Chapter - 1 A Memory of a Tyrant

O noble one,

With dagger wrought of dreams,

Carve thy soul upon its edge,

That thou mayst carve—

Mother Earth till her depths

Unleash a sanguine tide.

Carve thine enemies till they be justified,

For all their unjust 'gainst thee.

Carve all of mankind,

Carve their souls till just ire be forgot,

And liberty is but a sinful word.

*Excerpt from Vanya Costa, Chapter 53, Volume One of Killer of Summer god*

Memories fade, for time is a miser that hoards all that is precious into oblivion. The joy we once felt and the heartbreak we endured will wither away like dew at dawn. The sky will turn barren, the seas will run dry, and the last teary eye that witnessed it all will be swallowed by the gluttonous march of time.

This chronicle, too, will fade with time, and my effort to warn future generations may end in vain. And yet, I cannot admit defeat or accept the inevitable. There must not be another evil who shares my ambitions. I simply cannot allow it. But what can I do but write? So I will do what I must.

You, who is from a time when the history had forgetting me, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sarina, translated as "serenity" in my tongue. Funny things, these names—people are given the best of them, but only a few manage to live up to what they represent. And then, there are others great terrible people who earn titles. I am one of them.

To the students of the university, I was Khadga-bhangakah, the one who breaks swords. To the warriors of light, I was Aasha aghatakah, the one who shatters hopes. To my paramour, I was Ekamhatram Tara—the sole star among a galaxy of deceivers.

The last one cuts deep. The image of those green eyes, set in a dusky face, gazing at me with disappointment will haunt me for the rest of my life. I wish I could go back in time and undo all those mistakes, just to wipe the disappointment from his face. But all I can do now is reflect on the crimes of the past, for which millions died.

*****

The light of the Astra that burned a million souls still lingers in my memory. I see it with my waking eyes—an anti-god’s arrow searing through millions. I can still hear the cries of the aftermath: widowers wandering through the ashes, calling out their wives’ names, hoping to find their corpses uncharred. Every action in creation has a consequence, and mine are no exception. The emperor will show his anger, but I won’t act as a sniveling wretch and beg for mercy. I know what I am. I know that what I've done makes me an irredeemable monster who deserves to be punished. But before facing the consequences of my actions, I’ve decided to tell the world how a monster is made.

To recount how I became the prophet, I must speak of the events that shaped me into what I am—some of which occurred long before I was born. But prior to that, let me give you a question to ponder: What shapes a weapon the most? What makes us angels, standing as beacons against encroaching shadows, or fiends carrying out the devil’s bidding? The family, of course and the people you surround yourself with.

I was shaped by my mother to the point that I became her reflection, molded to be just like her, driven by a vendetta that began centuries ago between my family, House Taraka, and our enemies, the Shatrunasins

Nobody can tell you how the blood feud between House Taraka and House Shatrunasin began. But ask them how it ended, and they'll tell you—I, Sarina Taraka, ended it with fire and blood.

And if you prod any further, asking, 'What makes her so dangerous?' they will claim things about me: that I slew an empress and sat upon a throne of bones, making a fair-haired prince in gauzy silks lie at my feet, while I drank wine from a god’s skull. They can make any outrageous claims, and they would not be wrong to do so.

********

My story began with a conspiracy—a plan to end all plans, a treachery so devious it would make the goddess of tricks and wine blush. My father, along with hundreds of nobles, was murdered in cold blood, paving the way for the rise of House Taraka and the fall of our enemies, the Shatrunasin. It unfolded according to my mother’s ignoble plan—one she began concocting when she saw my grandmother’s corpse crucified in the red-light district becoming the subject of ridicule. All the harlots, dressed in nothing but sea through dotis, and the whoremongers who came to ogle, have stopped to sneer and mock my grandmother.

"That must be her daughter," a whore said, pointing a finger at my mother, who stood frozen, staring at her own mother's naked corpse. The jeering crowd, the constricting sandstone jungle, smothered her, pinning her in place.

"Beside him, a woman in her fifties, resting a hand on his rear, saw my mother. She approached, pushing past the spectators, and placed a firm hand on her shoulder.

"I know who killed your mother, girl. Do not speak a word and follow me," she said, leading my dazed mother into a dark alleyway.

"As you can see, girl, the Shatrunasins always collect our dues," Avantika Shatrunasin said, once out of earshot."

"‘I-Is this your doing?’ my mother asked in disbelief, her voice trembling. ‘W-W-Why?’"

"Your family broke the law of vendetta, you sheltered bitch!" Avantika said, her nails sinking into my mother’s skin. "My uncle Manmadha never wanted to hurt anyone—all he ever wanted was to sing. He turned down best of women for your grandmother, and she murdered him! Served his head to his own mother. That’s not something anyone can just forget! I should have tortured your mother more for doing that"

". I—I will bring this to S-Saabha. Y-You won't get away with it," my mother stammered, her knees trembling.

"Go on, girl, do it!" Avantika said with sudden burst of laughter. "I’ve already set the perfect lie in motion. Your mother would be called a rapist, and was killed by the victim’s wife as an act of revenge. If anyone goes lokking, I’ve already had a widow hanged. So go on, girl—run to the Sabha. You’ll find no allies there. Your mother made sure of that by turning herself into a laughingstock, who's of no use to the Empress."

My mother just stood there, her face pale, her entire body shaking. "W-will y-you kill me?"

"No," Avantika said, waving her hand dismissively. "I will spare you, girl, and mark this day as the end of the bloodshed between our families, under one condition"

"Her lips curled into a lecherous smile. 'I saw your brother recently. Such a fine young man he’s turned out to be. His caramel skin and honey eyes could make any woman act unreasonably. Send him to my home; he’s come of age, correct? Fifteen a few weeks ago? Seems like the perfect time to turn him into a real man.'"

Even though my mother longed for revenge against the brazen murderer, her cowardly heart held her back. She fulfilled her enemy’s demand and forced her own brother to walk into the lion’s den. He returned that night, bruised and in tears, and the following day, he hanged himself, sealing my mother’s resolve to eradicate House Shatrunasin.

All of this could have been prevented if Vaidevi Taraka, my great-grandmother, had spared manmada. Why did she forgo the only chance for peace and choose to fight? I’ve long wondered. And it took me many years to figure out the answer—which is: violence is seductive. Like fine wine, it lures and compels us to act unwisely, leaving only misery and heartbreak in its wake. Anyone can fall victim to its charm. Even I, who once thought myself above the rest, indulged in it, was molded by it, and spread it across the world like hellfire.

This Hellfire had its inception on aforementioned fruition of plan, where a daughter was robbed of her father’s embrace. That day, all the sycophants and two-faced snakes who smiled through their teeth gathered in our castle to celebrate my first birthday.

Ah, Castle Taraka, a hellhole of granite, with a history as grotesque as its appearance. Perched on a seaside cliff, it looked like the devil's own nest—a fitting image, given its history. Seven centuries ago, this place was home to a rather sinister figure—Hasya Vidyala, who earned the title of the Laughing Queen. You might wonder, what kind of title is 'Laughing Queen'? And ask any of these following questions: Is she a noble soul who spread kindness through good deeds? Or a charismatic woman who swept men off their feet with her sense of humor?

Fortunately, it was none of those dreadful things. Hasya was more entertaining than that. She was a creature of misery, deeply mistrustful of unknown and easily irritable-a villain straight out of a play. Anyone who provoked her wrath had their faces carved into a perpetual smile. She did it by shoving a knife into their mouths, taking her sweet time, watching the color drain from their skin, as they beheld her sinister smile that never reached her eyes. Only when terror fully settled in and tears glistened in their eyes did she flick her blade, carving a red smile from ear to ear.

"For these actions, she was understandably unpopular, and her subjects decided to rebel—not just out of heroism, but also out of greed. You see, Hasya, for all her faults, was a fair ruler who squeezed hidden coins from greedy nobles and enacted many reforms to win the peasants' support. Unable to fill their already protruding stomachs, the nobles decided to rebel and instate my ancestor, Sivamani Taraka, as queen. My ancestor was one of the few nobles Hasya never squeezed; in fact, Hasya allowed her to prosper because she found her a strong ally. And yet, she chose to betray the ruler, setting her sights on the Lotus Throne.

Unlike the hotheads who openly spoke of rebellion, Sivamani played a subtler game. She ignored the zealous loudmouths who would get her killed and targeted the timid cowards who soiled their garments while secretly whispering the forbidden word: liberty. She lured these sheep from their pastures of submission with a blackmail here here and a greased palm there, convincing them that a rebellion must happen and that Sivamani Taraka should ascend to the throne.

She chose the perfect day to carry out her plan—a rare occasion when the wolf had shed its fangs and transformed into a loving pup: the birthday of Prince Hriyday.

The nobles arrived, concealing their knives beneath silken folds of their saree's pallus and struggled to hide their chattering teeth. They prayed to the gods that the royal guards would remain still, bound by the orders of the queen’s shadow worn weary from defending an unworthy queen. Most of all, they depended on their shepherd, Lady Shivamani Taraka, to thrust her knife and claim the title of usurper.

The queen invited Lady Taraka to dine with her, pouring her a glass of the finest royal wine. In return, my ancestor made the queen smile—a rare smile that reached her eyes—by telling a “joke” about a cuckolded woman begging her husband's forgiveness after he slept with the great Sivamani. In reality, the peasant man’s wife sought his forgiveness for failing to refuse Sivamani’s demands.

The young prince Hirday perched far from his mother—understandably so. After all, what kind of man would want to be near a murderer, even if the murderer were his own mother? Naturally, he gravitated toward the charming ones, like Lady Taraka, who hid her baser instincts well.

This is where things get truly awkward. You see, Sivamani was the queen’s secret lover—her partner in crime—who reveled in their shared hobby of mutilating kittens and carving up the faces of peasant boys once they had warmed their bed.

“No one can have you once we've had our way with you. You belong to us and only,” they used to say. How romantic of them! They used to do the deep under star nights too!

Reminiscing about those dreadful days, Hasya, with a faint, wry smile tugging at her lips, said, “Gods, we’ve become old. Remember that time when we wen—”

She stopped. Her blue eyes slowly moved to look at the blade buried in her stomach, then, just as slowly, rose to meet Sivamani’s face. Disbelief and agony twisted inside her as she forced out a weak, ragged whisper, “You… stabbed me?”

A second stab answered that question, and to escape the third, Hasya leapt over the table, landing flat on the floor. Silver utensils and freshly cooked meat scattering across the floor.

"Guards! Guards! Help me!" Her voice cracked as her eyes frantically searched the room, hoping someone, anyone, would care. But no one moved—except for the lovely Prince Hriday, holding a knife in his white trembling hands.

He drove that knife toward her chest and struggled as if he were trying to pierce iron - understandable given how fragile men truly are. Eventually his mother's strength faltered as the blade slowly inched its way past her defenses and into her flesh.

The queen’s blood-stained hand gripped her son's tunic as her knees buckled from Shivamani's impatient backstab. “You little whore, you killed me? You’ve—”

“‘Yes, Mother, I did,’ the prince whispered, his voice laced with ecstasy. "My brave heroine carries our offspring. I’m certain she’s a girl, and I feel it in my bones that she will be a great warrior—a kind and noble heroine, the light and joy of her papa.’”

It would be poetic to imagine the Laughing Queen’s final moments filled with terror and heartbreak. But no, she simply laughed, gazing at her naïve son—who, after siring enough royal heirs, was executed for sleeping with a royal guard. He hadn’t done it, of course; my ancestor had merely found a new toy and needed him gone.

For five centuries, our family ruled the South—until two hundred years ago, when Mitravinda Taraka bent the knee to Sun Queen Damayanti Adarmahanta, pledging support for her unification wars, thus ending the royal rule of the Taraka dynasty. Nevertheless, our family became one of the most powerful in the empire, and during my great-grandmother's reign, we were as wealthy as the royal family itself.

So know this—my mother did not seek revenge out of love alone. It was humiliation that drove her. Watching our reputation crumble as my grandmother’s guts spilled before the lowest of the low—the kind who toil their entire lives with nothing to show for it—and then seeing my uncle taking his own life for her cowardice left a stain on her heart that could only be washed away by shatrunasin blood.

My first birthday became the stage for my mother’s baptistic play. It had everything you expect from a perfect production—comedy, action, and a right dose of treachery. Though this play cost a fortune, my mother deemed it a small price for the relief and pleasure it brought her.

The play began as night fell, nobles from every corner of our empire gathered in our castle, eager to indulge in their vices. The gluttons gorged themselves on exquisite delicacies, their mouths full while the war with Vestonia starved our people. The lustful beasts sought the naked flesh of slaves—stolen from the mothers and wives of foreign lands. The schemers whispered of dark plots, knitting deception over goblets of wine, laughing at a jester who could never match their cruel wit. But the worst of them were the prideful peacocks, watching the debauchery with feigned distaste while secretly hoarding wealth wrung from the blood, sweat, and tears of the peasant class

"You’ve fulfilled your duty," my mother whispered, leaning toward my father, who sat beside her on a cushioned chair, dwarfed by the my mother’s dragon bone chair.

My father looked at her, his gaze heavy with loathing. “You got what you wanted, as you always do. But from now on you’ll get nothing from me. I swear on all the goddesses and gods—if you ever touch me again, I’ll kill myself.”

My mother's lips curled into a contemptuous smile. “If you want to make empty threats, dear, do it in private where it would be appropriate for me to laugh unrestrainedly.”

She then sighed followed by palpable disgust. "I carried her for nine months, you little harlot. All you did was open your legs—so don’t pretend you made any sacrifices here. You want to be rid of me? Fine. Tomorrow, I’ll free you and find someone more obedient and grateful."

My mother shifted her gaze to the main hall, a wicked glimmer in her eyes hinting at the words she longed to speak but couldn’t: 'These walls shall witness my rise.'

The hall, soon to witness treacherous bloodshed, was vast and imposing. Carved from white marble, its towering columns stretched toward a ceiling nearly four hundred feet high. Nobles draped in rich silk sarees and kurtas occupied cushioned seats with low tables for wine and eateries placed on wide, tiered platforms, accessible by broad steps.

Doves fluttered through the high-arched windows and settled on the ornate chandeliers, drawn in by the merriment that filled the hall. Below a skilled dancer captivated the crowd, her dance in perfect sync with the rhythm of the sitar's music. Even my rarely impressed mother was intrigued, and thought if we met at different circumstances, you would have been my perfect boy toy.

Facing this revelry, mighty statues of armored warriors loomed in the distance, their imposing forms carved into the walls by artisans whose hands one of my ancestors had severed—lest they ever attempt to recreate such a masterpiece. The statues flanked the dragon bone throne, a seat of untouchable authority—one destined to shatter that very night at the hands of a lone assassin.

The assassin arrived late at night, when debauchery had reached its pinnacle. She walked across the ancient bridge that connected our fortress to the outside world, carrying an unusual talwar—black as an eclipse. The guards at the gates and along the walls narrowed their eyes, watching this stranger walk in as if she owned the place. The moment they noticed her sword, their hands reached for their rifles, fingers on the triggers, ready to shoot.

“Stop right there, stranger!” one of the guards shouted, alarmed.

“Stop!” another guard warned, louder this time, with a hint of worry in her voice. However the woman did not stop.

“This is your last warning!” another guard barked, her voice that of a cornered cat's mewl. “Come any closer, and we’ll shoot! Drop your weapon!”

“She’s not stopping!” a guard on the walls said, fear flashing in her eyes. "Shoot!"

Hearing those words the assasin’s features twisted into something so grotesque that its sight seemed capable of rotting life away. Ironic, for her visage was anything but grotesque. She was pale as marble, hair the colour of a glitterless cosmos, and features sharp as a knife, capable of melting any man’s heart—if they meet her on her different circumstances.

The guards barely registered the swing of her sword as it sliced through. In a heartbeat, the sharp clatter of shattered Nessler balls hitting the ground echoed like unwelcome hail. The guards below wasted no time reloading their muskets and instead charged, drawing their swords. Heads fell from necks, rolling across the stone, dropping in the ocean, while severed hands thudded against the ground. The sharp, metallic tang of blood mixed with the bitter scent of gunpowder hung thick in the air.

When she was done slaughtering those below, she pulled a dagger from its sheath and threw it upward, striking a guard in the neck.

As if pulled by an invisible thread, she sprang up, her hand gripping the curved dagger with the ruby hilt. Suddenly, another guard charged, and the intruder closed the gap, catching the guard's khanda sword with her gauntlet-clad hands before he could even swing.

“Brave” She said, amused. “Brave but foolish."

Her hand suddenly glowed with hues of the ocean, and the sword crumbled to dust. Before the baffled guard could register what had happened, the assassin, in one effortless motion, delivered a mighty swing, separating the guard’s torso from her lower half—cutting through armor as if it were paper. The sound was sickening—a brutal rending of flesh and sinew. Entrails spilled onto the ground, pooling like a coiling mass of worms.

Her horrified comrades screamed like cornered cats, firing their muskets and hoping at least one ball would hit, but all were swatted away by the intruder's blade.

The intruder was victorious on the walls and many below knew they awaited a similar fate. She didn't bother looking at them. Instead she sheathed her sword and focused on cleaning her white armor using the flag of the stabbed star—banner of house taraka. Then her gaze shifted to the bridge and her hand reached for her second sword- a silver khanda with ancient, indecipherable ruins.

"Atharva, my love, lend me your power,” she said, her voice the envy of minstrels. Suddenly, a strange black fog sprouted from the sword’s invisible pores, swirling and coalescing around it.

The assassin raised her sword high and swung it. The swirling mist that coalesced around the blade—taking the form of a sword's sharp edge—sliced through the air and cleaved the massive stone pillars of the ancient bridge. The pillars shattered under the force. Debris fell deep into the water, dragging with it the corpses of fallen soldiers—forever beyond the reach of their beloved husbands and sons. It was perhaps for the best for they would likely have screamed hysterically at the sight of those mutilated bodies.

She tossed aside the flag and began her carnage. She killed with a list in her mind, one that seemed to support her cherished hobby. Her perverse desire to kill the corpulent children, born among silver and gold, was fulfilled, and by the end, she had become a veteran child-killer.

They screamed, they pleaded, clawing through their minds for any suitable offering that might spare their lives. Nothing worked, of course. Some even tried to fight back but no blade could pierce her, and no plea slowed her relentless pace. By the end, two hundred nobles died that night—a number insignificant to House Taraka. Though few who mattered a bit were 'noble' sacrifices for my mother's dream.

The aftermath was recorded in many accounts, but I will speak from memories I inherited. The lush garden treasured by my father was littered with the bodies of doomed lovers. The fountain of spraying elephant, was stained with blood of a man's head, floating on the water. Just a few feet away, his lover lay sprawled atop a lily bush, chunks of her brain matter made the white blooms to blush.

In the kitchens, the cooks lay sprawled on the floor—nothing unique, just plain grotesque—except for one hand boiling in stew. As for those who tried to escape, few were captured before they could, while the rest jumped from the cliff, becoming a feast for the fish, who might have found the silver and gold on their skin too heavy a seasoning.

I could elaborate further on the carnage, but I would rather conclude by saying, "Imagine the worst, and it will likely be worse than your imagination."

The most important ones had been well preserved. A few were locked away in secret rooms, their minds addled by opium—servants hired through a very special organization had done much to ensure their safety by luring them with the promise of pleasure. Others were spared by the intruder, their friends or insignificant family members butchered in their stead. This gruesome affair spanned the entire night, and by the time dawn came—with the halls dazzling in the sun, too brilliant for the assasin's eyes—the final part of my mother’s plan unfolded.

"Sometimes," The assassin remarked, raising a finger, "I fail to comprehend the usefulness in cleaning my armor, especially in the midst of a hunt."

She rubbed her temples. “I love my creed and hate cleaning myself after it. What am I to make of this contradiction, Lady Taraka? what do you make of this?”

My mother did not answer. After all, it was only natural after she had been shamed and beaten to a pulp by the assassin, who even ordered my mother’s personal boy toy to urinate on her—a command he eagerly obeyed. Gods, the lengths to which evil will go to sell a lie are both morbid and fascinating.

My mother looked up, her left eye blackened, and spat on the floor.

"I understand your apprehension." The assassin said with a nod. " How wretched I must appear, with such incivility—I didn’t even bother to introduce myself."

She stood straight and loudly proclaimed. “I am called Avdotya.”

She joined her two hands and bowed in a half-hearted gesture, her raven hair tumbling carelessly over her face. As she lifted her head, a sharp, knife-like smile curved on her lip.

“I’ve come on behalf of Avantika Shatrunasin, niece of a murdered uncle and descendant of many who fell victim to your family’s deceit. Before the crown’s accusations of high treason drag her to the same fate as her ancestors, I stand here—with a cold blade in hand—to deliver her vengeance.”

Avdotya looked at my mother and a few important nobles who would serve as witnesses. Then her gaze shifted to the sacrifice: my little brother and father.

As soon as her gaze fell, my father held my little brother protectively, his eyes wide in terror.

“No!” he screamed. “No, he’s my little boy. You can’t!”

“I can, sweetheart. I can,”

It didn’t take much strength to take my brother from my father’s grip. Avodtya gripped my little brother by his hair as he whimpered like a pup.

“You will pay for this!” my mother screamed, her voice echoing across the hall with pretend desperation.

“This is madness,” said Lady Karthika Manchu, her eyes wide. Many who were there, all bound, expressed their disapproval in similar manner.

The assassin lifted my brother’s head by his hair and slammed it against the ground, again and again, shattering bone and turning flesh to pulp until nothing remained but a mangled ruin.

Avdotya approached my father and, with cold disregard, held his back by his blonde hair and slit his throat. Then let his hair ago as if as if just butchering a hare for stew. Then she looked at my mother with an icy glare.

"Her family was doomed by your hands. If you hadn’t accused her of consorting with enemies of the nation, this would never have happened. Your pain now will at least give her some satisfaction. If you want vengeance, seek it, Lady Taraka. Avenge your beloved son and husband. I am but a mere instrument, forever beyond the grasp of mortals such as you. But kill the hand that sent me and end this blood feud."

Avdotya undid my mother’s bindings, and my mother wasted no time. "My son, my wife! You will pay for that! You will!"

She lunged at her in a theatrical fit of rage, only to be swatted aside by Avdotya’s backhand—in such a casual manner, as if my mother were nothing more than a mutt daring to take on a wolf. If anyone had seen her face then, sprawled on the ground with a few broken teeth, they would have noticed a terrible smile of victory.

"Live for her," The assassin said, pointing a finger at me as I cried in a servant’s arms.

And so she did—a tad too long for everyone’s liking