Rain lashed the port village, a relentless curtain blurring the horizon, stranding Chandramukha, Abhilasha, and Mitrabhanu as their journey to Swarnchandrapura stalled. Six days they'd lingered—three planned, three stolen by the monsoon's wrath—each hour stretching the tension between duty and desire. For Chandramukha, the poet-warrior who'd trailed Abhilasha since Eravati, the question gnawed: life or love? The siren's song still echoed in his heart, her human grief a mirror to his own, but duty to Tapti's rebellion bound him tighter than any charm.
He stood in the tavern's clamor, watching Abhilasha weave through sailors and locals, her laughter a beacon in the storm's gloom. She spoke to all—cooks, merchants, skeptics—mining their tales for secrets, much as she'd probed nobles in ashes. Some welcomed her, amused by her boldness; others tolerated her with wary glances, sensing a queen beneath her common guise. Her purpose was clear: to unearth truths about Swarnchandrapura's unrest, her observations sharp as the siren's in marketplace.
She caught his eye, her smile sparking one in return. How can I avoid her? he thought, warmth battling the iron creed drilled into him: A human obeys duty, never desire. His role—protecting her, the divine vessel demanded detachment, yet her presence softened him, a danger he couldn't afford.
The tavern buzzed, a haven for storm-bound travelers. Boats lay docked, the ocean unforgiving, and whispers of war thickened the air. Chandramukha's gaze drifted outside, rain hammering the earth, obscuring all but his thoughts. Unable to bear the tavern's chaos, he slipped out, trading chatter for the storm's roar. Rain stung his shoulders, blurring the world, but he walked on, seeking clarity.
Abhilasha noticed, nudging Mitrabhanu. "Should we follow?"
"Let him be," Mitrabhanu said, his voice steady despite scars. "He'll return."
"Is it safe?" she pressed, the village familiar yet strange, its alleys hiding threats.
"Does it matter?" Mitrabhanu replied. "We're a trio—we reach Swarnchandrapura together."
She nodded, returning to the elderly cook's tale, a ghost haunting a royal kitchen, its mess defying shamans' rites. The cook's wife dominated, her husband chiming in, their story bound for a friend's wedding. Abhilasha listened, hungry for details of Tapti's neighbor, her mind sifting rumors for truth. Mitrabhanu whispered his disbelief, but the cook's sharp glance silenced him.
Abhilasha's attention wandered to a shadowed table—three men, their talk low, laced with rebellion's edge. Unlike the cook's gossip, their words held weight, the kind only men's circles shared. She longed to join them, tired of tavern tales, craving the underground truths she'd chased.
Outside, Chandramukha wandered far, rain soaking his cloak, his thoughts a tangle. A tavern memory surfaced—a woman, desperate, pleading with her husband to leave. Her knees pressed tight, fingers clutching, she'd glanced at a lord across the room, his lewd stare pinning her. "Let's go," she'd urged, fear in her eyes, but her husband, obsessed with a wrestling match, dismissed her. "Why'd you come?" he'd snapped. "War's coming—our master'll bleed us dry. I'll enjoy now."
"You brought me," she'd countered, her hints ignored, the lord's gaze a growing threat.
Chandramukha, trained to read lips since youth, had caught her despair. He'd wanted to act but held back—undercover, attention was their enemy. The lord, flanked by attendants, reeked of royal ties, his seal a boast of privilege. The husband, older, bragged of service, blind to his young wife's plight. A forced marriage, Chandramukha guessed—debts or status binding her to a man who'd sell her for coin.
Duty or desire? The question dogged him. Helping her risked their mission, yet ignoring her felt like betrayal, a shadow of broken promises. His feet carried him to the shore, rain merging with ocean's roar. A cry pierced the storm—not a siren's, not in this tempest, but human, urgent. "Who's there?" he called, stance firm, recalling lessons: Never flinch, never turn. "Show yourself! If you're in distress, I'll help. If not, I'm not afraid."
The cry faded, leaving only waves. He stood, the ocean's vastness calming him, Tapti's might humbling his doubts. Then her voice—Abhilasha's—cut through. "Did you hear a cry?" she asked, breathless, Mitrabhanu at her side.
"Why're you running?" Chandramukha asked, turning. "What brings you?"
Mitrabhanu shrugged, unruffled, but Abhilasha's eyes widened at the ocean, its white expanse dwarfing the rain's veil. "Tapti," she whispered, awestruck. The queen of queens, Tapti's legend, stirred her—a woman whose greatness she craved since bloodied resolve. Would I be lost if I leapt in? she wondered, then shook it off, Tapti's power erasing tavern schemes.
"Is she here?" she murmured, voice lost in the storm.
"Always," Chandramukha said, reading her lips, his words drowned but felt. The waves surged, as if Tapti heard, acknowledging her heir.
"I want to be like her," Abhilasha said, conviction childlike yet fierce, waves crashing feet away. She grinned, certain her words reached the divine.
Chandramukha smiled, understanding her spark, but Mitrabhanu broke the spell. "Can we talk about what you did?" he asked, ocean-weary from Chapter 9's storms, his sailor's past a secret tucked deep.
They stepped from the shore, waves rolling behind. "Why the rush?" Chandramukha asked Abhilasha.
"No rush," she said. "I joined their game—duty, not play."
"You're a queen," he reminded.
"As queen, I did my duty," she countered. "Even if it meant dice with a lord."
"I'd have handled it," Chandramukha said, "if it went too far."
Mitrabhanu met her gaze. "It did."
"He tried to buy that girl," she said, voice firm. "We did our best."
Chandramukha's eyes narrowed. Before, he'd trusted their judgment, but their breathless flight raised doubts. "What best?"
Mitrabhanu hesitated, embarrassment twitching his lips. "Her highness decided," he said, dodging.
"What?" Chandramukha pressed.
Abhilasha smirked, queenly mask slipping. "Some days, I let Abhilasha breathe, not the queen."
"What did you do?" His tone sharpened, rain loud against his voice.
Mitrabhanu, torn between shame and glee, spoke. "She kicked him."
"Kicked?" Chandramukha's jaw tightened. "He's a lord." He glanced back, rain hiding any pursuit. "You're not a queen here—just a woman. Think before you act."
Mitrabhanu grinned. "Guess where, my lord?"
"Where?" Chandramukha asked, voice calm but strained.
Mitrabhanu pointed downward, and Abhilasha burst into laughter—not regal, but raw, the woman inside her reveling in defiance. Chandramukha stared, speechless, as their mirth cut through the storm, a rebellion sweeter than the tavern's cries.
Laughter, not tears, was a start—a spark to carry them to Swarnchandrapura, where duty and desire would clash anew.