Demon or Devil?

Ohm, Vakra-Tunndda Maha-Kaaya Suurya-Kotti Samaprabha | Nirvighnam Kurume Deva Sarva-Karyeshu Sarvada || The loud chants and mantras filled the air. Their rhythm was punctuated by the snap of crackling fire and the soft clink of anklets and bangles. Diwali, the most revered festival in Hinduism symbolizing the victory of good over evil, was in full swing within the palace walls. Children's laughter mingled with the joyous chatter of elders as they admired the vibrant glow of lanterns and the light fragrance of flowers adorning the century-old palace. But beneath the surface, there was a heavy tension. The tightness between Crown Prince Rana Atreya Singh and his wife Jayshree had become a grim routine, marked by relentless belittling and bitter confrontations over the past six months. Their marriage was more like a business deal than a sacred bond. They were trapped together against their will, longing for nothing more than freedom from each other's company. Despite their royal status, they couldn't bear to be in each other's presence, and as time passed, the situation grew increasingly suffocating. The insults hurled between them grew harsher and more venomous by the day, occasionally escalating to verbal violence. However, tonight—the ominous night of Diwali— marked the breaking point. Their argument had reached new heights of intensity, leaving a heavy silence hanging in the air long after the slap had crimsoned Jayshree's cheek. I shouldn't have slapped her. Guilt gnawed at Atreya. This wasn't him. Rana Atreya was a man of control, a storm waiting to unleash but never on innocents. He was a devil adorning the exquisite royal crown but wasn't a monster. He hated how cruel he had become in a mere span of six months. He was losing his temper more often than ever, acting on whims like a toddler and the scowl had made his forehead a permanent home. Everything because he was trapped—in a marriage he didn't want. The wedding was as much of a burden for her as it was for me. He grimaced and cursed at the way things had gone south. "Congrats, bro!" Reyansh, the youngest prince at twenty, startled him out as a heavy arm swung around his shoulder. Atreya braced himself nearly tripping. "Please Reyansh!" The twenty-something man sneered in response. Reyansh was the only one who had gotten along with Jayshree. An unexpected friendship, considering Reyansh was known for being spoiled and she, well, she wasn't one to tolerate nonsense. Outspoken, and fiercely independent, Jayshree didn't care about anyone's opinion and wouldn't hesitate in giving a piece of her own mind to anyone who'd dare cross her. And it wasn't the rumor Atreya was relying on, he was speaking experience. It baffled him how they clicked. How could she handle Reyansh's bratty behavior but couldn't stand his arrogance? "What? Don't want to flaunt your achievement?" Reyansh snickered bitterly. "Reyansh," Atreya growled a warning. What started as a festive night was turning into a disaster. He hated how suffocated he felt, knowing he'd ruined her first celebration both as the Princess Consort and his wife. He hadn't meant to hit her. Not even in his worst nightmares. It was a monstrous impulse, and by the time he realized it, it was too late. Staring at his stinging palm, he pictured the red mark on her cheek, the hurt in her dark eyes. It would haunt him forever, a constant reminder of how he'd let Satan possess him. "I didn't mean it, ok," he muttered, the weight of his actions crushing him. "I know I am a jerk, a control freak, totally overbearing...and everything she calls me–" "Way to realize, Your Highness! What are you gonna do now? Wanna hit me too?" Reyansh scoffed, adding to Atreya's spiraling guilt as he flashed his left cheek. The venom in Reyansh's voice added another layer of self-loathing. "I... I messed up," Atreya choked, taking a deep breath. "I'll make up....look, I'm sorry, okay!" "Apologize to her," Reyansh spat. "You crossed a line this time. Wouldn't be surprised if she packs her bags and leaves first thing in the morning. Or we find you in a pool of blood! And honestly, you deserve it. Because she deserves far better. A better life, a better family, a better husband. You're baggage she shouldn't carry. She deserves someone passionate, someone who'd do anything to see her smile, someone who wouldn't be the reason she cries herself to sleep. And if the Lord does exist," Reyansh pointed toward the deity being worshiped by Maharaja Vanraj. "She'd get one before the night's over. I offer all my good deeds for a single wish." Atreya's guilt-stricken gaze darted towards her dark balcony, devoid of festive lights. His heart shattered. Not a single lamp on. He didn't need a genius to know she was weeping behind that door. Inside the chamber, Jayshree rolled on her back, her gaze falling on her reflection in the mirror adorning the massive ceiling in an intricate design. She was draped in the ornate lehenga. It was a gift from the Maharani Tara, her so-called mother-in-law in a show of formality rather than affection. Ivory diamonds glitter against the rich beige fabric, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Jayshree's heart. "Ah, I should have hit him back." She sighed, clicking her tongue. Though undeniably beautiful, the lehenga felt like a foreign shell. No matter how hard she tried, Jayshree couldn't reconcile her simple background with the opulent world she now inhabited. Maharani's disdain was clear, and it aligned with the entire royal family, including her husband Atreya, who shared even greater and deeper sentiment. Jayshree slumped by the headrest, the back of her hand scrubbing at the hot tears that streamed down her face. The comforting clink of her bangles, usually a source of solace, now mocked her with their hollow tinkling. "Not a single one is here to check on me," she choked out, her voice thick with unshed sobs. "Had I hit him back, the entire kingdom would have been breathing down my neck—questioning my upbringing and all. You missed your chance, Shree." Tonight, the mask she wore for everyone else crumbled. She didn't want to be the headstrong, courageous lawyer anymore. All she craved was the familiar embrace of her parents, the warmth that had soothed away every childhood tear. "I miss you, Mumma...Daddy!" She sobbed as memories flooded her mind of laughter echoing through their home, her mother's gentle touch, her father's booming voice. As the cherished younger daughter, she'd been showered with love, her stubborn streak blossoming alongside their unwavering support. Now, miles away from their love, she felt utterly alone, adrift in a sea of indifference created by her in-laws' coldness and her husband's arrogance. "Is it too late to go and return the favor?" She wondered, gritting her teeth and squeezing her itching palms. "He is not gonna get away from this. I swear on my Dad's blood. An eye for an eye." Jayshree was still figuring out how she'd retaliate against the physical assault when a knock startled her. "Bhen***d, I swear if any one of those swines is here to—" The endless strings of curses dried down in her throat when she took in her intruder's concerned face. "Papa?" Maharaj Vanraj, her former boss and now intimidating father-in-law blinked at her, slightly ashamed and a lot concerned. A flicker of warmth crossed Jayshree's heart; he was one of the two people in the family of sixteen who had accepted her. "It's your son's last night. He won't see the break of the dawn." She hissed, adjusting her stole and letting Vanraj in. "I'll help you hide his body and eliminate the evidence. I am sorry, Baccha!" The king wiped her tears, embracing her in a warmth that nearly resembled her father's. "I would have deleted him myself but I know you don't need a backbone to stand tall. My daughter is a warrior, remember?" He looked her in the eye. Jayshree nodded as she melted into Vanraj's arms. "I hate him." "So doI! I know every fiber in your body wants to storm down there and burst him along with the fire crackers but it has to wait." He rasped. "Jeffery has received a message from Al-Nazirah." Al-Nazirah, the name sent a jolt of terror through Jayshree. Her eyes widened. "Is...he..." She stumbled out of Vanraj's arms, shaking her head in disbelief. "It can't be—what date is it?" "Hold your horses, Jayshree. Let a man finish his thought," Vanraj muttered, though the tremor in his voice did little to quell the rising panic in the room. Jayshree couldn't fault him. The name "Al-Nazirah" was enough to send a cold sweat prickling across her skin. It wasn't a place, it was a whispered curse, a byword for depravity. Everyone had their own nightmares born from that name, their own personal visions of hell. But for those who truly understood, Al-Nazirah transcended imagination. It was hell, forged in the harshest desert sun, where humanity went to die and he was the Demon ruling in the shadows. A year ago, Advocate Jayshree Dhanraj had walked into a viper's nest – Al-Nazirah. Representing an Indian client in a land dispute against the ruthless mafia lord Jalal Haidar Bin Al-Said, she'd stumbled upon a truth far more obscene than mere property greed. On the surface, Al-Nazirah glittered with gold and opulence when in reality it was a mirage masking a heart of cruelty. Three months spent clawing through the underbelly of that gilded cage had been enough to scar Jayshree – not just the jagged mark that ran from her neck to her lower back, but the indelible etchings on her soul. The case may have ended with Haider's conviction for a year and a public humiliation that stung the Demon deeply, but it had also ignited a dangerous obsession within him. "These stones of my cell echo with your name, Shreeji. It feels like an engraving on my soul. You hungered for my downfall, and Allah has granted your wish. Now, savor the fruit of your victory, before it's your turn to kneel before mine." Jayshree had hated the way his filthy hands were clasped around her wrists. She could do but glare daggers that didn't even touch him. "I love your fierceness." His sinister chuckles made her blood turn cold. "I am Jalal Haidar, a demon forged in the desert's heart. Your intelligence and courage have enchanted a demon's soul. This burn of an insatiable hunger will subside only when I consume you—body and soul. I am gonna devour every fiber of your being. A year will crawl by, but when I rise from this cage...the insanity for you will be the biggest doom history will ever witness. I will be your eternity." A year. Three hundred and sixty-five nights, Jayshree was haunted by his obsidian ocean eyes, burning with a possessive hunger that clawed at her sanity. Every blink was a replay of his cruel smirk promising a twisted eternity. Though Jayshree had fled to India in a desperate attempt to outrun the phantom echoes of Jalal Haidar's threats, she was only feeding her illusion that was about to shatter in a minute. RATATATATATATATATA "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!" It was the first time she had ever squealed like a chicken but she had no time to be mortified. Soon, the melody of celebration curdled and was replaced by the unmistakable staccato of gunfire. Jayshree shirked as a tremor ran down her spine. "He is here, Papa." She whispered, evidently panicked. "Jalal is here to get me." ___ Downstairs, the opulent palace erupted into chaos. The earlier giggles were swallowed by the terrified screams that shattered the air. Laughing children clung to mothers whose eyes mirrored terror. Guests dove for cover while their jewels glittered like grotesque tears. In less than five minutes, the joyous celebration morphed into a warzone. Glasses rained down. The flickering lanterns cast an eerie glow on the scrambling figures. The royal guards, hopelessly outnumbered, fought desperately to shield the petrified royals – Maharani, princes, consorts, all cowering under the sudden storm. But against Jalal Haidar's personal army, their resistance was a fly buzzing against a windshield. Atreya was pushed behind a pillar by Ishaan—the mammoth for a bodyguard. Ishaan had already triggered the alarm and was desperately waiting for the help to arrive when suddenly, a voice—a guttural roar that cut through the pandemonium—boomed, "Cease fire!" An unnatural silence descended, thick and heavy with a chilling anticipation. Eager eyes searched for the figure who was only too pleased to step in. Jalal Haidar Bin Al-Nazirah commanded attention as he strode into the room, exuding an air of confidence and dominance. Clad in a tailored suit of midnight black, the fabric that hugged his broad shoulders and emphasized his towering frame of six feet four inches—he was the force who had summoned the sand storm in the breezy Palace of Partaph Garh. His ocean-blue eyes, accentuated by the deep black of Surma, pierced through the room, capturing the attention of all who dared to meet his gaze. It held an intensity that could both mesmerize and intimidate. Lush, full lips were set in a firm line, hinting at both power and restraint. A subtle stubble roughened his jawline, adding a raw edge to his otherwise refined demeanor. His dark shoulder-length locks pulled back into a semi-pointed tail, wiggled carelessly. A scar traced a jagged path down his left eyebrow in stark contrast to the perfection of his chiseled features. It was the only blemish on his otherwise flawless visage. "Wallah! Happy Diwali, Habibti," he exclaimed with a wicked smile that made people cower and whimper. Chuckling at the uneasy silence, he continued to walk further into the room, unfazed by the pointed guns of the royal security. "What? I thought you people enjoy the shattering noises of weapons. Isn't that why you burst the firecrackers?" he asked no one in particular. "Anyways! JAYSHREE DHANRAJ," he bellowed, his voice surprisingly cultured. "Would you join me willingly," Jalal's voice echoed, a predator toying with his cornered prey. "Or shall we start painting these gilded walls with the blood of your precious royals?" His gaze flicked across the terrified faces, a cruel amusement flickering in his ocean-blue eyes. "The hunt is over, Zawjat al-Shaytan, [wife of the demon]" he purred, the words dripping with a twisted possessiveness. Haider's wandering eyes awaited to bask in the beauty of his Shreeji. Instead, Rana Atreya emerged from his hiding place behind the pillar with danger written all over his face. "Who? Are. You?" His calculative voice held a note of warning. "And why are you looking for my wife?" He stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest just as an angry growl pierced the chilling coldness along with faint tinkles of anklets as Jayshree descended in. [Translation of the opening verse: (Salutations to Sri Ganesha) Who has a Curved Trunk, Who has a Large Body and Whose Splendour is similar to Million Suns; 2: O Deva, Please Make My Undertakings Free of Obstacles, By extending Your Blessings in All My Works, Always.]