The bonfires of Agnihotri Prime burned for three nights straight, painting the sandstone walls crimson. In the great hall, warriors toasted with molten-gold liquor that evaporated before touching their lips, creating perpetual halos of flame. The massacre of Vidyagriha was being written into legend: how the frost clan had stubbornly refused surrender, how their princess had destroyed herself rather than yield, how the Baghel name was now a cautionary tale whispered around hearths.
Jwala Agnihotri watched the revelry from his throne of charred bone, his expression unreadable behind a mask of cooling embers. His victory was complete. Almost.
---
Six masked figures gathered in the war room beneath the celebrations, their shadows flickering against maps of the conquered territories. The chamber was designed for anonymity—each seat concealed its occupant's Prana signature, each voice was modulated by heat-waves. Only their titles mattered here.
"Baghel's irrigation systems alone are worth three northern provinces," said the Minister of Expansion, his mask a hawk's visage. "Their frost-blessed canals can grow fire-pepper in winter. We harvest that, we control the spice trade for a decade."
"The herbal wealth is more valuable," countered the Shaman-Advisor, her mask carved like a lotus bud. "They cultivated snow-lotus, frost-ash, crysanthemum nectar—ingredients for longevity elixirs. Our healers have been begging for these for generations."
"Generations we spent starving while Baghel hoarded them," spat the War-Seer, his mask a fanged tiger. "The massacre was necessary. Mercy would have left them resources to rebel."
"Rebel with what?" The voice came from the shadows—a young, sharp tone belonging to the new Minister of Whispers, his mask featureless obsidian. "Their king is dead, their princess atomized, their library ash. They were a clan of scholars, not soldiers."
"Scholars with Prana techniques that erased seventy-three of our elites," the War-Seer growled. "Do not underestimate what desperation can—"
"Desperation?" The Lotus-Shaman leaned forward. "Our reports say the princess used a forbidden clan-ender. She sacrificed herself to deny us knowledge. That isn't desperation. That's strategy."
"Strategy that failed." The Hawk-Minister traced the map, circling Vidyagriha's fertile valleys. "We have the land. The clans who opposed us are already sending tribute, afraid of sharing Baghel's fate. The political message was clear: defiance equals erasure."
"And the cost?" The Obsidian-Whisperer asked quietly. "We lost seventeen of our best warriors. The captain and his two commanders are in critical condition. For what? Plants and frozen water?"
"For precedent." The Tiger-War-Seer slammed his fist on the table. "One frost princess nearly crippled our vanguard. What happens when the other minor clans unite? We needed to show—"
"What you needed," a new voice cut through, dry as desert wind, "was to keep the princess alive."
Every mask turned. The figure in the seventh seat had been so still they'd forgotten him. His mask was black as oil, reflecting no light, and his presence... pressed against the room's heat, creating a pocket of absolute cold.
"Lord of the Forbidden Clan," the Lotus-Shaman breathed, bowing her head. "We were not told you would attend."
"I attend where I please." The black mask tilted. "And I ask: was it necessary to massacre them all?"
Silence. Then the Hawk-Minister stammered, "The Baghel line—"
"I know what the Baghel line was." The words were soft, but the temperature dropped sharply. Frost began creeping across the map. "I know what you think you accomplished. I also know what you actually destroyed."
The Tiger-War-Seer found his voice first. "Lord, if you question our methods—"
"I question your intelligence." The black mask leaned forward, and for a moment, it seemed to dissolve, revealing not a face but a void. "The princess was heir to techniques that predate your clan's existence. Techniques my family has sought for three centuries. And you turned her into snow."
The Obsidian-Whisperer spoke carefully. "Lord, the rumors said... you had personal interest in the ice princess. We assumed—"
"You assumed I wanted her captured. Not dead." The frost crawling from his seat thickened, forming claws on the table. "You assumed wrong."
The Lotus-Shaman's mask fogged with her own breath. "Lord, we can still salvage—"
"There is no salvage." He stood, and the room's bonfires dimmed as if bowing. "There is only consequence."
"The children—" the Hawk-Minister began.
"Are mine." The statement landed like a blade. "They bear the Beggar's Mark. I feel it from here. Touch them, and I will demonstrate exactly why my clan is called Forbidden."
Jwala Agnihotri, who had been silent in the corner, suddenly dropped to one knee. "Lord, we meant no disrespect—"
"Disrespect is the least of your errors." The black mask turned toward him, and Jwala's flame crown flickered out. "You wanted Baghel's wealth. You have their curse instead. Enjoy it."
He walked out. The frost he left behind began melting, but slowly, reluctantly, as if the table itself feared to forget his presence.
---
Outside, he sighed, pushing back his hood to reveal hair the color of cooling lava. "You really are a nuisance, Shruti Baghel."
He smiled at himself, adjusting his mask. "Let's meet fast enough."
His horse was no ordinary beast—it was a stallion of smoke and cinders, hooves that left embers in mud. He mounted in one fluid motion, and they launched forward like a comet, fire trailing behind, smoke billowing ahead.
"Shruti Baghel," he murmured as the wind howled past. "Let's begin the search."
The world would think her dead. He knew better. A girl who could weaponize absence wouldn't leave nothing behind. She'd leave a question.
And he excelled at answering those.
---
The river was too fast for fishing. Shruti realized this after her third failed attempt to impale a silver-scaled prana-fish with a sharpened stick. The creatures sensed vibrations in the water, darting away before her shadow even fell.
"You're thinking like a princess," the jungle voice observed, its tone drier than usual. "Princesses command food to appear. Beggars steal it."
"I'm not a beggar," Shruti muttered, wading back to shore. Her feet were cut from river rocks, but the wounds were clean, already healing in a way that felt unnatural. Her Prana was gone, yet her body seemed determined to survive anyway.
"Then starve nobly." The voice faded.
She found the cave by accident—a hollow behind a waterfall that had frozen in mid-air despite the tropical heat. Ice in a furnace. The paradox felt like home.
Inside, she built a small fire from dry moss and a flint she'd found in her dhoti's hidden pocket. Her mother's hidden pocket. The thought made her hands shake.
"I need food," she told the darkness. "Water. Shelter. And then I need..."
Revenge. The word tasted like bile.
Day one: survive. Day two: find a weapon. Day three: start moving.
The jungle voice returned, softer. "Planning your vengeance already? How... predictable."
"I killed seventeen of their soldiers with a technique I barely understood," Shruti said, her voice flat. "Imagine what I'll do when I understand it."
"You understand nothing." The voice was almost gentle. "The technique didn't just destroy them. It stored them. Every death, every scream, every final thought—they're in you now. The Beggar's Frost is a ledger."
Shruti went still. "What?"
"The diary you tore? It wasn't a book. It was a receipt. And you just collected a debt you cannot possibly pay."
She looked at her hands. They looked normal. Flesh, bone, a few new calluses. But beneath the skin, she felt it—a faint, silver resonance. Like a memory that wasn't hers.
"The Agnihotri clan thinks you're dead," the voice continued. "The Forbidden Clan knows better. They'll come for the debt."
"Let them." Shruti stood, her silhouette framed by the frozen waterfall. "I'll be ready."
She picked up her broken sword. The blade was warped, but the edge was still sharp enough to skin the silver-scaled fish she'd failed to catch before. This time, she didn't stab the water. She waited. She watched the current. She moved when the fish moved, became part of the river's rhythm.
Three fish later, she sat by her small fire, eating charred meat and planning.
Day one: survived. Day two: learn to hunt. Day three: find a way out of this jungle.
Day four: begin the countdown. The real one.
The Agnihotri clan had celebrated her death. They'd toasted to her erasure. They'd taken her home, her mother, her father, her power, everything.
They'd left her with nothing but a debt ledger full of screams.
"Perfect," Shruti whispered to the frozen waterfall, her beggar's smile finally reaching her eyes. "A beggar owns nothing. Therefore, a beggar cannot lose anything."
Behind her, the jungle pulsed with Prana she couldn't access. Ahead, the mountain waited.
Somewhere beyond both, a horse of smoke and cinders galloped toward her.
The countdown had begun.