“Hand over the Vaidya, old man,” Prince Bhimasen of Vikramshila growled, his armour streaked with blood and sweat. He stood before King Aditya, gripping Princess Ananta by the hair. With a cruel yank, he made her squeal in pain, unfazed by the fact that he was threatening his own wife and father-in-law.

Princess Ananta let out a soft whimper, her terrified eyes locking onto her father’s. “Don’t, Father!” her gaze silently pleaded, even as her pale skin glistened with fear and her trembling form barely managed to stay upright.

The torches flickered wildly against the stone walls of Suryagarh’s royal chamber, their glow casting long, twisted shadows. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Bhimasen’s elite forces had swept through the palace in the dead of night, their blades silencing every guard and attendant who dared to stand in their way. Now, his men stood like wraiths in the chamber, their hands on the hilts of their weapons, keeping the remaining courtiers in check. Some wailed softly, others clutched their mouths in terror, while a few simply stood frozen, their faces ashen.

Staring angrily at Bhimasen, King Aditya sat rigid on his throne, his weathered hands gripping the lion-carved armrests. Next to him, young Prince Virendra, barely eight years old, trembled violently, his wide eyes darting between his father and the brother-in-law who had turned their palace into a battlefield. Terrified, he blurted out, “I-I’ll fetch him!”

“Wait!” King Aditya’s voice rang sharp, his jaw clenched with fury as he stopped his son. Then, turning his glare to Bhimasen, he hissed, “This is not the way of kings. You came to me as an ally, yet you now act as a barbarian!”

Bhimasen laughed, the sound devoid of mirth. “Spare me the lectures, Maharaj. My father gave you the choice of war or peace. You chose peace, yet you kept secrets from him.” He took a slow step forward, the flickering firelight reflecting in his predatory eyes. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about the miracle your Vaidya is creating? The nectar of immortality! And you hoard it, letting me—your own son-in-law—rot in the battle for the throne while you sit here in wisdom and luxury.”

King Aditya’s face darkened. “The throne of Vikramshila belongs to the eldest son, not you. Do not lay eyes on things that do not belong to you.”

“I AM the son of the Queen while he was sired by a concubine! I deserve the throne!” Bhimasen spat out angrily.

“That does not matter!” King Aditya replied, praying inwardly for the young prince to see reason.

Bhimasen’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Hah!” Without hesitation, he shoved Princess Ananta to the ground and plunged his sword into her chest. “Tell me, Maharaj, does it matter now?”

A collective gasp tore through the chamber. The courtiers recoiled in horror as Ananta collapsed, her hands clutching at the deep gash on her chest, dyeing her yellow garments crimson. Her heart was full of grief, and her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but she choked and blood filled her mouth.

At the same moment, King Aditya’s voice thundered in shock and agony, “ANANTA!” Sword drawn in rage, he lunged at Bhimasen.

Bhimasen deflected the attack with ease, sending the old king stumbling backwards. His men stepped in, their blades flashing in warning. Bhimasen turned to Prince Virendra, his expression alight with malice. “Get that Vaidya now, or I’ll end your fatherjust like I ended your sister.”

Aghast, the young prince, his legs shaking, turned and sprinted toward the chamber doors. But before he could reach them, the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

A hush fell over the room.

The old Vaidya, Acharya Mananhesitantly stepped inside, caution flickering in his eyes—only to be replaced by fear as he took in the sight before him. He had left his chambers with a smile of triumph, his son holding a bundle of scrolls to his chest, and his daughter carefully carrying a delicate, jewel-encrusted bowl filled with a golden, shimmering liquid. They had done it. They had recreated Soma Rasa.

Their excitement dimmed as they found one body after another lying strewn along the path to the King’s royal chambers. Fearing what they might encounter, the young Vaidya threw the scrolls aside and took the tray from his sister. “Stop!” he ordered her under his breath before stepping into the chamber. “Head back to your room and bolt the doors.”

He saw Prince Virendra standing before them, his face streaked with tears. Then his gaze lifted—taking in the bloodied chamber, the trembling courtiers, King Aditya’s frozen grief, and Bhimasen’s dark silhouette looming over them all.

And then… he saw her.

Princess Ananta lay motionless on the floor, her blood still pooling, her eyes closed—never to open again. “Nandini…” the name escaped in a murmur, and the tray trembled in the young Vaidya’s hands.

His fingers clenched around the tray as cold, numbing despair settled in his chest. He had failed again. Nandini—his Nandini—he had failed her once more! Another lifetime, another chance… and still, he was powerless to save her.

“Ah,” Bhimasen drawled, shoving King Aditya aside as he stepped forward. His gaze flicked between the old and the young Vaidya before landing on the golden liquid. “That must be it. The nectar of immortality!”

The old Vaidya straightened, pushing his son behind him. “It is not what you think,” he declared, his voice strong despite the horror in his eyes.

Bhimasen smirked. “Your King,” he gestured toward the old Vaidya, “refused to offer you to me when I asked. So I came to collect you myself.” His eyes gleamed with greed. “Now, hand over the Soma Rasa.”

The young Vaidya had his gaze fixed on the fallen princess. His heart writhed at the sight, and tears welled in his eyes. Turning his gaze back to Bhimasen, he forced his voice to remain steady and said, “This is not Soma Rasa—the nectar of immortality you seek. It is merely the Maharaj’s daily medicine.”

Bhimasen chuckled. “Is that so?” In a flash, he was beside King Aditya—and in one swift motion, he plunged his sword into the old king’s chest.

The Maharaj let out a strangled cry, his body swaying as Bhimasen ripped the blade free. The chamber erupted into chaos. Courtiers shrieked, some collapsing to their knees, others muffling sobs. Before anyone could react, the sword found its way into Prince Virendra’s small body as well.

A choked gasp escaped the boy’s lips as his tiny frame crumpled to the floor.

Bhimasen turned to the Vaidya, his voice thick with triumph. “Now, I am your Maharaj. Hand over MY medicine.”

The old Vaidya, his face etched with fear, grief and fury, shook his head. “It is not meant for power-hungry men.”

Bhimasen’s eyes burned with rage. Without another word, he lunged forward. His sword arced through the air and struck true—cleaving the Vaidya’s head from his shoulders. A spray of crimson splattered onto the young Vaidya and into the golden liquid.

The bowl quivered.

The Soma Rasa shimmered.

A ripple of energy pulsed through the chamber, and Bhimasen’s eyes gleamed with unrestrained hunger. Whatever had just been created—whatever fusion of life, death, and immortality had occurred—he knew one thing.

It belonged to him now.

He was a predator. Blood was his sustenance, his obsession, and nothing else could satisfy him. It was a primal need, an unrelenting thirst that ruled his existence. He preferred human blood—it was richer, more flavourful—but when necessary, he could survive on animal blood.

His past was a void, erased by time or perhaps by choice. He remembered nothing of who he was or where he had come from. How long had he been like this? Days? Years? Centuries? He no longer knew. All he knew was the thirst—the never-ending itch in his throat, gnawing at him like a constant companion.

Daylight was his enemy. The sun’s touch seared his flesh, forcing him into the shadows. He spent his days sleeping in dark, secluded places—caves, underground dungeons, the tangled roots of banyan trees. Sometimes, he submerged himself in still pools of water, holding his breath for hours. The darkness was his sanctuary, a shield against a world that would never understand him.

But the night—oh, the night belonged to him.

When the sun dipped below the horizon and the world was cloaked in darkness, he emerged. The night was alive with possibilities. With prey. He never killed them; that was messy and reckless. Instead, he rendered them unconscious and drank his fill, savouring every drop. His fangs, sharp as needles, left bite marks that vanished within hours—often before his victims were even discovered. No one ever remembered. No one ever suspected.

He was careful. Always careful. He never hunted twice in the same place. It was safer that way. Even if some brilliant mind managed to connect the dots, he would already be gone, leaving no trace behind. Survival depended on remaining unseen. Unknown.

Tonight’s prey had been particularly delicious—a human, after days of starvation. Every drop had been a reward, a reminder of why he endured this existence.

As the first hints of dawn crept across the sky, he raced to find shelter. Somewhere dark, cold, and forgotten.

Somewhere he could disappear.

Until the night called him once more.