The pyre was lit with the solemnity of tradition. Flames crackled and roared into the sky, carrying with them the body of Pavan Shekhawat—a son, a husband, a friend, a man gone too soon. The air was thick with incense and grief, mourners bowing their heads as chants filled the silence.

Veeresh stood at the front, his expression carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed the storm raging inside. He had seen death before—rivals, enemies, traitors—but never like this. Never someone he loved as family.

Poornima stumbled forward, draped in white, her face pale and streaked with endless tears. Her hands trembled as she reached the body before the flames consumed it entirely.

“Pavan…” her voice cracked, breaking the hearts of everyone present. She leaned down, hugging him tightly one last time, as if clinging to his warmth even as it slipped away.

“You are bad,” she whispered against his cheek, her tears falling onto his still skin. She kissed him softly, desperately, like a lover begging fate to reverse its cruelty. “You left me. You left us.”

Her sobs grew as she took Pavan’s hand, cold and lifeless, and placed it gently on her swollen belly. “Our baby is here. How could you go without seeing our child? How could you leave me to face this alone?”

Her cries pierced through the crowd, through Veeresh’s chest, through the very fire consuming Pavan. Every word was a dagger, every tear a reminder of the promise Veeresh had made in that hospital room.

The priests tried to pull her back, but Veeresh stepped forward. Without a word, he caught her before she fell, holding her steady as she wept uncontrollably against his shoulder. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to soothe—because there were no words strong enough for her grief.

As the fire blazed higher, Veeresh looked at the pyre one last time. His heart clenched. His brother was gone. And in his arms, the woman and unborn child he had sworn to protect were breaking apart.

A vow sealed in flames. A promise bound by loss.