The crackle of the sacred fire felt less like a blessing and more like a slow-burning execution.
Ahana was led onto the grand mandap, the air beneath the canopy thick with heat, smoke, and marigold. Her vision was narrowed to the red edges of her veil, but she could feel him beside her — the Suryavanshi groom, standing on the altar like a mountain of silent, lethal fury.
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