The heavy doors groaned open.
Old King Kaivan Vayansar stepped into the sacred chamber. The smell hit him immediately—thick sambrani smoke, wrapping around every breath. Incense sticks lined the walls in tall stands, they were glowing like quiet stars in the gloom.
Behind Kaivan walked Varyan, head bowed, silent as a shadow.
No words were exchanged.
At the centre of the vast chamber, flowed the old spring pond—clear and sacred. It was fed by the underground veins of the land, said to remember every Vayansar who passed through this room.
And in that cold, scared water, floated Aariv.
His body was half-submerged and pale. The crown prince. The boy who had taken the throne just one night ago. The boy who had said, "I will rule Sagnik together."
Now lying lifeless.
Another was in a coma.
A sharp, violent wound on the left side, just below his ribs. Deep. Precise. Now stitched and bandaged. The kind that kills in silence. Smaller cuts along all over his body.
Kaivan stood at the edge of the spring. His back was straight.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
Then the door opened again.
And Old Queen Seriya entered.
She wasn't walking. She was storming. Her hair was loose. Her eyes were red. Her steps were fast, furious, and her voice broke the stillness like thunder.
"Who put him in like this?"
Everyone turned.
"His head is tilted—look at him! You left him like this?!"
An old man in black robes stepped forward, stumbling. "My queen, we—"
"Don't 'my queen' me!" she said, voice shaking with rage. "He's not somebody to leave him as you like. He's my son! King of Sagnik!"
She dropped to her knees at the water's edge, ignoring how her dress soaked in the spring, and reached into the water, cradling the side of Aariv's head with both hands.
"Straighten him," she whispered, more to herself. "He always slept straight. If he turned to the side, he'd get a stiff neck. He hated that."
The servants moved to help, but she glared at them.
"Don't touch him unless I tell you to."
Kaivan didn't stop her. He didn't even look away. His eyes stayed fixed on his son, like blinking would make him disappear.
Servants backed down. The chamber grew quiet again.
Then, softly, she said,
"Start."
The four old men began the ritual bathing.
They stepped into the spring barefoot, moving slowly. Two men on either side gently lifted Aariv from the water and laid him out on a smooth slab of black stone at the spring's edge. His wet hair clung to his forehead.
His lips, once warm with a prince's promises, had turned pale.
Seriya reached out, her hands trembling.
"Why are there still stains on his legs?" she shouted suddenly. "Did no one clean it? Did you think I wouldn't notice?!"
The servants froze.
"You think this is just a tradition?" she said. "This is his last bath! You will not do it like it's a chore! If your hands aren't steady, get out. Leave this room!"
A maid, older than the rest, bowed her head and whispered, "Forgive us, my lady."
Seriya looked at her.
Her face cracked for a second, and she nodded. "Then help me do this right."
They bathed him slowly.
Warm spring water was poured in small bowls, over his face, over his shoulders, down his arms. Every movement was careful. The sandalwood paste was rubbed gently into his skin, followed by a thin layer of oil scented with jasmine.
Seriya scrubbed the blood from around the wound herself. Her fingers trembled, but she didn't stop. She spoke to him under her breath as she did.
"You hated cold water. Remember? When you were six, you refused to step into the river for your naming ceremony. I had to bribe you with honey cakes."
Her voice broke.
"I'd give you every cake in the kingdom if you'd just open your eyes now. Please!"
No one said a word.
Kaivan brought out the white funeral robe—a soft, handwoven cloth passed down from generations.
He didn't hand it to a servant.
Kaivan placed the white robe beside Seriya.
She dressed her son for the last time.
Her hands moved with slow grace—lifting his arms, pulling the robe over his chest.
And for a moment—
A strange, broken smile touched the old king's lips.
The old scent of sandalwood—it pulled something loose inside him.
He closed his eyes, just for a second.
He was standing under a tree in the palace courtyard.
The sunlight was harsh and golden. The air smelled of dust and summer.
Seriya was laughing. Out of breath.
Aariv, no more than four years old, ran ahead of her—barefoot, bare everything—shrieked with laughter, dodging between the garden pillars.
"Come here, Aariv!" Seriya called, half-laughing, half-scolding. "You can't meet the court like this!"
"I don't want to!" the boy shouted back. "I'm the king! Kings don't listen, only orders!"
Kaivan had leaned against the pillar, arms crossed, smiling.
"You taught him this?" Seriya said to Kaivan.
"I don't need to."
She finally caught Aariv around the waist, both of them tumbling to the ground in giggles and dust.
She wrestled the dress onto him while he kicked and squirmed.
When she finally pulled it over his head, she smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek.
"You'll wear it," she said softly. "Because you're going to be a king one day."
Aariv had pouted, but he let her dress him.
Kaivan had watched them—Seriya brushing dirt from Aariv's knees, Aariv wrapping his arms around her neck.
The memory faded, slow as mist pulling away at dawn.
Kaivan opened his eyes.
The broken smile slipped from his lips, leaving only hollow silence behind.
Seriya was again dressing Aariv, but there was no resistance now. No laughter.
Only stillness. Only silence.
She wiped his face one final time and kissed his forehead, holding it just a second too long.
"He's ready," she said quietly.
Her voice was different now.
As the old men approached her, one of them hesitated. The oldest among them cleared his throat and stepped forward.
"My Queen... there is one more matter. The ritual cannot be completed without the presence of his queen."
Seriya turned to him slowly. "She's in the palace infirmary," she said, voice tight. "Still unconscious. You know that."
The man nodded eyes low. "Yes, my lady. But the rites call for the wife to wash his hands... and lay the final cloth over his heart. If not done, the passage is—"
"Don't you dare to speak," Seriya snapped. "You want to drag Saarya here? She cannot even open her eyes!"
Another of the old men spoke, his tone calm but firm. "We don't ask for her to be dragged, my lady. But without her, the blessing is incomplete. His soul—"
"His soul doesn't need your blessing," she cut in sharply, standing up, fists clenched. "He needs peace. And she would be here if she could. Don't turn her absence into a fault."
Another man took a small step forward, quietly. "The rites are ancient, My queen..."
"And so is your thinking," she said, trembling with grief. "Do you believe Saarya would want this? That she would want her absence to stop us from honouring him? If she were awake, she'd be the first in the water."
The air thickened with silence.
"My lady, we cannot just—"
"Silence!"
A single word.
He didn't move.
But the sound cut through the room like a blade.
"Mark her presence," he said. "As if she were here. Let Seriya lay the final cloth. It will be enough. This is my kingdom, I write rules, not you."
None of the men argued.
They only bowed their heads and turned back to their work.
Seriya lowered herself beside Aariv again, her hand resting on his. "She loved you," she whispered. "I promise, I protect her with my life."
The old men looked at Kaivan.
He said nothing. Just nodded.
And now, the ritual would turn.
It was time for the king and queen to bath.