Sumanika (The Prince’s Widowed Bride #1)

Suman

A man 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, Daadisa, 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 birth to my hopes, a living me from my grave.

It seemed too late.

The fire licked my hair tail.

Everything turned into chaos. People started running. Finally, there were screams other than mine, pumping breaths to my failing life.

“ Help! Please!” the remains of my strength struggled once more.

My gaze met a young man ’ s allure, charged with the naked sword in his hand. A few soldiers in dark red clothes approached, untied me, and pulled me down, immediately brushing my burning hair tail with their bare hands.

“ 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 soldiers.

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

“ Do not do this,”

“ Do not free her. It ’ s a bad omen,”

“ She is his wife... Stop!”

Among all the voices, I recognized a familiar tone laced with authority and frustration. “ Are you all out of your minds? That ’ s not allowed in Suryagarh,”

Pulling me up by the wrist, he put his arm around me. The immediate comfort made me lifeless.

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

With my tear-filled eyes, I couldn ’ t stop gazing at his sweaty face, speckled with dirt, and his wavy-curly hair dancing over his forehead. A faint scar adorned his cheek, and his mere warning was enough to send a shiver 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 inaudible voice emerged slowly as I heard the distant sounds of people screaming.

“ This is not your Suryagarh and not your business. Put her back on the pyre, or you will all be lying over one by the end of the day.” One of them said.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed hundreds from our tribe standing up for their ritual, outnumbering a few of us.

“ This woman is from Suryagarh, and this cannot happen to her!” he stood firm on his grounds, never stepping back.

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

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

I burst into tears.

What was 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 backward and ordered, “ You stand here,” gently leaving my hand.

I fell to the ground.

“ You must go back, Kunwarsa; 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 the sobs, my face down.

Swords ’ clash intensified.

I couldn ’ t help but gaze at Kunwarsa, handling a group of tribal sickles against his sword.

Suddenly, someone struck his biceps, and the blood splashed on my face, scaring me to death.

He yelled deep.

“ Please, don ’ t do this for me,” I shivered, “ You ’ re the Prince; you shouldn ’ t risk your life,” the mere possibility of him losing grounding me worse than being burnt.

Why was he doing it?

How did he even end up here?

How did he know me at all?

He plunged the sword into a tribal ’ s stomach, "Aaahhhh,"

My heart raced. Blood was pooling around.

Suddenly, a group of a dozen trapped him, falling him to his knees, piercing his skin from all the 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 Kunwarsa grabbed me and pulled me back.

I screamed. “ Leave me alone! 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 Kunwarsa.

He pulled me to his chest, our knees crashing into each other, and when I protested, he landed a sharp slap on my cheek, watering my rage and yelling furiously. “ Stay Here.”

I burst into crying.

"Please, it's your wedding in six months; do not do this for me.”

I could hear swords clashing, and then, I noticed an even louder noise as a crowd rushed towards us. Around fifty people encircled him, assaulting from every direction. I looked at my late husband ’ s father, who gripped my hand and started pulling me away.

“ Leave me!” I yelled. His hold biting on my grazed wrist as he dragged me through the mud, dirtying my white attire.

“ Kunwarsa” I yelped.

He killed people mercilessly, one by one, his clothes stained with the blood of his and theirs.

A coppery taste lingered on my tongue, seeing so much bloodshed. He thrust his sword into the stomach of another person and yelled. "Leave her alone, I said," and sprinted towards me.

He held my hand.

I was being pulled from both sides: the deceased ’ s father and Kunwarsa.

“ Let go of her hand. She needs to die with him. Don ’ t bring the wrath of the gods upon yourself. Leave her,” the father yelled at him, and Kunwarsa punched him hard, knocking him to the ground. He cried out in pain.

Kunwarsa pulled me closer, his steel-strong arm wrapping around my waist as he moved forward with his sword. “ This is wrong. She wants to live; let her live. She wasn ’ t a burden to him. She is on her own and doesn ’ t deserve to be killed like that.” He argued, and I cried, burying my face in his chest and collapsing to my knees in despair. He also sank to his knees and tightened his grip around me.

“ She is a widow. There ’ s no life for her; no husband means no support and nothing left. She needs to give up on her life,”

“ Yes, she needs to be tied to that pyre. You are sinning,”

"Leave her, or we will kill you. This is our ritual,"

"Leave her alone,"

I heard the distinct voices of people yelling at Kunwarsa, and he inhaled deeply. “ She is our responsibility. Suryagarh will take care of her. She belongs there; she works there, so you don ’ t need to worry about her. Consider her dead already, and let her…live,”

“ No! We can ’ t do this and make our gods unhappy. His soul will never rest in peace; she needs to die along with him,” the people argued.

The frustration was visible on his face. “ You all are sick. She is not an animal but a human being, a woman. If she doesn ’ t want to die with him, don ’ t force her. She wants to live,” he yelled.

I clenched my fist tightly against his chest. His heartbeats poured into my ears, and a cold sweat bead crawled down his jaw and fell onto my neck. He placed his hand on my head.

“ I won ’ t let you kill her in front of me,” his voice was firm.

The father asked. "Who the hell is she to you? She is just a maid in Suryagarh. Why the hell are you even trying to protect her?"

He breathed shakily, “ She means nothing to me, but she is still a human, and if she wants to live, she… will.”

Another man said, “ She cannot live like that. There is no life for a widow in our tribe; she needs to lie on that pyre.”

“ She won ’ t, and I ’ ll make sure of it.”

“ What the hell can you even do? Look at us and look at you. You can ’ t protect her alone,” the man argued.

"I am the Prince of Suryagarh, and you know what our army can do,” He raised his voice.

“ How easy it is for you to threaten us because we follow our customs,” one argued. “ You can gladly kill us, and we will be happy to get killed while protecting the happiness of our gods. She needs to be served by the God of Death along with her husband, or neither of them will ever find peace,”

“ No one will touch her. Either I ’ ll kill you all, or you ’ ll let me take her from here with no hassle,” he declared.

Suddenly, a soldier whispers in his ear, “ It doesn ’ t work that way, Prince. If you want to protect her from them, she either needs to die or get married to someone else. I know this tribe; even if you take her away, they will keep searching for her, and one day, they ’ ll kill her because they believe her deceased husband will never find peace without her death.”

I trembled, breaking apart, and he looked at me with worry on his face. For a moment, I felt lost, staring into his caring eyes.

“ Who will marry her this instant?” he asked, looking away at the soldier.

“ You can ask them if any of them wants to marry her.” Soldier replied.

My body was trembling.

“ She will marry someone,” Kunwarsa announced.

I shut my eyes tight. I didn ’ t want to. I wanted to go home.

"Who?" they asked in unity.

"Anyone who wants to marry her," He murmured.

One of them chuckled. “ Who will want to marry such a bad omen knowing he is going to die, eventually?”

Kunwarsa patted my head as I cried uncontrollably in his arms and argued, “ We all will die, eventually. How is she a bad omen? It ’ s not her fault that her husband died; she wasn ’ t even with him all this time.”

"Why don ’ t you marry her, then?"

A strong shiver ran down my spine, and I immediately opened my eyes.

“ No!” I interrupted. “ He cannot marry me.” He gently placed his palm on my mouth, pressing my face into his warm chest. My lashes were forced closed. I could feel our hearts beating loudly.

"I will, but let us go," he offered. I shivered with fear. This could not happen—not at all.

A few objected, “ Marry her now. We don ’ t trust you. Or leave her alone here; let us finish our ritual.”

I looked at him, sniveling. The bloody sword was still hanging in his hand. The rage filled his eyes as he turned to look at me. I hid my face, unable to meet his gaze. I knew nothing.

Let me die. Don ’ t do this.

“ You should not do this. Your bride will not like it. Please,” I protested, muffling and crying.

“ I will,” he decided, and I was stunned, noticing the faint sound of him cutting his thumb against his sword.

I hid my face even more and shook my head terribly.

“ No, No, You are a Prince, and I am just a maid. You cannot do this,” I argued, but he cupped my nape tightly and made me look into his eyes.

Tears streamed down my cheeks uncontrollably as I felt him touch the top of my forehead and fill the part in my hair with his thick and warm blood.

I burst into tears and immediately tried to wipe his blood off, but he grasped my wrist and pulled me closer. I sobbed.

“ She is mine now!” he shouted. “ Touch her, and you will all burn alive on your pyres!”