CHAITRINI

Lying among the other women he had conquered made my skin crawl. We were lined up like exotic trophies, stripped of names, wrapped in silence. But I… I was no man’s prize.

They pressed together in stillness, limbs like fragile porcelain, eyes emptied of flame. The bruises on their souls didn’t show, but I could smell the rot of surrender in the air. Their resignation was suffocating.

Not me.

He had claimed 72 holes in that war. But not a single soul.

But saints do not exist in this world.

I smirked inwardly. Because I am not here to survive. I am here to remember. To rewrite the ending.

The palanquin jolted over uneven ground, a lurch that snapped me out of my thoughts. I peeked beyond the silk curtain. The sky bled purple into darkness, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of spilled blood.

My eyes closed as the scent of iron and sweat drifted on the wind. Something wicked was coming. For us. For me.

This wasn’t a journey. It was a funeral procession for everything I had once known.

King Kaalnemi, the man who once kept me in chains of silk and perfume, his favorite, his prized dancer, is whore wrapped in gold and oaths was dead. Slain by the monster who now calls himself king.

Chandrakaant.

Ruthless. Without honor. Without gods.

A warlord painted in gold, his crown forged from the bones of men. He didn’t rule with law—he ruled with fear.

He castrated noblemen and folded their broken bodies into his army. Their wives became breeders. Their daughters, blank canvases of obedience.

And women like me? We were entertainment. Flesh for firelight.

But I know how to wear a mask better than any court lady. I’ve danced through fire before.

When the palanquin stopped, my heart betrayed me—thundering in my chest like a caged animal. I counted my heartbeats.

We stepped out onto foreign soil. Dust clung to my toes like ancient spirits. We were ushered toward a long wooden structure guarded like a temple, its doorway yawning open like a monster’s mouth.

Inside, there was silence. A dense, careful silence.

The women turned to look at us. Their faces were artfully composed—expressionless masks carved by discipline and dread.

The women there were… different.

They greeted me with soft hands, but not a single smile. They wore sheer garments that whispered modesty but veiled little. Anklets chimed with secrets I hadn’t yet earned. Their hair was oiled and combed to flawlessness. Their lashes never lifted. Their posture—Controlled. Delicate. Deadened.

One approached me. She was older, elegant, broken in all the right places. Her presence was like a lullaby sung in a tomb.

She handed me silk—white, sheer, and ghostly.

“Wear this,” she murmured. “The King dislikes bare skin… unless he peels it himself.”

Then came the rules, stitched into me like new skin:

“Speak only when he desires your voice.”

“Do not meet his gaze unless summoned.”

“Eat last. Dance only when commanded.”

Dance.

That word was both blade and balm.

They didn’t understand what dance meant. Not the way my mother taught me. Not the kind that whispered magic into motion, that unveiled secrets with every roll of the hip. That undressed not just flesh, but memory.

These women performed. But I? I invoked.

I turned to one girl, barely twenty. Her lips parted, barely audible. I asked why she never looked up.

“Because it is not required,” she whispered. “We belong to his desire, not his sight. He does not require our eyes. Only our obedience.”

I stared at her.

So still.

So quiet.

So perfect.

So empty.

I wanted to scream. To shatter her shell and pour rebellion into her mouth. But I needed to learn from her first. How to disappear without dying.

That night, the summon came.

They called it a court. It was a pit.

A wide circular ground waited—ringed with firelight and sharpened stares. At its center—a blackened metal pole, tall and cold like judgment.

At the far end, sitting upon a throne of furs, horns, and the stolen spoils of war, was King Chandrakaant.

The circle behind him brimmed with hungry men. Hunger not for food. For flesh. He watched me enter. No smile. No smirk. Just hunger wrapped in the stillness of a predator.

I had been warned—King Chandrakaant did not like his women bare. So, I dressed accordingly.

A sheer white sari that covered nothing, clinging to my skin like a second breath.

A veil that hinted more than it hid.

Lips were painted red like fresh sin.

Henna-stained hands and feet.

Hair coiled and oiled, tumbling to my hips.

My body was an offering.

But not my soul.

I stepped forward, bowed low, and offered a namaskaar lowering my inked fingers to the dust. It looked like surrender. But it was the calm before the strike. I felt his gaze burn across my skin like sun through a magnifying glass.

His gaze scorched.

But I let it burn me.

CHANDRAKAANT

I watched her from my throne—carved from the rib bones of kings who had defied me—while the blood of her former master dried sticky on my blade.

The jungle heat wrapped around me like a second skin—suffocating, wet, unforgiving.

The drums had not begun, but the air already thrummed with anticipation, thick with the scent of sweat, fear, and the copper sting of conquest.

She was brought before me—barefoot, anklets silent, wrists still bruised from being bound.

She stood before me—

His.

His jewel.

His favorite.

His slut.

Now mine.

They said she was gifted to the gods by her last king—offered like fruit to appease wrath. But I had tasted enough war to know—this one was no fruit.

Now she knelt in my kingdom.

In my dust.

Before my gods.

Mine.

She was carved in ash and defiance. Etched by ruin.

Not merely beautiful—exquisite.

But it wasn’t the delicate curve of her hips, nor the golden sheen of her skin that stirred the animal in me.

It was her eyes.

And she was not sobbing.

Not shaking.

Not begging.

Her stillness was her rebellion.

That made my cock harden beneath the weight of silence.

Not grief in her eyes. Not terror.

But a beautiful void.

A still lake with no ripples.

A mouth that no longer wept.

She had already died, somewhere inside.

Good.

I’d resurrect her.

But not with mercy.

“She belongs to the soil now,” I told my men, the words slithering from my mouth like venom.

“But tonight—she belongs to our victory.”

I rose from my throne, the metal creaking under the weight of silence, and snapped my fingers once. Sharp. Commanding.

“Dance.”

And like an offering thrown into the fire, she rose.

She moved—not like a woman—but like something summoned, moved with an elegance born not of training, but of blood memory. Like her ancestors had once danced before fires and gods—before spears and kings.

A spell cast in flesh.

She danced like the last embers of a dying civilization.

Like ruin draped in silk.

Her hips rolled in slow circles, hypnotic, predatory.

She wasn’t offering herself.

She was casting a curse.

Anklets chimed with each sway. Silk shimmered over her curves like moonlight over dark water, brushing against nipples that hardened beneath the fabric, betraying a subtle response.

One hand lifted. Graceful. Intentional.

The first layer of silk slid from her shoulders, slow and deliberate.

Then another.

And another—until nothing but a sheer, transparent veil clung to her like dew.

Every step closer, the fire caught on the sweat at her collarbone, on the oil at the dip of her belly, making her glow like a pagan moon-goddess.

Dozens of eyes followed her, their hunger unholy.

Dozens of cocks strained behind their sashes, breath hitched, teeth clenched.

But only I sat still—watching like a beast waiting for the kill.

She was not a prey.

Not tonight.

She approached the oil bowl—steam rising from it, perfumed with crushed sandalwood, clove, and heat. She dipped her fingers into a bowl of scented oil—sandalwood, myrrh, and crushed blossoms—letting the golden slick drip over her nipples, rolling down the gentle swell of her breasts.

They glistened—nipples erect, begging to be bitten.

She rubbed it in, slow and firm, until her skin shone like a weapon freshly forged.

Then her fingers slid lower.

Across her belly.

Between her thighs.

She rubbed the oil into her cunt like a priestess anointing a sacred altar.

And still—she danced.

To the beat of drums that now throbbed like war-hearts.

To the rhythm of bone flutes and groans.

She moved like sin made flesh. The air moaned along with her rhythm. The earth held its breath. She danced not to please—but to possess. Not to seduce—but to brand.

This was not performance.

This was a ritual.

A reclaiming.

A war cry with hips and breasts and dripping fingers.

She circled closer.

Closer.

Until she stood just beneath the steps to my throne.

The scent of her—the oil, the sweat, the raw, feminine force—rose like incense to my senses.

And I—gods help me—wanted to be the one to break her completely.

“Touch yourself.” I commanded, voice sharp enough to split bone.

The reaction rippled through the warriors like a curse.

Some roared.

Some laughed—cruel, nervous.

Some spat, insulted by her power.

Some hissed, unable to contain their fury at what they couldn’t control.

Others gripped their own cocks beneath their robes.

But she obeyed. She sank slowly to her knees, directly in front of me. Spread her thighs wide apart like a slut trained for sacrifice. Not a trace of modesty. Not an ounce of shame. Eyes locked on mine like a challenge disguised as reverence.

Spread her thighs like opening petals. Ran her oil-slick fingers over her own heat—slow, deliberate, and without shame. She slid them deep into herself until they gleamed, dipped her slick fingers into her soaked cunt again, sliding them in so deep her hips jerked.

And then she did the unthinkable.

She pulled them out, glistening, and held them to my mouth. I leaned forward from the throne. The entire court stilled.

Even the fire paused.

She stared into my eyes, unblinking.

A challenge.

A dare.

A submission laced with poison.

I licked her fingers clean.

And she smiled—just slightly. Just enough.

Then she tilted her head back, placed her slick hand over her own mouth, and moaned into it—eyes wide open, tears forming from the stretch, from the sting.

Not for pleasure.

For power.

For vengeance.

And in that moment, as her oil-slick body writhed in offering, defiance, and ritual—I knew:

She wasn’t mine yet.

But she would be.

And when I broke her—

I’d rebuild her into something, no one could ever touch again.