Chapter Text
The air was heavy with the perfume of oil lamps and royal jasmine. Inside the Vijaynagara palace, the Hampi Utsava—the annual celebration of the goddess of creation—was in full, vibrant swing. Princess Tirumala, adorned in the emerald silks and gold jewels and silver anklets of her house, was a vision of radiant perfection. Her dance was a meditation, a series of complex rhythms that celebrated her lineage and the light of her people.
It was this moment of exquisite vulnerability that the darkness chose to breach.
Rudra-Sen, King of the Vettaiyan invaders, appeared suddenly, his immense, armored form filling the main archway. He was alone, his dark silhouette a desecration against the soft, celebratory light. His heavy bronze armor was stained, but it was not the grime of battle that paused his advance—it was the dancer.
He had seen the portraits, the endless, adoring murals painted throughout the outer fortress of the Royal Court Dancer whose moon-white beauty was legendary. He had lusted after the canvas image. Now, faced with the luminous, breathing reality of **Tirumala**, her hair a rich curtain around her face, he was paralyzed by obsession. He stood, unmoving, drinking in the sight of her, his mission momentarily forgotten.
Then, the counter-attack began.
A desperate vanguard of surviving palace guards, seeing their King standing exposed, charged. The sudden assault shattered Rudra-Sen's focus. With a roar of pure, frustrated violence, he wrenched his immense war-ax from its sheath. The courtyard exploded into chaos, the sounds of music replaced by the sickening *thud* of steel on bone.
Tirumala and the court maids were frozen, witnessing the cold-blooded massacre of the last protectors and the scattering of the royal women. The massacre was swift, focused entirely on eradicating the last vestiges of the former power.
Rudra-Sen finished his work and turned, his eyes already seeking out the luminous figure of his "dancer." But the Queen, Tirumala's mother, stood her ground in a final, futile act of defiance. The King did not hesitate; a brutal backhand sent her collapsing against a marble column, extinguishing the final royal flame with a sharp, sickening sound.
The death of her mother was not a moment of terror for Tirumala; it was the chilling, final click of a tumbler. The Princess died. The Dynastic Heir was born. She was the last, and therefore, she must survive. To stay was to die and forfeit the ghost of vengeance.
With a cold resolve that felt alien, Tirumala spun away, seizing the hands of two loyal maids. She did not look back. She fled, moving not with the grace of a dancer, but with the focused, strategic speed of a fugitive general, vanishing into the labyrinthine corridors. Rudra-Sen, expecting to find his terrified prize waiting to be claimed, turned just in time to catch the flicker of her emerald silk disappearing around the corner.
His capture was complete, but his obsession had slipped away. He threw his gauntlet against the stone, the rage of a predator denied his catch vibrating in his massive frame. He knew she was hiding, and he would hunt every corner of this palace until he found her. His eyes, fixed on the empty space where she had stood, promised a relentless pursuit.
"The palace is mine, dancer. Where will you hide the moon when I own the entire sky?"
***