2- MEMORIES AND HATRED.

"Eira, come. Lemme explain this equation to you."

"Eira, you’ll not tell anyone about this, right?"

"Eira, you’re a good girl, hmm?"

The whispers of the past slithered into my head, like poison dripping through veins. I could still hear them, soft but suffocating.

"N…No, please. D…don’t come near me. I’ll… I’ll kill you."

"Please, p…please. I won’t tell anyone b…but don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me!"

Then silence. Always that cursed silence that follows screaming.

"I… I didn’t kill him. I didn’t… didn’t kill."

"Please, someone… call my parents."

"My…my parents."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My eyes shot open. I sat upright, drenched in sweat, heart clawing at my ribcage as though it wanted to tear itself free. The nightmare again. The same one that had shackled my nights for twelve goddamn years. There was no sleep for me—only prisons made of memory.

When will I get out of this hell? When? The answer was cruelly simple—never.

And then, like a ghost creeping through the walls, her voice played in my head:

"Eira, you’re gonna pay for what you said to Alaric. And I’ll make sure you learn your lesson."

The bitch. That witchy bitch.

I laughed—a bitter, broken sound that didn’t even reach my throat. What a joke my life had become.

Dragging myself to the mirror, I stared at the stranger staring back. Pale skin, hollow eyes, lips cracked from nights of silence. This wasn’t me. Not the girl who once laughed so hard the world shook with her joy. No, that girl was dead. What stood in her place was Eira Valtor—empty soul in a breathing corpse.

"Mom, I’m sorry. I’ll not misbehave with Alaric again. I won’t even talk to him. I'll be good, I promise. Please, just… stop this."

Those words still cut through me like glass, reminders of the day innocence was stripped from my skin. What sin did I commit to deserve this goddamn punishment?

I grabbed clothes from my wardrobe with shaky hands, forcing myself into the bathroom. Cold water. Only icy water numbed the memories, numbing me long enough to pretend I was still human.

---

Later — College.

I sat in the last class, scribbling nonsense into my notebook, mind nowhere near the chalkboard. My last lecture for the day, but the dread still lingered like smoke in my lungs.

When the class ended, I slipped into my car, eager to vanish into silence. I had just touched the ignition when my phone buzzed. A name flashed on the screen—Grandpa.

Joseph Valtor.

Why him? Why today, after all these years of absence?

For a moment, my thumb hovered over the red button. I should ignore it. I should let it ring. But some fragile, stupid part of me—the little granddaughter buried deep inside—pressed accept.

"Hello?" My voice was cold, empty, stripped of anything resembling warmth.

"How are you, Eira?" he asked, as if the question mattered, as if the years hadn’t passed in silence.

I smirked, though he couldn’t see it. "As always," I replied. Two words. That was all I ever had left of myself.

"I want you to come back to India," he said suddenly, his voice unshaken, like an order stamped into law.

My hands tightened on the wheel. "I didn’t hear you right."

"I said—you, Eira Valtor, are coming back to India this week." His tone was iron. No questions. No explanations.

I scoffed. "I’m in my final year, in the middle of exams. You think I can just—"

He cut me off, sharp, merciless. "I’ll take care of everything. You only need to pack your things. I’ll book the flight. Tell me about the day."

My jaw clenched so hard I thought it might crack. Of course. As always. Everyone had a right to decide my fucking life—except me.

"And if I don’t want to?" I asked, voice low, dangerous.

"You don’t have another option, Eira. It’s been twelve years since you left your family, your country."

I barked a laugh, bitter and poisoned. "How kind of you to suddenly remember. Twelve years. Twelve goddamn years, and now you play the doting grandfather."

"You can continue your taunt session later," he snapped. "For now, do what I said. Tell me when to book your flight."

I let silence stretch, then hissed into the phone: "I’ll decide if I come back or not. And, my dear grandfather, don’t ever think I need anyone to dictate my life again."

I ended the call before he could reply, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. My chest heaved, fury boiling under my skin.

After twelve years, all he had was orders. No questions. No explanations. Not even a single—"How did you survive, child? How did you keep breathing after everything we did to you?"

Nothing.

Just control. Just another chain to wrap around my throat.

But fuck that. Fuck them all.

I am Eira Valtor. And I’ll burn before I bend.

"Alaric Valtor, the President of India, has refused to sign the bill that could have brought relief to thousands of poverty-stricken families."

"Why did the man hailed as the people’s warrior deny this opportunity?"

"The public still trusts him, but for how long?"

The news anchors’ voices echoed through the office, sharp and relentless, filling every corner of the high-ceilinged room. The bill itself lay before me on the mahogany table, its pages untouched, it promises nothing but empty ink.

My PA stood in front of me, hands clasped, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He didn’t dare raise his gaze—few ever did when I was silent.

"Sir, we still require your signature. Parliament has already passed it. Only your approval remains." His voice trembled as though he already knew the answer.

I leaned back in my chair, eyes still locked on the bill, my lips curving faintly in disdain. "Hmm. I already refused. I made that perfectly clear in the last meeting."

"But, si—"

I didn’t let him finish. My words sliced through the air, low, deliberate, venomous. "Do. I. Need. To. Repeat. Myself? Mr. Rishabh?"

His throat bobbed, his spine stiffened. "Y–Yes, sir. I’ll… inform them." He turned and fled as though escaping fire.

I let out a breath, steady and controlled. People always believed me. Whether I gave or withheld, whether I built or destroyed, they trusted it was for their own good. That was the trick. Once you win their trust, their souls belong to you—and in politics, that is the sharpest blade to wield.

Alaric Valtor wasn’t just a President. I was a dynasty. A living emblem of the Valtor name, carved into generations of blood and legacy. This was my turn, my reign.

---

Night – 10 p.m. – The Dining Table

The table gleamed under chandeliers, silver cutlery aligned with military precision. Everyone sat in their designated places. Grandfather Joseph at the head, immovable, cold. Grandmother Cecilia opposite me, as regal as a queen stripped of her crown. Clara and Nathaniel, my aunt and uncle, seated beside Grandfather.

"Why didn’t you sign the bill?" Grandfather’s tone was flat, empty of all emotion. He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to.

I lifted my glass, took a sip of wine, and set it down before answering. "Because it wasn’t profitable to me." Brutal honesty—that was the only currency that mattered within these walls.

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Remember this, Alaric—trust, once broken, never returns. You may be clever enough to manipulate the world, but even gods fall when faith turns to dust. Still… you are intelligent. You will learn."

I inclined my head slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. "Yeah."

The rest of the table filled the silence with idle chatter. Nathaniel and Clara recited details of their day, ordinary, mundane. I listened, half-distracted, the fondness buried beneath my cold exterior surfacing just enough. I loved them more than anyone—because when the world abandoned me, when death stripped me of my parents, they were the ones who kept me alive.

Cecilia never spoke. She hadn’t spoken to me in twelve years. Perhaps love had dried in her heart, or perhaps she held a grudge too ancient to forgive. I no longer cared to ask.

Dessert was being served when Grandfather dropped the words that turned the air into stone.

"Eira is coming back to India. This week."

The silence was deafening. My gaze flicked immediately to Cecilia—her face illuminated by a happiness I hadn’t seen in years. The fucking irony. Then to Clara and Nathaniel—whose faces twisted with unease, even fear. Their daughter’s return was not a celebration to them. It was a threat. A reminder.

"Why? She doesn’t need to come back, Dad," Nathaniel muttered, uneasy bleeding into defiance.

"I didn’t ask your opinion," Grandfather replied, calm yet final. One command, and the air bent to his will.

"B–But why now, so suddenly?" Clara’s voice carried the tremor of dread.

"Because it has been years since she left her family," Joseph said flatly.

"She’s used to it now," Clara argued softly. "We all are."

His gaze cut through her like ice. "I do not owe anyone explanations. I’ve already spoken to Eira this afternoon. That is final."

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, rose from the table, and left, leaving silence in his wake like a storm receding but promising to return.

---

Later, in my room, I emerged from the steam of a hot shower. The city glittered outside my window, a thousand lights bowing to the crown I wore. My phone rang, the name flashing on the screen—a different life, a darker one.

I answered, voice smooth, calculated. "Torture him. But make sure he doesn’t die." I ended the call before hearing a reply.

That was the duality of me—President to the world, a saint on their television screens. But behind closed doors? A monster in a tailored suit.

Still, the words from dinner haunted me.

"Eira is coming back to India. This week."

Why now? Why her? For years, Grandfather had forbidden her return. Now, suddenly, he summons her home. His reasons were his own, locked behind walls only he could build.

But I knew one thing with the kind of certainty that burned in my bones—her return would not be simple. Eira Valtor would bring storms with her. And when the storm collides with fire—entire kingdoms burn.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

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