All Chapters of The Rule: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The sunlight was mellow that morning, filtered through carved jharokhas and falling in soft golden squares upon the polished marble floor. The chamber designated for the king's fitting had been transformed into a vibrant workspace. Bolts of fabric in every hue imaginable lay neatly folded on low teakwood tables, while ornate designs of embroidery were pinned across scrolls of parchment hanging against the walls. The scent of freshly brewed spiced tea lingered in the air.Samarth stood tall at the center, stripped down to a fine muslin undershirt and loose cotton trousers, the chill of the cold season barely bothering him. Around him were his closest men — Raj, the General Commander, tall and ever sharp-eyed; Veer, the tactician with a penchant for jokes; and three council ministers who had stood beside him in countless matters: Vaibhav, Amar, and Kshitij.A lean, graceful man in his late forties circled the king with a measuring tape. The master of textiles and tailoring, a famed Vast

The great hall had long gone quiet. The last echoes of music had faded down the corridors, and the petals that once rained upon her now rested on the cold marble, fragrant and still. But in the solitude of her chamber, Inayat lay curled upon her soft, brocade-covered bed, the warmth of celebration still glowing inside her heart.Her cheek pressed gently against a silk pillow, arms folded around it like it might float away if she didn’t hold on. Her eyes, soft and filled with starlight, remained fixed on the delicate ring wrapped around her finger. The pearl gleamed faintly in the dim glow of the single standing lamp beside her bed. It was gentle and elegant, like everything she had ever dreamed of.She stared at it, unmoving, but her mind was alive with memory.She could still feel it: his gaze. How he had looked at her in that moment. How his eyes never once left her face even as petals fell and music roared. It had been more than a gaze — it was devotion, offered wordlessly. Not the

The day of the wedding dawned like a benediction from the heavens. The sun rose slowly, gilding the spires of the palace in soft gold, casting a warm glow over the bustling kingdom. The air was fragrant with fresh marigolds and rose petals, and the palace echoed with joyful voices, music, and the sounds of celebration. The hearts of the people beat with anticipation, for it was not merely the union of a king and his bride — it was the binding of two destinies, sanctified by faith and the will of God.From the upper balconies to the vast courtyards, all was adorned. Silk banners of ivory and crimson swayed in the breeze. Draperies stitched with threads of gold whispered against the marbled walls. Lamps flickered in readiness to be lit at dusk, casting soft glimmers upon the polished stone floors. The scent of incense and jasmine floated in the corridors as nobles and commoners alike readied themselves for a wedding that would be etched in memory for generations.Within her chamber, Ina

Prologue: As Spoken by the Elder of the Flame Circle “Come, child. The fire does not burn for warmth tonight—it burns to remember.” “They speak of the fall of Tziyonia like a storm no one saw coming. But I remember the sky darkening for days before the end. I remember the wind carrying screams before swords. I remember the legends turning their faces.” “The Everians came like hunger, with a queen of ice and iron— Sabrina, born of shadow, forged in blood, daughter of Calantha, whose name is still a curse upon this earth.” “She did not conquer a kingdom. She consumed it.” “Temples were torn. Children made to bow before stone and flame. The old names were scrubbed from memory, and the crown that once knew honor now drips with rot.” “But in the wild—beyond the reach of the false queen’s hand— a woman endured. She bore no sword, only a child. No armor, only grief. She raised him not with lullabies, but with warning. She taught him not to hope—but to listen. To watc

They found shelter in the centre of the village, where life was bustling. The village was neatly laid, just as only fairytales could show.At the heart of it stood the House of the Lord, where they gathered every morning and every evening to stand in the presence of God. The village was spiritual, no doubt — the scent of that spirituality lingered softly through the people who could understand it.Around the House were the dwellings and the narrow streets, and beyond them, mountains and forests — rich in herbs, woods, and many other blessings. Rivers emerged from the mountains, encircling the village, giving life to the trees planted beside their flowing banks.The leader of the village welcomed the exhausted group warmly, even though their clothes were torn and bloodied, their appearances marked by battle. The men looked dangerous, with cuts and scars drawn across their faces, especially with the armour they wore and the swords they carried. Yet no fear was shown. Only stillness. Onl