Chapter 8: The King’s Hand and Shalu’s Hope

The man’s eyes were deep, hair curling at the edges, his face both handsome and harsh. He looked like a shadow come alive—rage and sorrow carved into every line. His brown eyes burned with violence, hand tightening on my neck.

I tried to remember the boy who once shared ladoos, but the king before me was only fury. "Pretending to be her, even more deserving of death." His grip tightened. My world narrowed to pain and fear. As everything went dark, Amma’s lullaby rose in my mind—soft as monsoon rain. For a moment, I prayed: for Amma, for Kabir, for the name I never got to choose.