Adanu Raksa dangles midair, ensnared by thick, sinewy tendrils. Two coil around his throat, tightening just enough to choke his cries into desperate gasps. His vision blurs, fear and suffocation dulling his senses. But through the haze, he sees a figure standing before him.

  A man.

  A man with a familiar grin.

  A grin he trusts.

  “Teacher…?” Adanu Raksa’s voice cracks with relief, hope flickering in his eyes. “Thank God… please! Help us! There’s a demon!”

  The man chuckles. A deep, throaty sound.

  Then—

  Laughter.

  Mad. Wild. Twisting into a roar of amusement.

  A sick realization dawns on the boy, his heart plummeting into despair.

  “Uncle… Bramasti…?” he whispers, his voice hollow.

  The man doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns to Arkadevi, who is bound in writhing tendrils, her body restrained, her breath ragged.

  With a vicious yank, Bramasti tears at the long cloth wrapped around her. The fabric rips away, leaving her vulnerable, exposed before her struggling son.

  Adanu Raksa thrashes violently, his small body convulsing against his restraints.

  “NO! STOP! DON’T TOUCH HER!”

  Bramasti ignores the boy’s cries. His lips curl into something unnatural, his eyes alight with depraved hunger.

  But then—

  Something whispers.

  A voice, unheard by anyone but him, slithers into his mind.

  Bramasti stiffens. His head tilts as if listening.

  Then, a slow, wicked grin stretches across his face.

  “You want the boy?” he murmurs. “Fine.”

  A laugh bubbles up in his throat.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “I no longer need a puppet king.” His voice drips with madness. “Take him. Take him as an offering.”

  The air distorts.

  A wet, gurgling noise bubbles from beneath the floor, like an infected wound ready to burst. The flesh beneath them bulges and splits—

  SPLURT!

  A thick membrane of pus and blood balloons outward, swelling—growing—until it suddenly bursts, splattering the walls in thick, putrid filth.

  A gaping, oozing maw yawns open where the rupture occurred, the stench of decay rolling out in suffocating waves. From the grotesque wound in the floor, something massive emerges.

  A tendril—thicker than a man’s torso, its surface covered in twitching veins and jagged ridges.

  Its tip splits open—a gaping, eel-like maw lined with layers of serrated teeth.

  And it moves toward Adanu Raksa.

  Slowly.

  Deliberately.

  Saliva drips from its gullet, sizzling as it touches the floor.

  Adanu Raksa’s body trembles uncontrollably.

  “No… no, no, NO—MOM! HELP ME!!!”

  His mother thrashes against her restraints, her muffled screams of agony filling the cursed house.

  But the flesh around her mouth coils tighter.

  She cannot even beg.

  She can only watch.

  Bramasti grins, savoring the moment. He steps toward Arkadevi and tears the tendrils from her lips—not to free her.

  But to claim her.

  His tongue slithers out, tracing the edge of her lips in a mockery of affection.

  Adanu Raksa, half-consumed by the writhing maw, screams in fury. His small hands, still free, clench into trembling fists.

  “LET HER GO! DON’T TOUCH MY MOM!”

  Bramasti doesn’t even glance at him. He chuckles, low and cruel, his fingers trailing down Arkadevi’s body, savoring every moment of her torment.

  Arkadevi, still fighting, spits straight into his face.

  “You filthy creature.” Her voice drips with venom.

  Bramasti wipes the spit with the back of his hand—then licks it away.

  “Oh, Arkadevi,” he purrs mockingly. “Take a good look at your son.” He grabs her jaw, forcing her head toward Adanu Raksa. “Watch. Watch as the devil devours him. And then tell me—who’s filthy now?”

  Tears streak down Arkadevi’s face.

  “No… Please…” Her voice is hoarse. “Let him go. I’ll do anything. Anything! Just let my son go…”

  Bramasti grins wider. “Anything?”

  With a sudden jerk, he rips the last of her clothing away. The tendrils join him, slithering over her bare skin.

  “NO! NOT IN FRONT OF HIM!” Arkadevi cries, her entire body trembling.

  But Bramasti simply laughs. “Heh… it’s too late.” He leans closer, his breath hot against her ear. “I’ve already given the boy to the Carrion Flower Devil. And you…” He presses his lips against her thigh, his breath heavy. “You’re already mine.”

  Arkadevi shudders, her body wracked with disgust. “You… you are the lowest thing to ever live,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “You will never find peace. You can take my body, but you will never be satisfied. I curse you.”

  Bramasti simply moans in delight. “The more you resist, the more excited I get.”

  But then—

  Something wet splatters against his face.

  A thick, fishy-smelling fluid.

  He recoils, face twisting in disgust.

  Arkadevi watches as realization dawns in his eyes—

  She is on her period.

  Bramasti retches, staggering backward. His lip curls in pure revulsion.

  “You BITCH!!!”

  His fist crashes across her face.

  Arkadevi barely reacts. Instead, through swollen lips and bleeding gums, she lets out a bitter chuckle.

  “Serve you right,” she spits. “That’s the first curse upon you. No matter what you do, you’ll never take pleasure in my suffering.”

  Bramasti’s fury ignites. His nails dig into her scalp, forcing her to look at Adanu Raksa.

  “Your son is seconds away from being swallowed whole,” he hisses. “And you’re still worried about badmouthing me?!”

  Arkadevi’s breathing slows. Her shoulders go still. Her eyes sharpen.

  And just as she is about to utter something else—

  SPLACK!

  Tendrils snap over her mouth again.

  Bramasti wipes his face, his disgust twisting into something darker. He moves toward the kris embedded in the fleshy floor, gripping the hilt tight.

  Slowly, his voice lowers to a whisper.

  “You know, Arkadevi… I think I’ll enjoy your pain more than your body.”

  From the cursed blade, grotesque new tendrils emerge. These are smaller, covered in tiny, snapping mouths filled with jagged teeth.

  They slither toward Arkadevi—

  And begin to feast.

  Her body jerks, convulsing as searing pain tears through her flesh.

  Yet—she does not scream.

  She refuses.

  She knows Bramasti would revel in her agony, would drink in her suffering like the finest wine.

  So she denies him that pleasure.

  No screams.

  No pleas.

  Only silence.

  She won’t let him revel in her suffering. She refuses to let her son see her in pain. Every nerve in her body burns, but she will not give him what he wants.

  Instead, she lifts her gaze—deadly, full of hate.

  Even as her body is torn apart, her defiance remains whole.

  And then—

  Arkadevi meets her son’s eyes.

  Her body is breaking, but her gaze is steady.

  Clear.

  Unyielding.

  Like telling something to her son.

  Telling she is not afraid.

  Telling the kid to live.