Guilt clung to my face like ash after a fire. My eyes trembled, wet and distant, unable to hide the storm within. I closed them.
Then—
A voice.
I opened my eyes.
A woman stood before me.
She was draped in a yellow sari, wrapped in such haste that it barely covered her. One breast lay exposed, the cloth clinging desperately to her chest as if ashamed of its own failure. It was not desire that struck me—but horror.
A society that would die for honor had stripped this woman of hers.
Her vermilion mark had smeared down her forehead, mingling with sweat and blood. She collapsed before me, falling to her knees, lifting the sacred thread around her neck—the mangalsutra—and held it out as proof of her life, her marriage, her truth.
"My lord…" she sobbed. "Spare my husband. I swear upon the sun and the moon. I beg you…"
Her cries pierced my ears.
Yet my body did not move.
Flames burned behind my eyes. Her wailing filled the air, joined by screams—too many, too loud, too late. I stood frozen, drowning in noise.
Then—
Blood sprayed across my face.
Something rolled across the stone floor.
A head.
Her husband's head.
It stopped near my feet.
Blood soaked my legs.
The woman screamed—a sound torn from the depths of the soul.
She collapsed beside the severed head, clutching it, rocking, howling, cursing the heavens. Her grief transformed into something darker.
A curse.
"You will all be destroyed," she screamed. "This is the beginning of your end."
She grabbed handfuls of dirt and flung them at me.
At us.
Soldiers rushed toward me. "Prince, you should not stay here," one said, trying to pull me away.
Behind me, other soldiers reached for her—tearing at her sari.
She seized a fallen knife.
And before anyone could stop her—
She slit her own throat.
She convulsed before my eyes, blood spilling onto the ground, her life extinguishing itself in agony and defiance.
That image shattered me.
Because it was not the only one.
After the victory, after Kumaran returned from battle with his father, the soldiers did not stop. They ravaged villages. Innocent people were slaughtered. Women were enslaved. Entire settlements were drowned in blood.
Homes burned.
Livestock stolen.
Men were turned into fuel for fires.
Women and children were chained.
And the truth crushed me—
My father was responsible.
My blood brother was responsible.
And so was I.
I opened my eyes.
"Ah—!"
The sound tore from my chest.
I struck the mirror with my fist.
Glass exploded.
Cracks spider-webbed across its surface, and shards bit into my hands. Blood dripped to the floor, pooling beneath me.
The sound startled Paravani. He flew back to the balcony rail, feathers trembling. One plume broke free in the chaos, drifting slowly through the air.
It landed in my hand.
I stared at Paravani.
Tears streamed down my face.
"I should not have done it," I whispered. "Forgive me. I didn't choose this. Please forgive me."
My knees gave way. I collapsed to the floor, bowing my head, sobbing as though my chest would tear apart.
No one heard me.
Not the soldiers below.
Not the warriors drunk on victory.
Not Nayagan.
Not my father—the man who brought me into this world.
Their ears were deafened by triumph soaked in innocent blood.
But Paravani heard me.
He jumped down from the balcony and came to my side. He sat beside me and let out a soft, comforting call, as though speaking in a language older than words.
I stroked his back with my blood-soaked hand.
My tears washed over my wounds.
Over his feather.
We turned together toward the balcony.
Below us, smoke from burning villages rose into the night sky, dissolving among the stars like black prayers unanswered. The laughter of men and the moans of women echoed upward.
But my chamber—
Was silent.
Inside me, something screamed.
"I should have saved her," I thought.
"Should I continue sharing their sins?"
"How do they rejoice in this?"
The questions clawed at my mind.
That night, I made a vow.
I would never go to war again.
What use was mastering the sword and spear, if I could not save even one life?
While others collapsed into drunken sleep, wrapped in pleasure and exhaustion, the night fell into uneasy silence.
Kumaran did not sleep.
Not truly.
Guilt dragged him into restless slumber.
Paravani spread one wing over me, covering my body like a living blanket, shielding me from the cold. Wrapped in that fragile warmth, I finally drifted into sleep.
Briefly.
Because this forgetting—
Was not permanent.
It never would be.