Arshia laid down the bamboo pen and gazed at the rebel. "What happened to your sister is deplorable, but your actions that followed are unjustifiable."
The rebel regarded her with a void stare and a wistful smile. "What is the justifiable thing to do when the law dictates them free of any consequence?"
Noticing her lips unmoved, he continued, "Chronicler, let me ask you a question. What crime did my sister commit? Hmmm, what warrants her to be treated lesser than any woman?" Indra asked.
"Your ancestral-"
"Ancestral crimes, eh? Your grandfather was killed for treason, and your father murdered a ma-"
"Enough!" Arshia pushed her chair back from the table and came to her feet. "I do not stand for the slander against my family."
He, despite her warning, continued, "Your father murdered a man who dared to question him for taking away his sister's virtue with a promise of marriage. If one judges another by what their predecessors did, you should be in muck along with us."
The words weren't for deaf ears, so there were, of course, consequences: a sword was drawn, and a cut was dealt.
A red drop, a evening tear at the bottom of the eye trickled over indra's earthen flesh—a painting of blood soaked earth. A sight that held creation's history of violence.
The rebel's long finger traced the line of the teardrop and smeared it over his lips.
"Spilled blood and a given word cannot be taken, my lady," he uttered icily and followed it with a red smile that looked too ominous over his handsome face.
Peering at him, a weight of stone settled in Arshia's core. Her gaze traveled to the shackles, but their existential assurance did not alleviate the growing fear. The grip on her sword tightened as instinctual dread warred with sensibility.
"Perhaps you could use a break," he added warmly, an attempt at melting the tension that had settled in.
Arshia sheathed her sword and faced the wall, jaw tightened and heart racing. It took a moment for her ire and unease to dissipate.
"Have you eaten something?" she asked.
"Other than your scolding and cuts?" he said, leaning against the wall and assuming a thoughtful disposition. "No."
She let out a weary sigh. "I will ask the servants to bring something for you,"
Arshia set the chair right and picked up the fallen stationary before stepping out.
A few seconds later, once again, the prison lay in silence. The silence. He hated it. He wanted for its departure.
He drummed his fingers on the floor and attempted to mitigate its influence with a song.
He reached into the depths of his heart to haul the transparent feelings to an anomalous songtext only he could understand.
But he couldn't do it, no matter how much he tried—he couldn't spin the unseen nectar.
He buried his face in his hands and wept quietly. There was no one to look at him. No one to see his struggle to tame his shuddering shape. Yet he strived to compose himself like iron resisting the battering of a hammer.
*****
The wedding at the Ashvakarna family's haveli had an air of festivity. If a bird with the mind of a man were to observe, it would perceive the haveli as a sandy isle in a jade seascape. People reached this isle via a long gravel path that glittered with patricians, moving like a shattered rainbow—inharmonious fragments strutting like peacocks.
Meera rode a horse, her dark hair braided and unadorned. Her frame was clad in hazel silk, embellished with golden zari and acrylic stones. If one could ignore the kindled cigar between her lips and the six rifle-wielding marksmen trailing behind, she fit in with the prancing peacocks.
The men who guarded the gates, swathed in long red tunic with crossed sword emblem halted them, and before they could even blink, the guns in their hands turned heavy, allowing Meera's men to unload their rifles devoid of runic bullets.
Hearing the gunshots, the spooked peacocks scattered in many directions. Smarter ones dived into the green sea, while duller ones ran into the haveli, causing a stampede.
In panic, four guards who guarded the balconies, missed their mark and managed to mutilate the blue bloods with poison vines and fire that shared its warmth and touch with those near.
Meera's compatriots discharged their firearms with unwavering precision. Three guards suffered precise headshots, while the fourth, in an attempt to avert his demise, tried to shift position but tripped on the red pool of his dead comrade and fell over the balustrade. He tumbled into the fountain below, bestowing upon its waters a rich crimson, reminiscent of the most exquisite wines.
His killers trotted into the courtyard and a young woman who fancied herself a heroine whipped out her pistol. Meera commanded the column with a mantra and poured her shakti into it.
A stone spike jutted out of that column and pierced the woman's right side of the neck, loosening her grip on the pistol. A marble hand jutted out of the ground and caught it.
Meera picked it up and twirled it around her finger, before turning to her follower.
"Are the beacons tampered with?"
"They are my lady. This will buy us an hour," answered an ochre-hued man with a chest like a barrel.
She nodded and devoted her attention to to the door. She commanded the door's wood to shrink, causing the metal to clatter on the ground. This exposed the trepidatious patricians who quaked about like cornered mice.
The two guards that stood in the front had their heads blown by the riffle bullets, ending any resistance to the mantravid and her huntsmen.
Meera gave all a charming smile and trotted nearer to the stage. She got off the horse, stepped onto the wooden stairs, tossed the cigar on an unfortunate safron swathed priest before addressing the crowd.
"Sahebs and Sahebas, we are tonight's entertainment. You may call me Meera."
She turned the wood of the stage into a guillotine for the bride who held relief in her daystar-cooked honey visage.
"I will present to you a spectacle you never forget!"
She elegantly stepped down from the stage and levelled her pistol at the bride. "Look at me, my love, I want you to look at me as I take your life,"
When their eyes met, Meera's voice rose,
"On behalf of my friend, Indrasena Taraka—traitor of the Triloka Empire, lightbringer to the hopeless, Hammer to the thousand shackles, he who was called the dawnsinger of seven heavens," Meera declared solemnly. "I sentence you to die for betraying the one to whom you swore eternal loyalty."
She continued, her voice unwavering, "And I, who have passed this sentence, shall bear the burden of the executioner."
"I have been waiting for you, my love. Have you come to take my life away?" asked the bride with a wry smile.
Her gaze raked Meera's heart; her sweet voice felt acidic, potent enough to gnaw at iron and steel.
"I am, my love, I am!"
Meera pulled the trigger. A sharp crack, reverberated through the hall, sending chills down the patrician spines.
The white rose vine that grew from the gaping hole in the bride's face held blossoms red as a aged fruit. Meera picked one up and decorated her braid.
"Farewell, my beloved," she whispered, meant for only her ears to hear.
The sound of the gun and the sight of spilled blood untied the bindings that held the screams at bay.
To end that panic, Meera fired the gun at the roof to mend the seams and trap the discord in. It worked. Men, women, children—shining with mana jewels and dyed silks—stood frozen in place, tear-stricken and blood-chilled.
With that matter closed, Meera turned to address the musicians. "Do you, people, know the tunes of the obscure music called Songstress and Slave? My paramour loved it most ardently."
They gave a trembling nod and began to play in a moment.
Meera faced the crowd and announced, "Please maintain silence for two minutes in honor of my beloved, the bride."
Her finger touched her lips, letting out a shushing sound that rang through them, threatening to break them into pieces if they dared to make a sound
Meera's quivering lips and shining eyes bore the weight of actions taken—deeds that were necessary, for her friend's importance outweighed all else, even her own being.
"Indra, my dearest friend, I will burn the world for you." she had once told him, fully intending on keeping that promise.
