Days bled into a strange, luminous cycle within Aetherium. Likun remained a constant, mercurial presence, silent yet intensely aware of her. His isolation was profound, and Ritu, despite her fear, began to see the depth of his enduring loneliness.
“Tell me of your sisters,” he commanded one afternoon. Ritu, compelled by his quiet command, described Manju’s rebellious spirit and Mitu’s quiet, fearful nature. She spoke of Sunil’s kindness and the fear in Elder Tussar’s eyes.
“They believe their prayers keep me from destroying them all,” Likun commented. “They mistake my apathy for mercy. They confuse the natural state of my realm with their contrived curse.”
“The prophecy doesn’t lie, my Lord,” Ritu insisted, the old conviction flaring up. “It says the Maiden will cleanse Nagaraja of the rot. If not through appeasement, then through… destruction.”
Likun’s expression darkened. “Prophecies are stories written by the fearful to control the brave. The ‘rot’ of Nagaraja is corruption, Ritu. Not a god’s wrath.”
One day, Ritu discovered a small, secondary chamber filled with relics salvaged from sunken kingdoms. She picked up a scroll, its ancient script written on preserved silk. With painstaking effort, she began to decipher the text.
The scroll did not speak of Likun as a wrathful god. It spoke of a Pact.
“...and the Founding King, in his hubris, bound the essence of the Deep God to the shore, granting the kingdom eternal protection against invaders, but demanding a soul every generation to sustain the tether. The curse is not the God’s decree, but the King’s binding…”
Ritu felt a sickening lurch of realization. The rain, the mist, the blight—it was the tether, the physical manifestation of the forced Pact. And the sacrifice was not appeasement; it was the mechanism to renew the binding, ensuring the God remained trapped.
She ran back to the main chamber, the heavy parchment clutched in her hand. “The Pact,” Ritu gasped. “The curse is the Pact! Your power is being used to protect us, and they lie, demanding sacrifices to renew the binding!”
Likun did not look at the scroll. He merely looked at her, his face devoid of surprise. “Did you think the rulers of Nagaraja were merely superstitious? They are exploiters. They trap me to shield their weakness. They feed me souls to keep the tether strong.”
“Then… the prophecy. The Cleanser… it’s not to destroy you for being the curse. It’s to destroy you for being the tether.”
Likun rose, taking the scroll and letting it dissolve into phosphorescent dust. “Do you understand now, Ritu? My loneliness is their protection. My fury is their weather. My existence is their curse and their shield.”
He reached out, cupping her face. The tension between them snapped. He pulled her against his chest, holding her with a devastating intensity driven by ancient, terrible need.
“I have defied the Pact and the Prophecy for you. I brought you here, away from the cold death they intended,” he breathed, his voice raw. “They will pay for this. They will all pay,” he murmured, the whisper transforming into a low, terrifying vow. “Every kingdom, every soul, every star—I would burn them all just to keep you.”
The words were the terrifying, absolute truth of a Sea God's possessive love. She was forbidden not by man, but by the terrifying potential of his power.
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