EPISODE 01 : The Maiden’s Descent

​The air in Nagaraja was not merely cold; it was a distillation of five centuries of despair. It was the perpetual scent of brine, dying wood, and the damp, unrelenting misery of a kingdom choked by endless mist. The curse that had settled upon them—a blanket of gloom that swallowed the sun and choked the crops—demanded a tribute: the Maiden of Purity, offered to the Sea God, Likun, on the eve of her twentieth year.

​Tonight belonged to Ritu.

​She stood within the Sacrificial Pavilion, a crude, skeletal structure of black wood perched precariously on the highest cliff, battered by the restless sea. Her ceremonial gown, spun from raw, unforgiving cotton, was heavy with absorbed humidity, a cold, clingy shroud. Below her, the people of Nagaraja were a sea of gray faces, lit only by the sputtering oil lamps—they were not here to celebrate, but to pray for survival, their faith threadbare and desperate.

​Tussar, the eldest and most stoic of the Elders, approached. His face was weathered like the cliff itself, etched with the burden of generations who had failed to lift the curse. He held the Chakra of Vows, a dull bronze disc that Ritu had known as the symbol of her destiny since she was a child playing in the damp courtyards.

​“Ritu, Daughter of the Sun, Child of the Mist,” Tussar’s voice was a low rumble, barely cutting through the relentless roar of the ocean. “You carry the burden of the Covenant. You know the history. Only through your purity, returned to the deep, can we hope for the Sea God’s mercy. He is the master of the tides; he judges our kingdom.”

​Ritu didn’t need the recitation. She had internalized the prophecy—a confusing, contradictory thing that labeled the maiden as both the appeasement and the 'Cleanser,' the one who would destroy the source of their pain. She only knew one thing: if she went, Manju and Mitu, her younger sisters, might see a day without rain. That was enough.

​Just then, the strained silence was ruptured. “It’s blasphemy! She’s a child, not a solution!”

​It was Jaydev, the scholar, whose mind refused the comfort of old superstitions. His face was gaunt, his eyes burning with frantic, reasoned fury. He was immediately seized by Aditya, a guard who served the council with brutal, unquestioning loyalty.

​“The god demands a reckoning, not mercy!” Jaydev shouted, struggling against Aditya’s iron grip. “He is the curse! She should be armed, not sacrificed!”

​The crowd gasped. Treasonous words were unheard of on this sacred night. Rudra, another elder, hissed, “Gag him! Let the god not hear this malice!”

​Ritu watched the turmoil with a terrifying calm. Jaydev’s words were the echo of her own secret doubts, the terror she had suppressed for years. She focused instead on Sunil, the young man who worked with wood and whose quiet eyes had always followed her. He was standing sentinel, his face a mask of enforced emptiness, but his knuckles were white where he gripped his spear. He knew she was seeing him; he could not move, could not speak, but the silent anguish in his posture was the loudest farewell she received.

​Ritu finally nodded to Tussar. “I am ready. Let Nagaraja be free.”

​Tussar bowed his head, defeated by circumstance rather than age. He handed her a small, ceremonial knife—a relic, dull and useless, meant only to symbolize the 'self-offering' before the inevitable. She took the cold steel, the contact anchoring her.

​She walked the final few steps to the edge. The wind tore at her, threatening to pull her into the void prematurely. Below, the water was a churning emerald, black-streaked and powerful. This is for Manju. This is for Mitu. This is for the sun.

​With a fierce resolve born of pure love and ultimate despair, Ritu let go of the mortal world.

​The fall was brief, the impact brutal. The sea swallowed her whole, a cold, vast maw of crushing pressure. The roar was deafening, the darkness absolute. Her lungs burned a searing agony. It is done.

​Then, the darkness dissolved. A brilliant, sapphire light, alien and electric, surrounded her. The pressure eased, the water becoming a supportive liquid medium rather than a crushing force. And he was there.

​He was majestic and terrifying, a god sculpted from the sea itself. His skin held the sheen of polished granite, and his eyes—the absolute, stunning green-blue of the deepest trench—were focused entirely on her. His dark hair, like liquid obsidian, floated around him.

​Likun. The Sea God.

​He was not a leviathan; he was the personification of lonely, ancient power. He looked upon her not with wrath, but with a sudden, searing recognition that felt like a claim.

​He reached out, his hand enveloping her wrist. The contact was not merely physical; it was electric, silencing the panic in her mind. The burning in her lungs ceased. She realized she did not need to breathe.

​Your sacrifice is insufficient for my wrath, Maiden. His voice was a vibration in the water, a silent, profound chord in her soul. But your presence is a new demand.

​He pulled her into his embrace, a fierce, proprietary move that defied all laws of the deep. Then, with a casual gesture, the water before them rippled and reformed, creating a tunnel of calm, dry currents. Likun did not take her life. He pulled her deeper, into the silent, unreachable heart of his submerged world. The prophecy of death had been averted; the forbidden love, born of impossible power, had just begun.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***