"She is destruction incarnate-everything she touches turns to ash."
Ishani, a sharp-witted and fiercely independent businesswoman from the modern world, trusts no one, least of all men. But fate has other plans. Thrust into a treacherous era of warr...
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The morning mist clung to the thatched roofs of the charioteer's quarter like a shroud, dampening the sounds of hurried footsteps and whispered curses. Krishna's arrival had shattered the fragile peace of Radha's home, leaving behind a tension so thick it could be carved with a blade.
Karna stood at the threshold, his bare feet pressing into the cool, dew-slick earth. The village, usually alive with the sounds of waking life—the rhythmic churning of butter, the distant bleating of goats—was eerily silent. Even the birds had stilled their songs, as if sensing the storm to come. Then—a twig snapped.
Krishna, stood at the threshold of their home, twisting his long flute absent mindedly. His voice was calm, almost conversational. "They've surrounded the house."
Ishani stepped forward, her fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger Karna had pressed into her hand moments earlier. The metal was cold against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his gaze when he had given it to her. "For protection," he had said, though his eyes had whispered, "For me."
From the mist emerged shadows—ten, perhaps twelve men, their faces obscured by cloth, their swords glinting dully in the pale light. Shakuni's hounds. Men who only knew killing.
"Stay down," he growled. Ishani simply stood her ground, lifting her chin up as a sign of defiance. "As much as I respect you Shreeman, I will not have you dictating me. I am not a weak little thing who cannot fight. I shall protect Radha Maa." Karna, already in duel, merely nodded. But a voice shifted inside him.
How can she not listen to me? I only want her safe. Why must she fight when I stand before her and the world?
Radha dropped to her knees beside the hearth, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Ishani took her back inside the room, trying to make her breath. She probably wasn't used to direct attacks that were too merciless. .
Krishna did not flinch. He merely sighed, as if disappointed by the predictability of it all. Then the shadows at the doorway shifted, and the first of Shakuni's men stepped through.
He was a hulking brute, his face obscured by a leather mask, his arms corded with muscle. Behind him, three more figures materialized from the mist, their swords already drawn.
"The woman comes with us," the leader rasped. "The rest of you can die quietly."
Karna's grip on his spear tightened. "Try."
In which angle did he seem like a slaughter pig?
The first attacker lunged. Karna moved like liquid fire, his spear a silver blur as it arced through the air. The man fell without a sound, his throat blossoming crimson.
Ishani had seen violence before—the kind that came in dark rooms and left bruises hidden beneath silk—but this was different. This was art. Karna fought with the precision of a man who had carved his place in the w0orld through sheer will, each motion deliberate, each strike fatal.
