Chapter 47: Vikram

VIKRAM

The pain and the betrayal had left him in a fog he could not rise from.

All his hard work. His years of sacrifice for the empire. The wars he had fought, the pacts and alliances he had made, the regency he had been granted. The wife he’d wed. The children he’d burned. All of it, gone.

The door clicked open. For a moment, the men who entered were in shadow. He heard their booted footsteps. With difficulty, he raised his head and watched them approach. The first man was a young guard, a stripling with cold eyes, who did not even bow his head. The second…

“Jeevan.” Vikram exhaled heavily, more relieved than he could say. “Thank the mothers you’re here.”

Jeevan closed the door quietly behind him. He was not wearing Parijatdvipa’s colors—no pure white, no gold. His tunic was plain and dark. But the cuff marking his status as head of the regent’s personal guard was still upon his upper arm, and he wore a shawl bound from shoulder to waist, knotted at the hip, embroidered with the jasmine flowers of the empire in white thread.

“My lord,” said Jeevan. He kneeled down. “This is a low day indeed.”

“Can we escape unhindered?” Vikram asked. “Jeevan, my wound is grave. I will need a physician before we begin our journey to Parijat.” He grunted, drawing himself up on his elbows. “Help me up,” he said. “Quickly now. Are there any rebels in the corridor? Have you more men?”

Jeevan helped him sit up straight. The commander’s hand was firm against Vikram’s back. The other guard kneeled down next to him as, one-handed, Jeevan unknotted his shawl.

“What are you doing, man?” Vikram demanded. And then, when the shawl was loose, he finally understood.

“Ah, ah,” said the young guard, pressing a hand to Vikram’s chest. “Stay still, my lord.”

“You work for her,” he whispered. The commander of his personal guard. The man who had kept him alive all these years—protected him at his most vulnerable. How could it be? “You work for my monster of a wife—my—”

“Do not say it, my lord,” Jeevan said calmly, gripping him hard to hold him steady. “Ill words are beneath you.”

Vikram laughed, a helpless laugh, because he could not believe what had become of him and his life, even the ruins of it turning to ash around him. What could be beneath him now?

“Lady Bhumika’s health does not allow her to do what is necessary,” said the soldier who’d served him so long, gruffly. “And besides. That’s what I’m here for. This is my purpose.”

“Can I truly trust no one?” Vikram gasped out. “After all I’ve done? How hard I have striven to make something of this place? Will you condemn me with no mercy, no trial, no justice?”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Jeevan said, although he did not sound particularly sorry. “There’d be a trial in another life and place, I expect. But not here and now.”

The cloth was looped around his neck. He struggled but the young guard pinned him down efficiently, driving an elbow brutally into his stomach to leave him momentarily winded, stunned to stillness. That moment was enough. It was too late.

Vikram felt the noose draw tight.