The Guardian's Resolve
The silence of the Chandrapuri royal guards' barracks was a different breed from the oppressive hush of the palace. Here, in the spartan room he called his own, the quiet was purposeful, broken only by the soft whisper of turning pages and the rhythmic scratch of Alok's charcoal stick on scrap parchment. Maps of the palace grounds were spread across his low cot, not marked with troop movements, but with small, precise notations.
"West Garden - Marigold incident. Residual energy: corrosive."
"Council Chamber - Prince's agitation spiked when Vani was within reach."
"Private Dining Hall - Emotional outburst. Talisman registered a spike 10 paces from the door."
Alok was a man of observation and logic. The world, to him, was a series of cause and effect, of patterns and probabilities. The change in Prince Devansh was the most illogical, terrifying variable he had ever encountered, and he was determined to solve it.
His hand went to the simple cord wrapped around the hilt of his sword. The sage-and-sandalwood talisman felt warm, as it often did lately, a constant, faint thrum against his palm. Since the confrontation in the training grounds, he had begun his own private investigation. The Prince's violent recoil from the talisman's faint glow was not a detail he would, or could, forget. It was a data point. An anomaly. And anomalies were vulnerabilities.
He had started discreetly testing its effects. He would walk the corridors outside the Prince's chambers, varying his distance. He noted that the talisman's warmth increased the closer he got to the Prince's door, pulsing with a soft, silvery light that was invisible in the daylight but clear in the shadows. It was a Geiger counter for spiritual decay, and the readings were off the chart.
Tonight, he was taking a greater risk. The Prince had retired to his chambers an hour ago. The palace was asleep. Alok, moving with the silence that was his second nature, slipped into the archives—a section rarely visited, dedicated not to genealogy or trade ledgers, but to the older, more esoteric knowledge of the kingdom. The air was thick with the scent of crumbling paper, dried herbs, and forgotten things.
He was looking for a pattern in the past to explain the horror of the present.
His search, fueled by a desperate, loyal dread, led him to a heavy, leather-bound tome, its cover embossed with a symbol that made his blood run cold: a serpent coiled around a veena. The title, in faded gold leaf, read: "Treatises on Celestial Afflictions and Spiritual Maladies."
His heart hammered against his ribs as he carried it to a secluded alcove, lighting a single, guttering oil lamp. He flipped through pages describing possession by minor spirits, psychic vampirism, curses of jealousy... and then he found it.
The chapter was titled: "The Ahoratra Rakshas: The Corruption That Feeds on Light."
His eyes devoured the text, the ancient, formal language painting a terrifying picture.
"The Ahoratra Rakshas is not a demon of flesh and blood, but a parasitic consciousness, a fragment of primordial chaos that seeks vessels of great spiritual purity. It cannot create darkness where none exists; instead, it twists the light, perverting it from within."
Alok's breath caught. Vessels of great spiritual purity. Prince Devansh.
"The infection is insidious, a slow poison to the soul. It begins by amplifying negative emotions—frustration, pride, fear—feeding on them until they eclipse the host's innate goodness. The victim's own energy becomes the weapon of their destruction."
Amplifying negative emotions. The coldness, the irritation, the rage that was so foreign to the Prince's nature.
"The Rakshas requires an anchor, a physical object intimately connected to the host's soul through which to channel its influence. Often, it is an object of great personal power or sentimental value."
An anchor. Vani. The veena was not just an instrument; it was the lightning rod for this storm.
He read on, his hope turning to ash with every word.
"The corruption manifests physically in the later stages. The host may exhibit unnatural strength, a cold, logical cruelty, and their innate powers may become twisted, reflecting the Rakshas's nature. Some texts speak of a 'crimson aura' or the ability to wither life with a touch."
Wither life with a touch. The blackened marigold.
The final paragraph sent a chill straight to his soul.
"Conventional weapons are useless. The Rakshas is a spiritual cancer. Separation from the anchor is the first and most critical step, but it is also the most dangerous. The host, their will subsumed, will protect the anchor with ferocious, violent desperation, seeing any attempt to remove it as a mortal threat. The only known vulnerabilities are pure, concentrated energies of the opposite nature—often found in blessed objects, certain rare crystals, or the focused will of a truly selfless heart."
Alok slowly closed the book, the soft thud echoing in the silent archive. The puzzle was solved. The diagnosis was in. And it was worse than he could have ever imagined.
Prince Devansh was not just changed. He was being consumed. His own divine light was being used as fuel for his own destruction. And Vani, the symbol of his soul, was the engine of his damnation.
He thought of the Prince's sneer. "You are a bodyguard, Alok. Stick to your duties."
A grim, cold resolve solidified within him. He looked at the talisman on his sword. Its gentle, silvery glow was the "pure, concentrated energy" the text spoke of. It was a scalpel. A tiny, fragile one, but a scalpel nonetheless.
His duty was clear. It was no longer just to protect the Prince's body from assassins' blades. It was to protect his soul from a predator he could not see. He was the only one who knew the enemy's name, its nature, and its weakness.
He would need to speak to the others. The Princess Mrinal, Prince Aaditya. They had to know. The rescue attempt the texts described would not be a simple intervention. It would be a spiritual exorcism. It would require precision, timing, and a sacrifice he was utterly willing to make.
He extinguished the lamp and melted back into the shadows of the corridor, the weight of the ancient knowledge settling on his shoulders. He was no longer just a sword arm. He was a scholar, a strategist, and the holder of the only key that could possibly pick the lock on Devansh's cage.
The Guardian's duty had just expanded into a realm he had never dreamed of. And he would not fail.