Chapter 1: The Scent of Sandalwood and Blood

The scent of sandalwood and blood still lingers in the halls of Rajpur. I am its disgraced prince.

In my most glorious year, I trampled Amit—the man who is now Chief Steward—mocking him for being incapable of pleasure, treating him as less than nothing.

But after I lost everything, Amit toyed with me until I was utterly broken.

"Even if this servant lacks that, I have countless ways to please Your Highness."

"So what if I am a eunuch? There are plenty of amusements for someone like me."

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I lay limp as clay across Amit's lap.

A faint trace of sandalwood oil clung to his kurta, mixing with the sharper note of sweat and the coolness of marble beneath me. My eyes closed, but I could feel the steady rhythm of his breath, the weight of his presence. Somewhere outside, a koel called, its song drifting through the palace windows—reminding me of how far I had fallen.

A strand of my hair fell across my eyes; Amit brushed it away, almost tenderly, before his voice cut through the hush. He bent down to admire my empty expression, his slender fingers shining with a faint sheen as he wiped my waist with a soft cotton towel.

His hands were cold, gentle in a way that made my pride burn hotter. The click of his glass bangles echoed, each tap deliberate, unhurried. The peacock’s cry outside pierced the silence. I tried to lose myself in the intricate patterns of the rug, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

I had already cried, my limbs limp and spirit drained.

The taste of salt still burned at the corner of my lips, my throat raw from sobbing. I felt like the last leaf of the neem tree, clinging stubbornly through the monsoon winds—doomed to fall, yet unable to let go.

I never knew before, but even eunuchs have their ways.

Their torment surpasses anything an ordinary man could devise.

I, the prince of Rajpur, had allowed a servant to shame me in ways no royal should endure.

How hateful.

How utterly hateful.

I raised my hand and slapped Amit, letting the heavy gold ring on my finger do its work. The ring left a fine line of blood across his fair cheek.

As the sound echoed through the chamber, I felt the ring’s cold weight—Amma’s words flashed in my mind: 'A prince’s ring should never draw blood, beta. It’s for blessing, not punishment.' Yet now, both shame and pride churned inside me.

Amit sat up straight, pride flickering in his eyes. He didn’t even flinch, just held my gaze in defiance.

Grinding my teeth, I spat out, "Nikamma."

The word scraped my tongue, thick with humiliation. I could taste my own defeat, sharper than any wound.

Earlier, I had cursed and cried, but Amit’s eyes stayed dry, drinking in my misery.

He savoured my helplessness, my inability to escape, his gaze wild—pupils dilated, hungry for another tremor of fear. The monsoon wind rattled a shutter, agreeing with my disgrace.

I was pinned beneath him like a fish on the chopping board, cut again and again.

Amit didn’t argue. He brushed the blood away with his thumb, his voice flat. "It was this servant’s fault."

His tone, mock-humble as if reciting a Holi drama, made my chest ache. His eyes held mine—daring, unrepentant. In their depths, I saw a reflection of everything I had lost.

He was unsatisfied, ready to torment me again.

With his new power, why should he bow before me?

No matter how I raged, it was useless.

Just me, being foolish.

My hands shook. I remembered Amma’s proverb: 'Beta, don’t show your wounds to the ones who caused them.' But it was too late.

I lay exhausted on Amit’s lap, spinning the ring on my finger, and asked, "How is my mother?"

My voice was small in the vast room. I turned the prince’s ring—cold, heavy, a reminder of what I once was. I saw Amma in my mind: frail beneath heavy silk, her silver hair fanned across the pillow, the scent of incense and camphor filling the air. I remembered the way she would press a clove into my palm before every exam, saying it would keep away bad luck.

"Thanks to Your Highness, the Rajmata’s illness is much improved."

Amit’s answer was calm, final. I imagined him at her side, giving sharp orders to the royal doctors, their faces pale with fear. His words—'thanks to Your Highness'—twisted like a knife.

It should be.

She had been sick all winter.

If I hadn’t begged Amit, stripped myself bare, and let him have his way—

She might have died.

Chief Steward, Mahasahayak.

That wretched servant now holds the highest office, while I—once a true prince—am nothing but a beaten dog, living in fear.

After I failed in the battle for the throne, after the new Maharaja rose, I was no longer the Fourth Prince.

Even the royal doctors ignored my summons.

The new Maharaja refused to see me. Every path was closed.

So, on the day of the first winter rain, I went to beg the last person I wished to face.

The palace was cold, the marble floors biting through my thin slippers. As I entered Amit's quarters, palace staff watched from shadowed corners, faces blank. Shame burned in my veins, but I had no choice.

A brass brazier glowed in Amit’s room, drying the rain on my hair and brows. The warmth made my eyes sting.

He lounged on a divan, red kurta embroidered with gold, idly teasing a white Persian cat in his arms. "Your Highness knows—His Majesty wants the Rajmata dead. No one will help her."

Seeing him like that—serene, powerful, with the cat purring in his lap—twisted something inside me. The rain tapped the jharokha windows, as if the sky itself mourned with me.

Amit spoke the truth.

Otherwise, I’d never have come to beg him.

He alone could speak before the new Maharaja.

After all, Amit supported the new ruler against all odds.

I clenched my fists and bowed my head. "For the sake of old times, I beg you..."

The words tasted like bitter neem. My pride scattered at his feet, like broken bangles after Holi. My ears buzzed with shame.

"Old times?" Amit sneered, eyes cold. "Your Highness, is there really any sentiment left between us?"

His voice was sharp as a sword. The cat yawned, mocking my misery. I remembered us as boys, running these corridors, but that felt like a faded dream.

There used to be.

Not anymore.

During the battle for the throne, Amit sided with Arjun.

He hurt me, and I shamed him.

Whatever was once between us—now only hatred remained.

I stayed silent.

The silence pressed in, thick as the smell of rain.

"If you’re begging, Your Highness, at least look like it."

"If I save the Rajmata, what will you give me in return?"

In return for what?

I had nothing left.

"What do you want?"

Amit paused, set the cat aside, wiped his hands with a kerchief, and said, "Take it off."

The words hung in the air like the clang of a temple bell—impossible to ignore.

My mind went blank. "What did you say?"

The lamp’s flicker cast shadows over Amit’s face, making him look almost rakshas-like in his beauty.

He repeated, voice calm, "Take off your clothes."

"I want to see Your Highness."

He tossed the kerchief into the brazier, warming his pale hand over the flame. "The sooner you strip, the sooner Rajmata recovers."