Sumanika, Vol. 2 (The Prince’s Widowed Bride #2)

Chapter 1 Suman

Aman dragged me to the center.

The cries of his family froze my body. Yet, a stronger cyclone was brewing inside me.

I felt entirely lifeless—death—closer than ever.

Life had always been dull, but I never imagined my end like this, to which I contributed nothing. Yet I would be lying on the pyre—all alive—only because I’d taken the seven holy rounds around the sacred fire.

I didn’t know who he was. He never spoke to me or cared if I was well-fed, slept, alive, or dead.

In these twenty-three years of life, he never considered me his wife. He loved his mistress, but upon his death, I was called to hug him on his deathbed and let the intense, scorching flames of fire sear my skin until I melted and died. Non-consensually.

The tears fell from my eyes, not because my husband had died, but because I saw my remaining hope subside.

This world hated to see me happy. God knew what destiny had for me.

My family married me off at sixteen to a man double my age, who only cared to get between my legs. And, after he was done ruining every inch of me, he went to someone else.

I compromised with that, my life—focused ahead, but they couldn’t help and called me to mourn his death.

But, Little did I know of their intention of pushing me to his pyre of the end, as our customs and traditions couldn’t see a left woman live her life on her own and at her best.

The shutter of my eyes closed as four young men, seemingly sensible, tied my hands, added flowers, decorated the final bed of the deceased, and laid me—an offering for the man I wholeheartedly hated—to play with, even in the next of his lives.

Why?

Why did you make me a woman?

Why did you even give me a life?

Was I that terrible?

Did I deserve all this?

I broke into the cries, my screams louder than the mourners, mentally preparing myself to break all the worldly ties.

Yet, the cries of my soul, feared to be burnt alive, forced my hands, my fingers stretching tight, “Ahh,” groaning in pain to get rid of the rope of binds.

“Please! I beg you, please don’t do this! Please,” my voice broke, vision blurred, skin sweated, nose filled with incense and flowers, signifying the end of the last ritual, beginning the end of mine.

“Please, I don’t want to die,” I screamed. The noise of his father’s footsteps approaching closer with a water pot hanging bent on his shoulder, eyes filled with tears, heart deprived of humanity, and mind washed for traditions, filled my ears.

I shook my head, moved my legs, and raked my eyes, searching for the hope, a spark, a breath of care for a life.

I knew I was no one. But, I was someone!

There was a soul inside me—memories, experiences, people, smiles, and pride. Weren’t there any among the tribe?

His father marched around the pyre, spilling the water.

I called, begged, and preached, “Please, I beg you, please. He left me alone. I am no longer his wife. He never considered me one. Please, please, I am begging you, leave me, please,” unable to settle that I was about to die.

He left the pot, breaking it into pieces, sending shivers down my body and raising the chills in my mind.

I cried.

Cried louder.

My screams penetrated through the thick silence, waiting to be filled with the smoke of a live burn, unable to reach the deaf ears around me.

My soul hid somewhere deep, trembling and wheezing, flooding my mind with memories of Nandani, Daadisa1, and everyone who was, and even those who weren’t, my home.

I didn't want to die. Not like this. What was my mistake?

“Please, I am begging you, please, leave me, please,” my cries only grew louder, my throat burning, the ropes leaving marks on my wrists. But their souls were darker than the devils.

They do this and still ask why cataclysm happens.

“Please, someone help, please, leave me,” the base of my hair filled with sweat, noticing his father grabbing the burning wood and lightening someone alive and dead.

I hastened, stretching myself. My ankles grazed against the jute, my pleads worrisome—feared.

But amid the noise, I heard the fire breaking under me; the smoke erupting, clouding, hiding, forcing, enveloping, and finally welcoming me.

“Please, I am begging you, please, do not do it.” I screamed, shattered.

The glasses are lucky—at least they get picked up and thrown comfortably. I was being crushed, silenced, and burnt.

My eyes closed. Misery surrounds me. My body was giving up, and my senses were failing.

Yet my soul screamed.

To be free.

“Please,” I shrieked. “Ahhhhhh,” heat dragging me, “Leave me please,” I begged. Hardly audible. “I will kill you; leave me!” I even threatened.

But no one.

No one was alive.

If god loved the dead more than the alive, why did he make breathing so divine?

The sky, the trees, the dawn—everything was watching. The winds, the hiding sun, and the impatience of birds signify nature’s crying.

And people—they stood dead. Enjoying.

I screeched, “Please, someone save me, please,” one last time before the coughs clogged me, smoke puffed my chest, and flames shortened my breath.

One side of the pyre had caught the fire. My braid lay inches away. My body numbed, feeling the heat searing in the mound’s bottom.

It hurt, “I am begging you, please leave me. I will do as you all say. I will never show my face to anyone.” But I only screamed.

I screamed with everything I had. “Pleaseeeeee,”

No one listened, so I had to prepare for my heavenly adobe.

My clothes would catch fire, my skin would melt, my braid burn, a symphony of yelps would begin, and thunder of screams would erupt, scorching my cheeks, taking my eyes, thinning me to bones, and finally claiming my soul.

But.

“What the hell is happening here?” a loud voice said, sending chills down my spine.

It gave breath to my dying hope, a living from my grave.

But it seemed too late.

The fire tugged at the tips of my hair.

Everything became chaotic. People started running. I heard screams, not just my own, but a sound that somehow breathed life back into me.

“Help, please!” The remains of my strength struggled once more.

My gaze met a young man’s allure, charging toward me with a sword in his hand. Soldiers clad in red approached, released me, and hauled me down. Their bare hands immediately brushed my burning hair.

“Are you all right?” one of them asked.

My knees faltered as I stepped away from the pyre, falling and breaking into tears. Bending forward, pressing my forehead into the ground, I let it all out.

Behind, a protest surged between the tribe and the soldiers.

“You cannot do this. It is a sin. She must die.”

“Do not do this,”

“Do not free her. It’s a bad omen.”

“She is his wife... Stop!”

I recognised one voice, laced with power and frustration, among all the others. “Have all of you lost your minds?” Pulling me up by the wrist, he put his arm around me. “Suryagarh forbids this.”

The immediate comfort made me lifeless.

A crowd emerged from the trees, wielding sharp blades. He lifted his sword high into the air.

With my tear-filled eyes, I peered at his sweaty face, speckled with dirt, and his wavy hair dancing over his forehead. A faint scar adorned his cheek, and his mere warning was enough to send shivers down my spine.

“Don’t you dare come any closer, you bastards!”

I buried my face in his chest out of fear. “Help, please!” My barely audible voice emerged from within as I heard the people screaming in the distance.

“This is not your Suryagarh, so all of this has nothing to do with you. Put her back on the pyre, or you will all be lying over one by the end of the day.” One of them threatened.

From the corner of my eye, I saw hundreds from our tribe standing strong, advocating the malicious ritual and outnumbering us.

“This woman is from Suryagarh, and this cannot happen to her!” he stood firm on his ground, refusing to step back.

“Leave me. They will kill you, too,” I stammered, clenching my fist on his chest before he looked at me.

“Are you out of your mind?” he shouted, shaking me.

I burst into tears.

What is happening because of me?

People carrying swords and sickles ran toward us. The clash between them and Suryagarh’s soldiers pierced my spine. Smoke, screams, and blood filled the air.

He pulled me backwards and ordered, “You stand here,” gently leaving my hand.

I fell to the ground.

“You must go back, Kunwar-sa2; your wedding is in six months. Please don’t do this for me. I’m just a maid,” I babbled.

He stood before me, hiding me, gripping the sword. I pulled my knees closer to my chest, breaking into sobs.

The swords’ clash intensified.

I couldn’t help but watch Kunwar-sa handling a group of tribal sickles with his sword.

Suddenly, someone struck his upper arm, and his blood splashed on my face, freezing me to death.

A throaty scream escaped from his mouth.

“Please don’t do this for me,” I shivered, “You’re the Prince; you shouldn’t risk your life.”

The mere thought of him losing ground made me feel worse than being burned.

Why is he doing this?

How did he even end up here?

How does he know me?

As he plunged the sword into a tribal’s stomach, my heart raced. Blood was pooling around.

Suddenly, a dozen of them trapped him, pushing him to his knees, piercing his skin from all corners.

No, no, no, no.

“Don’t do this,” I screamed.

Death was better. I couldn’t see anything happening to him.

I immediately got up and ran toward the burning funeral pyre.

But Kunwar-sa grabbed me and pulled me back.

I screamed. “Leave me! I deserve this. Please don’t kill anyone for me. Don’t do this. I deserve it,” I cried out.

The soldiers diverted the killer’s attention, pulling them away from Kunwar-sa.

As he pulled me to his chest, our knees crashed into each other, and when I protested, he landed a sharp slap on my cheek, dousing my rage, yelling furiously. “Stay here.”

I burst into tears. “Please, it’s your wedding in six months; don’t do this for me.”