Veerendra sat on the edge of her bed, the weight of his chainmail suddenly unbearable. This was the moment he had dreaded for sixteen years. He could use her. Train her as a weapon. Send her into the tilism to destroy Tej Singh and the sorcerers. She would win. He knew it.
The court gasped. The dagger was cursed. It showed the wielder the true cost of every magical act. irrfan khan chandrakanta
“I chose,” he whispered, holding her. “Not power. Not the kingdom. Just you.” Veerendra sat on the edge of her bed,
“You are the tilism’s keeper, Veerendra,” the ghost smiled. “Your paranoia. Your guilt. That is the real cage. And now, your daughter will pay the price.” Train her as a weapon
He went to Chandrakanta’s chambers. She was not asleep. She was sitting by a candle, a mantra book open on her lap, a faint blue glow emanating from her fingertips.
And somewhere, in the quiet that followed, the witch-queen’s curse finally lifted.
The council panicked. Send the army. Summon allies. Burn the forests.