𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

66⚚ Ending

Author POV:

Screams. Agony. Cries.

Only these sounds tore through the charred skeleton of the Northern Kingdom; a symphony of raw terror echoing off burning stone and splintered marble. The air reeked of fear thick enough to choke on. 

It was the terror that crawls under your skin and eats your sanity from the inside out. People hiding under ruined pillars whimpered prayers that would never be answered. 

Those who dared peek outside saw shadows dragging bodies across courtyards that once gleamed with royal pride, now slick with blood and ash. 

Every flicker of flame cast monstrous shapes on crumbling walls — and every shape whispered He's here. He's coming.

And he did.

Viraj stepped through the shattered gates of the main hall with his hands tucked in his pockets — calm, casual, lethal. His eyes were pits of pitch darkness, edges rimmed with red veins like a serpent's. 

He didn't just walk — he devoured the space before him, each step carrying the silence of a storm seconds before it cracks the world in half. 

Shadows clung to him like loyal dogs, the smoke and flame outside bending away as if too afraid to touch him. Every line of his body screamed a promise of carnage yet to come, an aura so suffocating that even the scorched air seemed to freeze wherever he passed.

He is Ravan — not just a man tonight, but the breathing shape of a kingdom's worst nightmare come alive. His presence bled dread into the marble that dared remain unbroken. 

The chandeliers above trembled slightly with each vibration of his boots hitting the hall's blackened floors. His shoulders were loose but his jaw locked like iron — the predator so sure of its kill that it could afford to stalk slowly.

Bhageera walked three steps behind him — head low, steps measured, forcing his breath to steady when every nerve in his body begged him to drop to his knees. 

It didn't matter how many times Bagheera had stood beside Viraj through wars, hunts, executions — this version of his king was not flesh and bone but a living curse, a god of vengeance draped in mortal skin.

With each step closer to the throne dais, Bagheera's voice trembled ever so slightly as he reported, "All the soldiers are dead, King. The women and children are safely escorted back to Rajvanshi... For tonight's gathering — as expected — the Pawars and Yadavs joined them. Agnihothris and Kashyaps stayed back. We... captured all the kings... and the three Oberoi brothers."

Viraj did not even tilt his head — he did not need to. A single slow nod was enough. 

He kept walking... boots echoing like war drums in the hush that suffocated the grand hall. Every column seemed to bow inward, shadows recoiling as if they too feared to breathe near him.

Behind him, Bagheera's spine locked tight, goosebumps crawling up the nape of his neck. He clenched his hands behind him, nails digging crescents into his palms just to anchor himself to the moment — because he knew, he knew, the man in front of him was no longer the king who spared him his life, who trained him like a brother, who trusted him more than anyone.

Tonight, Bhageera walked behind Ravan — the monster that kingdoms whisper about when the wind howls at midnight. And as the double doors of the grand hall creaked open under Viraj's approach, even the darkness inside seemed to cower, folding into corners to escape the wrath that had finally come home to collect its due.

Bhageera immediately dragged the battered crown chair from the dais, placing it right where Viraj stood. The iron frame was slick with old blood — a cruel throne befitting the man who now lowered himself into it like a god returned to claim what was stolen.