The sun set behind the sandstone ridges of Bhujraj as Rasmika Bhujraj remained frozen on the palace balcony, her dark crimson attire rustling in the desert wind. The ground below lay wide and golden, shimmering with heat, but beneath its radiance seethed a growing storm—of unrest, vanishing people, and fear. The people whispered, the nobles plotted, and even her most trusted advisors glanced over their shoulders.
Bhujraj was agitated. And so was she.
But Rasmika's face revealed none of it. Her eyes were iron-hard, forged in years of war and tempered by sacrifice. Yet, as the wind moaned low, something pierced the mask—sorrow.
The fragrance of sandalwood from the temple gardens below reminded her of him.
The Bhujraj Citadel towered above the golden dunes of the west, its towers pointed like crystallized spears chiseled from pale sapphire. Within its chilliest room—hewn of black stone and figured with enchanted ice that did not melt—Rasmika Bhujraj sat cross-legged, still in front of a basin of glacial water.
No servant dared interrupt her in this sanctum, for it was here that the Lady of Bhujraj spoke to her Spirit Core.
A ripple swept over the water. Another.
She thrust her hand into the basin with a swift movement.
The water complied.
Thin streams curled up into the air, coiling like serpents around her wrist. With a snap of her fingers, they became delicate shards of ice, suspended in midair. Then she closed her fist.
The ice shattered into a thousand shining pieces—silent snow in a silent tomb.
The room temperature plummeted. Her breath fogged.
Two Years Ago
Khambala Gorge, where life and song once cradled, now twisted under smoke and thunder.
The valley, famous for its singing winds and spice caravans, was now a graveyard of steel and fire. Storm clouds seethed above like wrathful gods. Below, the earth steamed with blood, and rivers that once sparkled with life now flowed red.
Shearing the air before her was Rasmika Bhujraj. Towering over her companions in black-and-gold armor engraved with the sigil of her house—a blazing tree with roots in water—she was myth and fury personified. Her icy-beaded braid draped her back like a frozen standard.
She took one breath and sparked her Spirit Bind. The air plummeted to a biting cold. A shockwave of fog burst out, freezing clumps of blood in mid-splash. Her eyes glowed a pale aquamarine as waves of water curled around her arms—shattering into ice spears, blades, and razors with each movement.
"Bhujraj does not fall," she whispered—and was gone.
In an instant, she was back behind the commander of the enemy, water pouring with her. Her arm closed around his neck, and ice spread at once over his armor, a tomb of ice that buried him. She spun him around like broken glass and threw him into his own lines.
They rushed her—dozens of rebel Spirit Warriors twisted by dark mantras—but her body flowed like running current. A flick of her wrist summoned geysers from the earth; a wave of her palm launched crescent blades of ice cutting through the air.
Once, five warriors fell a ring of force barriers around her—intended to cage her spirit itself.
They didn't know her well enough.
Rasmika lifted her foot slowly—and brought it crashing into the ground.
A shaft of ice burst upwards, shattering the barriers like china. Chunks of crystal showered down like divine anger as she surged upwards, on a curling wave of frozen mist.
And then—
"Rasmika!"
The cry sliced through war like a memory.
She faced the ridge—and there was Arun Raj, towering and authoritative, twin spirit-forged swords dancing with silver light. His face was serene, like placid water before the tempest. Shaurya's son-in-law, her brother in arms. The only one who could keep pace with her.
He leaped down from the ledge, swords slicing two foes in half in mid-descent, and landed at her side.
The pair of them was destruction itself.
Rasmika flowed like a river let loose—sweeping, flowing, unstoppable.
Arun moved like the storm—electric, sharp, surgical.
Where she halted, he broke.
Where he broke, she sank.
Their coordinated attack pushed back the rebel line, shattering its backbone.
By dusk, the gorge was still. And Bhujraj—bruised but intact—remained unbeaten.
Outside the room, her steward—a thin man named Palkun—stood anxiously. When the frost melted from the doorway, he entered.
"My lady, urgent messages have come… from Ashwan."
She rose slowly, robes dragging frost behind her like a queen of winter tempests. Her voice was cold steel under silken sorrow.
"Speak."
"Something's happened in the slums—something that's been… kept under wraps publicly. But private rumors tell of prisoners fleeing. Children. Blood. Fire." He paused. "They say… it was a man with a scarred eye and a turban who took it."
Rasmika's heart stopped.
"Shaurya."
So. The ghost existed.
She faced the distant wall, where a tapestry of the Samrajya's Great Lords hung dark. Her own face was embroidered in blue thread—serene and haughty alongside her deceased brother's image.
"I knew he would crawl back to life," she said.
"Should I prepare a detachment, my lady?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. If it's him… I need to know why. First."
She walked past Palkun, into the mirror hall. Each step she took deposited behind her trails of frost that dissolved with time.
Her heart still smarted from Arun's death. But now a new gust swept across the desert—sharp and sudden.
And Rasmika Bhujraj would stand against it.
Outside the room, her steward—a thin man named Palkun—stood anxiously. When the frost melted from the doorway, he entered.
"My lady, urgent messages have come… from Ashwan."
She rose slowly, robes dragging frost behind her like a queen of winter tempests. Her voice was cold steel under silken sorrow.
"Speak."
"Something's happened in the slums—something that's been… kept under wraps publicly. But private rumors tell of prisoners fleeing. Children. Blood. Fire." He paused. "They say… it was a man with a scarred eye and a turban who took it."
Rasmika's heart stopped.
"Shaurya."
So. The ghost existed.
She faced the distant wall, where a tapestry of the Samrajya's Great Lords hung dark. Her own face was embroidered in blue thread—serene and haughty alongside her deceased brother's image.
"I knew he would crawl back to life," she said.
"Should I prepare a detachment, my lady?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. If it's him… I need to know why. First."
She walked past Palkun, into the mirror hall. Each step she took deposited behind her trails of frost that dissolved with time.
Her heart still smarted from Arun's death. But now a new gust swept across the desert—sharp and sudden.
And Rasmika Bhujraj would stand against it.
Outside the room, her steward—a thin man named Palkun—stood anxiously. When the frost melted from the doorway, he entered.
"My lady, urgent messages have come… from Ashwan."
She rose slowly, robes dragging frost behind her like a queen of winter tempests. Her voice was cold steel under silken sorrow.
"Speak."
"Something's happened in the slums—something that's been… kept under wraps publicly. But private rumors tell of prisoners fleeing. Children. Blood. Fire." He paused. "They say… it was a man with a scarred eye and a turban who took it."
Rasmika's heart stopped.
"Shaurya."
So. The ghost existed.
She faced the distant wall, where a tapestry of the Samrajya's Great Lords hung dark. Her own face was embroidered in blue thread—serene and haughty alongside her deceased brother's image.
"I knew he would crawl back to life," she said.
"Should I prepare a detachment, my lady?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. If it's him… I need to know why. First."
She walked past Palkun, into the mirror hall. Each step she took deposited behind her trails of frost that dissolved with time.
Her heart still smarted from Arun's death. But now a new gust swept across the desert—sharp and sudden.
And Rasmika Bhujraj would stand against it.