The fires burned low, their once-roaring hunger reduced to occasional flickers in the wind. The scent of charred wood and iron filled the air, mingling with the heavy stench of blood. The Mughal soldiers were moving methodically, gathering their loot—gold, jewels, silks, and anything of value that once belonged to Garudraj.
But Leelavati saw none of it.
She knelt in the courtyard, cradling Kunwar’s still body in her arms. His head rested against her chest, his once-bright eyes now dull, his lips parted as if caught mid-breath. The warmth had not yet fully left him, and she clung to that, as if sheer willpower could keep him tethered to life.
Her mind swam with memories.
Kunwar, no running in the corridors. You’ll fall!
Kunwar, don’t you dare climb that tree!
Kunwar, when I am queen, I will make sure you have everything you want.
She had promised him everything. But she had failed at the only promise that mattered—to keep him safe.
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, her body wracked with silent sobs. Her fingers brushed the blood matted in his hair, her lips trembling as she whispered his name again and again, like a prayer, like a plea.
Around her, the Mughals continued their work, unaffected by the grief that drowned her. They laughed as they divided their plunder, their boots crunching over the fallen Rajputs, kicking away discarded weapons like broken toys.
She couldn’t leave Kunwar here. Not like this. Not alone.
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Her arms tightened around him. The world blurred at the edges, time dissolving into a haze of grief and disbelief. She did not notice when the emperor mounted his horse, preparing to leave. She did not hear his orders to his men, nor the shouts that followed. Her world had shrunk down to the cold weight in her lap and the hollow ache in her chest.
But then, footsteps.
She looked up, her tears distorting her vision. A group of soldiers was walking toward her, led by the Mughal chief.
A strange, terrible realization dawned in her grief-clouded mind. They had taken everything—her home, her people, her brother. But they weren’t done yet.
She held Kunwar closer, as if she could shield him even now.
The soldiers halted before her. The chief, a man with a hardened face and cold, indifferent eyes, spoke. “Get up.”
Leelavati did not move.
“Take her,” the man ordered, already turning away.
The first soldier reached for her. She recoiled, her grip on Kunwar tightening. “No—please,” she gasped, her voice hoarse from weeping. “You’ve taken everything—let him have a peaceful death.”
The soldier ignored her, yanking at her shoulder. She screamed, struggling against him, but she was weak. She had no sword, no strength left to fight.
Then, rough hands tore Kunwar from her grasp.
“No! NO!”
She lunged, her fingers grasping at nothing as they wrenched his body from her lap. Before she could move, before she could plead further, she saw it—
They threw him aside.
Like discarded loot. Like nothing.
A broken sob ripped from her throat. She scrambled forward, but a soldier grabbed her arm, wrenching it back. She kicked, thrashed, begged. “Please—please don’t—he’s just a child—let me bury him—please—”
The soldiers did not listen.
Someone yanked her hands behind her back, tying them roughly. She sobbed, twisting in their grasp, but it was useless. A strip of cloth was forced between her lips, gagging her pleas. The last thing she saw before she was dragged away was Kunwar’s small, lifeless form, left abandoned in the bloodstained dust.
The world blurred as they hauled her toward the waiting carriages. She barely registered the gold, the stolen silks, the chests of jewels. She was just another possession now. Just another part of their spoils of war.
She was thrown into the carriage, her bound hands scraping against the rough wood. The door slammed shut, locking her in darkness.
And then, for the first time since it all began, Leelavati fell silent.