𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

Epilogue 02

Previously>>>

"They kidnapped the only reason I didn't burn this world long ago."

He paused at the doorway, eyes glowing with promise.

"I'm going to bring her back," he said softly. "And when I do..."

His smile turned feral.

"The world will remember why monsters kneel when I walk."

Behind him, thunder rolled.

Ravan had returned.

Author POV:

Viraj stood inside his private cabin, hands clasped behind his back, facing the massive arched window that overlooked the entire Kshatriya kingdom.

Stone towers glowed beneath the afternoon sun. Markets hummed. Soldiers trained. Children ran across courtyards.

Every road, every banner, every spire—
built because she once smiled at the idea of a kingdom that felt safe.

This empire wasn't forged for conquest.

It was forged because Amaira had looked at empty land years ago and whispered, Wouldn't it be beautiful if people could live peacefully here in our kingdom hubby?

So he carved a kingdom out of fire and blood.

For her.

For the way she laughed when she fed stray birds on palace balconies.
For the softness in her eyes when she spoke to wounded shadows.
For the way she touched his scars like they were stories, not wounds.

Viraj Ranawath Kshatriya,
the man entire continents feared,
had build this kingdom simply because one woman wished for it.

She was not his weakness.

She was his religion.

His restraint.

The leash on a monster that had never learned mercy—until her.

And now...

Someone had touched her.

His fingers tightened slowly.

Cracks spider-webbed across the marble railing beneath his palms.

For now, he was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kingdom felt it.

Even children in alleyways had stopped playing. Merchants whispered. Guards gripped spears tighter.

Everyone knew this silence.

It was the breath before annihilation.

They had taken the angel queen.

The woman every soul in Kshatriya adored.

The one who bowed to beggars and kissed injured foreheads and made hardened warriors soften at the sound of her voice.

They had taken his moon.

Behind him, the doors closed.

Gaurav.
Ash.
Agastya.
Rayan.

They stood around the central table strewn with maps, intercepted letters, border logs, torn cloth fibers, blood-stained fragments recovered from the ambush site.

"We traced the carriage tracks," Gaurav said quietly. "They split near the northern ravine. Deliberate misdirection."

Ash tapped a dagger against parchment. "Smoke bombs—foreign make. Not local smugglers."