The Aravali jungle, once a place of silence, became a theater of divine slaughter. The moon hid behind the clouds, unwilling to witness the carnage about to unfold.

The Prince of the Karkotak Vansh stood over the broken body of Atharv, his heart an organ that had been cold for millennia now burning with a heat that threatened to incinerate the world. He looked at the bruises on Atharv’s face, the crushed fingers, and the blood soaking through his charcoal suit.He felt a shame that tasted like copper. He was a Prince of the Naga throne, a guardian of the ancient blood, and he had allowed these keedas (insects) to touch his Bharya.