Kama: Liberation (Vol-I)

Chapter 45: Mage Confesses

Love heals better than time.

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Like a prisoner knew each cell and dungeon to the heart, every twist and turn of the palace was familiar to Indumala.

She intuitively remembered minute details, like a missing flower vase, a hidden window or the secret pathway to the courtroom. Maybe in a brighter environment she would have enjoyed being aware of such hidden knowledge, but a question poked her incessantly– why do I know?

Everything led to one answer– I was here. I was here long, long ago. Or perhaps not too long, only before the plague.

The guards unlocked the door to her room. Rudra had insisted on accompanying her. However, the guards were tasked by Hamal to escort each guest to their room individually. Rudra was anxious about a venomous plot and scheming ministers, but he could do nothing. This was not his domain. Somehow, he was weakened.

It worried Indumala. Knowing how wrathful and proud Rudra was as a man, it was scandalous for the Rajan to show such symptoms of internal defeat. It wasn't humility that humbled him but raw fear.

"This is your stay for tonight," the guards said. "We will be outside in case you need any help."

Indumala entered, and the door closed behind her– a creaking, haunted noise that made her wince.

The room was shrouded in an eerie darkness, barely illuminated by flickering moonbeams. Shadowy tendrils danced across the walls, giving the impression of lurking malevolence. Rich tapestries depicting triumphant battles and noble lineage adorned the walls, but their vibrant colors were muted and lifeless in the absence of company. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room, its luxurious canopy hanging solemnly, as if waiting for someone to occupy it. The polished marble floors echoed with each solitary footstep, amplifying the silence that filled the space.

Indumala ran her hand over the artifacts in the room. A thick layer of dust covered them.

"Someone must have hurriedly cleaned the room and prepared the bed. Otherwise, this seems to have been unoccupied–"

A sharp, pungent odour made Indumala scrunch her nose. It filled the surrounding with a sense of urgency and alarm. The scent was reminiscent of charred wood and singed fabric, with undertones of smoky ash drifting lazily through the air.

"Is-is something burning?"

As suddenly as it came to her nose, the smell vanished. A gust of wind through the window played with the chiming rows of pearls hanging down the mirror. She approached it with slow steps. The gilded mirror reflected back the emptiness of the room. She wiped it with her hand and stared at her reflection.

Even in the darkness the bags under her eyes were visible. The dim light didn't remove the imperfections of exhaustion. Indumala took a deep breath to calm herself down, rubbing her sweaty hands on her robes. Alas, the burning smell wafted to her nose again. She pinched her nostrils.

Fire scared her. It reminded Indumala of the nightmares she had. To burn to death was one of the most horrifying ends to life– to feel one's skin melt and bones turn to dust, the sizzling lick of the flames and the kiss of a cruel goodbye–

"Who is there?"

Something breathed heavily on her neck. It walked away when she called. The mirror showed a shadow cross behind her.

Indumala touched the dagger on her belt. "Who-who is there?" she stammered.

"Petra..."

She turned to the mirror. No, it showed only her face, shaped like a heart. Her tanned skin was occluded by the obsidian night, although her warm eyes glowed akin to a deer's innocent orbs. But the more she looked at the mirror, the more obscured it became. The surface flowed like a viscous fluid, streaming downwards. Her face changed, becoming rounder, and her skin grew fairer, almost a shade of golden. Her eyes remained the same. But Indumala didn't recognise the girl in the mirror as her.