"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 healing chambers of Dwarka were drenched in twilight, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and something darker-something old.
Ishani lay motionless on the bed, her skin pallid, her breath shallow. The poison-crafted from the venom of dark magic-had sunk its claws deep.
Karna knelt at her side, his forehead pressed to her limp hand, his shoulders trembling. A low, guttural sound escaped him, a sound of utter despair that grated on Ishani's fading consciousness. One moment, he was a sharply defined man, all harsh angles and brooding power. The next, he seemed to shimmer, the edges of his being dissolving into shadow.
Then, with a reverence that bordered on blasphemy, Devajit placed his palms over Ishani's heart and pushed.
Black flames erupted from his hands, licking over her skin without burning, weaving through her veins like liquid night. Not fire, she realized, but its antithesis. The scent of herbs was overwhelmed by the stench of sulfur and something else... the raw, visceral scent of death. A chorus of screams echoed around her, not from the physical space, but from the depths of her mind.
No, she thought, panic clawing at her throat. This isn't real. This is... his doing.
Devajit's voice, when it came, was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in her very bones. "Live." It was not a command, but a statement of intent, a force of will so absolute it reshaped reality itself... or at least, her reality.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Ishani's eyes flew open, her irises black from edge to edge. She gasped, arching off the bed, every nerve ending screaming. But the pain of the poison was... receding. Being replaced by something else. An awareness. A connection.
Devajit smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. "Welcome back, Goddess."
She tried to speak, to demand answers, but her throat was raw. She pushed herself up, swaying, her gaze fixed on Devajit. The illusion, or vision, shimmered around her. She was no longer in the healing chamber, but in a twisted reflection of it. The bed was a black altar. The walls pulsed with dark energy. And Devajit... he was no longer merely a powerful healer. He was something else. Something ancient and terrible and... compelling.
"What... what have you done?" she croaked, her voice a bare whisper.
He took a step closer, his obsidian eyes burning into hers. "I have given you life. A gift you would have thrown away so easily."
"I didn't ask for this," she hissed, the familiar anger rising, pushing back the fear. "I didn't ask for you." She should have been grateful that he healed her.
She knew, intellectually, that she should be grateful. He saved me. Again. He always does.He would do anything for me, she thought, the realization both humbling and terrifying. He would sacrifice anything, endure any pain, just for her. . I should feel safe, she told herself. I should be grateful. But instead, it stirred a deep unease within her, a primal urge to flee. It implied an obligation, a repayment she wasn't sure she could ever give, or even wanted to give.
