Chapter 13: The princess kneels before him in the dim garage light, her designer dress soaking up motor oil as she takes him in her mouth, her moans vibrating against his cock as he grips her hair - two rebels finding solace in each other's forbidden desires.
The silence in Abu Bakr’s private chamber was the densest Amartya had ever known. It was a wet, heavy thing, smothering the echoes of the struggle that had ended moments before. The old king’s eyes, wide with a shock that had frozen solid before death, stared past Amartya’s shoulder at a tapestry depicting one of his ancestral victories. The ceremonial dagger, pulled from its display case during the old man’s superstitious morning rituals, was now buried to the hilt beneath his sternum. The pattern on the rug, an intricate garden of thread, was darkening, blurring.
Amartya’s hand was steady. He was breathing slow, measured breaths through his nose, ignoring the copper-and-ozone smell. He had not planned for it to happen here, today. The under-steward had summoned ‘Amar the fixer’ to see to a temperamental climate control unit. Abu Bakr, in a rage over a failed intelligence report, had dismissed his guards for five minutes of solitude. Five minutes was a lifetime.
It wasn’t a fight. It was an adjustment. A malfunctioning part removed from the machine.
He walked to the carved teak desk, wiped his palm on his work trousers, and picked up the internal phone. He pressed the button for the head of the Royal Guard. When the voice answered, sharp and questioning, Amartya did not mimic a servant’s tone. He used his own voice, the one he’d buried for months, layered now with the gravel of the desert and absolute certainty.
“The King is dead. The mechanism is now in my hand. Assemble the council in the Sun Hall. Anyone who hesitates will be considered loyal to the corpse. Do you understand?”
A stunned pause crackled down the line. Then, a single word. “Understood.”
He had spent sixty days mapping the palace’s power grid—not just electrical, but human. He knew which captains were ambitious, which ministers were corrupt, which clerics were fearful. In the chaotic hour that followed, as the news spread in shocked whispers through marble halls, Amartya spoke to each of them. His offers were binary: elevation beyond their dreams, or a cell in the sub-levels where Abu Bakr had thrown his own failed coups. He presented the dagger, still uncleaned, as his mandate. Most chose elevation.
By dusk, the banners were changed.
In Delhi, the news hit like a seismic shock with no precursor tremor. An aide rushed into Dev’s study, his face pale. The report was a jumble of intercepted communications and frantic media leaks from Baghdad: Abu Bakr dead… unexpected ascension… a foreign national… Prince Amartya…
Dev’s legs gave out. He caught himself on the edge of his desk, the wood biting into his palm. Rukmini, who had been reading by the window, let out a small, broken sound, her hand flying to her mouth. The silence that followed was not peaceful; it was the vacuum after an explosion.
“He did it,” Dev finally whispered, the words raw. “God help him, he actually did it.”
The screen of his laptop flared to life with an incoming secure video call. The identifier was the new Iraqi royal protocol. Dev’s finger hovered over the accept key. He looked at Rukmini. Her eyes, full of a storm of terror and pride, nodded once.
He accepted.
Amartya filled the screen. He was seated on a throne that was too large, too ornate, all sharp edges and gold leaf. He was not wearing royal robes, but dark, military-style trousers and a simple black tunic, the collar open. His hair was still cropped short, dyed, but his face was utterly changed. The cheerful softness was gone, burned away. The bones of his cheeks and jaw seemed more pronounced, as if carved by a relentless wind. But it was his eyes that stopped Dev’s breath. They were not the eyes of the boy who wrote a blood-letter. They were the eyes of the man who had written one with a dagger.
“Brother,” Amartya said. His voice was calm, measured. A king’s voice.
“Amartya…” Dev’s throat closed. A thousand words—apologies, pleas, warnings—died in the arid space between them.
“King Amartya of the Republic of Iraq, now,” Amartya corrected, without heat. A simple statement of fact. “The situation is stable.”
Behind him, just at the edge of the frame, a stunning woman with anxious eyes hovered. She was dressed in a sleek, modern dress, utterly at odds with the traditional room. Nadia al-Baghdawi.
“They are calling it a miracle in Kabul!” The new voice was bright, shattered with emotion, cutting through the tense frequency. Another window popped open on the screen. Zahira Habib’s face appeared, flushed, her hair dishevelled as if she had run to her terminal. Her father, Shaibullah, loomed behind her, his expression a thundercloud of fury and utter confusion. Zahira’s eyes were locked on Amartya, shining with ferocious joy. “You’re alive! I knew it! I knew you weren’t just some… ghost!”
A ghost of a smile touched Amartya’s lips. “Hello, Zahira.”
“This is an abomination!” Shaibullah boomed, pushing his daughter slightly aside. “A boy! A Hindu boy on the throne of an Arab state? It is a joke! A dangerous joke!”
Amartya’s gaze slid to the Afghan king. The temperature in the digital space dropped ten degrees. “The joke, King Shaibullah, was a nineteen-year-old prince in a cell. The punchline is now on a throne. I suggest you reconsider your tone.”
Shaibullah spluttered, but fell silent, his face mottling with rage.
Nadia, emboldened by Zahira’s entrance, stepped forward into the frame. She placed a carefully manicured hand on the back of Amartya’s throne, her voice a silken murmur meant to carry. “Your Majesty, the people and the council will expect continuity. A union. To solidify your reign, we should announce our betrothal immediately. I am, after all, the rightful heir.”
All eyes turned to her. Zahira’s triumphant expression faltered, morphing into sharp suspicion.
Amartya didn’t look at Nadia. He stared straight into the camera, into Dev’s soul. “You misunderstand your position,” he said, his voice conversational, almost light. “You are not a queen. You are a link. A living symbol of the old regime choosing to serve the new. You will have a palace, clothes, whatever you want. But your title will be Chief Companion. Do you understand the reality of that word?”
The silence was absolute. Nadia’s breath hitched. The color drained from her face, leaving her beautiful features looking like a delicate, shocked mask. She had expected negotiation, a partnership. She was being offered a gilded cage, with a definition that stripped her of all political pretense. Her survival instinct, finely honed in her father’s court, warred with her pride for a single, trembling second. Pride lost. Her shoulders sank a quarter of an inch. “I understand,” she whispered.
Zahira’s eyes blazed with a vicious, approving glee. Dev felt sick.
“Good,” Amartya said, as if settling a minor administrative detail. He shifted his focus. “Zahira. Your father’s army is outdated. His Russian tanks are museum pieces. Iraq’s oil revenues will now fund a new kind of force. A hybrid force. I want Afghan ferocity, but with Israeli special tactics trainers, German engineering, and American surveillance systems. A legion that answers to one throne. Mine.”
He leaned forward, the throne creaking. “You told me once you were tired of being a ornament. Do you want to help me build an army? Or do you want to go back to choosing your dresses?”
Zahira leaned toward her screen, her whole being alight with purpose. “Where do I start?”
“Start by packing. You’re moving to Baghdad. As a military advisor to the crown.” He cut off Shaibullah’s inevitable roar with a final, flat look. “Your daughter’s position will guarantee your border security and a 200% increase in your annual aid package. Try to stop her, and the aid becomes a fleet of drones monitoring your poppy fields. The choice is yours.”
He ended the call. The screens went black.
In the echoing silence of the Sun Hall, now his hall, Amartya finally looked at Nadia, who stood trembling. “The first thing you will do,” he instructed softly, “is have this throne removed. It’s ugly. Find me a simple chair. And send in the Minister of Petroleum and the head of the Republican Guard.” He turned his gaze to the window, overlooking the city he now owned. “We have work to do.”
In Delhi, Dev slumped back in his chair, the world tilting on its axis. The boy who loved comfort and luxury was gone. In his place was a sovereign, cold and clear as a diamond, already trading in human souls and military hardware. Rukmini came to him, her hand cold in his.
“He’s gone,” Dev said, the words a final admission.
“No,” Rukmini replied, her voice trembling but resolute as she watched the blank screen. “He’s exactly where we forced him to go. We just never imagined what he would become when he got there.”
Her private line buzzed on the desk. The identifier was a personal, not state, number from Kabul. Zahira, already moving.