Twenty-three years ago

I'm seven years old when I learn that monsters are real.

They don't hide under beds or lurk in closets. They wear expensive suits and shake hands with your father over dinner. They smile with too many teeth and leave destruction in their wake.

And sometimes, they're the last people you see before your world ends.

"Arshit, beta, listen to me." Mama's voice cuts through my concentration as I line up my wooden soldiers across the carpet.

I look up, annoyed that she's interrupted my game. The annoyance dies the second I see her face.

Her dupatta is askew, her hair falling from its usual perfect bun. There's terror in her eyes—raw and visceral—and it makes my stomach twist into knots.

"Mama?"

"Under the bed. Now." Papa appears behind her, his kurta torn at the shoulder. Something dark stains the fabric. Not paint. Even at seven, I know it's not paint.

My wooden soldiers clatter to the floor as Mama pulls me up by my arm, her grip bruising. She's never held me like this before—desperate, painful, like I might disappear if she lets go.

"But—"

"Now, Arshit!"

I scramble under the bed, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. The space smells like dust and the peppermints Mama hides from Papa because he says she eats too many sweets.

Mama crouches down, her face appearing in the gap between the bedskirt and floor. Tears stream down her cheeks, and I've never seen my mother cry. Not when Dadi died. Not when Papa came home with a bullet wound last year. Never.

"No matter what you hear, you stay here. Do you understand me?" Her voice breaks. "Promise me, beta. Promise me."

"I promise." The words taste like ash.

"You're our brave boy." She reaches under, her fingers trembling as they brush my cheek. "We love you so much. Always remember that."

"Amruta, we need to go." Papa's voice is tight with urgency.

He kneels beside Mama, his hand finding mine in the darkness. His grip is strong, solid—the same hand that taught me to throw a cricket ball, that ruffled my hair every morning.

"You're going to be okay, son." His jaw clenches. "You're stronger than you know."

A crash echoes from downstairs. Shouting. Heavy footsteps.

"Papa—"

"I love you." He squeezes my hand once, hard enough to hurt. "Never forget that."

Then they're gone. The door clicks shut, and I'm alone in the dark with my racing heart and the taste of fear coating my tongue.

I try to be good. I try to stay quiet like Mama said.

But it's impossible when the screaming starts.

Papa's voice booms through the house: "You want me? Here I am! Leave my wife alone!"

"Gaurav, no—" Mama's scream cuts off abruptly.

My hands fly to my ears, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. The sounds slice through my palms like knives.

"Should've stayed out of our business, Gaurav." A man's voice, rough as gravel. "You knew the rules."

"My son is innocent in this. He's just a child—"

"Your son is the heir. That makes him a liability."

"Please, I'm begging you—"

Gunshots.

Three of them, sharp and deafening, echoing through the palace like firecrackers during Diwali. But there's no celebration in these sounds. Only death.

Mama screams.

She screams and screams and screams until the sound is cut off by another gunshot, and then there's nothing.

Just silence.

The kind of silence that means everything is over.

Time loses meaning under the bed.

Minutes blur into hours. My legs go numb. My throat is raw from crying silently, my fist shoved in my mouth to muffle the sounds. Wetness spreads through my pajamas, warm and shameful, but I can't move. I can't do anything but lie there and wait.

For what, I don't know.

For them to find me. For someone to save me. For this nightmare to end.

Eventually, footsteps approach again. Different ones this time—measured, careful.

"Clear!" A man's voice, unfamiliar. "But the king and queen are..."

The voice breaks off.

My body goes rigid. King and queen. That's what people call Mama and Papa when they think I'm not listening. When they talk about "the business" in hushed tones.

"God." Another voice, deeper, rougher. Thick with something that sounds like anguish. "What have they done?"

"Sir, we should—"

"I failed them." The deep voice cracks. "I promised Gaurav I'd protect them. I swore an oath when he married Amruta. I was supposed to keep them safe."

That name. I know that name.

Adhiraj Uncle. Papa's oldest friend. The man who came to dinner sometimes with presents and stories. The man Papa said ran half the city from the shadows.

"It's not your fault, sir. The intel was bad—"

"It's all my fault!" Something crashes against the wall—a fist, maybe. The sound makes me flinch. "I should have been here. I should have known. I killed them. I killed my best friend and his wife."

The words echo in the darkness, bouncing around my skull.

I killed them.

"Sir—"

"I killed them!" His voice breaks completely. "It should have been me. God, it should have been me."

My brain stutters, trying to process. Adhiraj Uncle killed Mama and Papa?

No. No, that can't be right. He's Papa's friend. He brings me mithai from the sweet shop Papa likes. He—

"We need to find the boy. Prince Arshit—"

"He's probably dead too." Adhiraj Uncle's voice is hollow now, scraped raw. "Check everywhere. Under the bed. The closets. Everywhere."

The bedskirt lifts.

Light floods in, blinding after so long in the dark. I squeeze my eyes shut, but hands are already reaching for me, pulling me out by my ankle. My shirt rides up, skin scraping against the wooden floor.

Then I'm lifted into arms that smell like gunpowder and expensive cologne—the same cologne Papa wore.

"Beta." Adhiraj Uncle's voice cracks. "Oh God, beta."

I force my eyes open. He's still in his suit, the one he wore to dinner at our house last week. But it's rumpled now, stained with something dark. His face is wet, streaked with tears.

He's crying.

Mama's killer is crying.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, holding me too tight. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't save them."

"Where's Mama?" My voice doesn't sound like mine. It's small and broken and wrong. "Where's Papa?"

His face crumples. "They're gone, beta. They're... I failed them. Because of me—" He can't finish. Can't get the words out past the sob lodged in his throat.

"I want Mama!" I start hitting his chest with my small fists, but it's like hitting a wall. "I want Mama! I want Papa!"

"I know. I know." He rocks me like Mama used to when I had nightmares. "This is all my fault. I killed them. I—"

"You killed them?" The words are barely a whisper.

His eyes widen, horror dawning. "No—beta, that's not what I—"

But I'm screaming now, screaming and hitting and trying to get away from the monster holding me. Someone appears with a needle. A pinch in my arm.

The world goes dark.

Three days later, I stand between two graves in a sherwani that's too big.

Everything is too big now. The clothes. The palace. The hole in my chest where my parents used to be.

The priest drones in Sanskrit. White marigolds pile so high I can't see the coffins anymore. Hundreds of people fill the cemetery—men in expensive suits, women with their faces veiled. The entire city's underworld has come to pay respects.

I don't cry. I have no tears left.

Jai Uncle's hand is warm on my shoulder. He runs the orphanage in the capital, the one Mama volunteered at every weekend. He's going to take care of me now.

But I don't want Jai Uncle. I want Mama. I want Papa.

I want Adhiraj Uncle to pay.

Across the graves, he stands in a black suit, his face carved from stone. He catches my eye and mouths something: I'm sorry.

Sorry doesn't bring them back.

Sorry doesn't fix anything.

I look down at the fresh earth that will swallow my parents whole.

"I'll make him pay, Mama," I whisper to the wind. "Papa. I promise."

"I'll destroy Adhiraj Agnihotri. For you."

The priest finishes. Someone begins to sing. I stand there as they lower my parents into the ground, as they cover them with dirt, as the sun sets and Jai Uncle gently pulls me away.

But I don't stop watching him. Adhiraj Agnihotri. The man who killed my parents.

The man I'll spend the rest of my life learning to destroy.

Present Day

I was seven years old when Adhiraj Agnihotri murdered my parents.

Twenty-three years later, I'm finally ready to keep my promise.

And I'm going to start with the thing he loves most—his family.