The peaceful rhythm of the Anjanadri Hills was shattered. The serenity of the waterfall cottage was now just a memory, tainted by the King's sighting. Tirumala knew her fortress was compromised. For two sunrises, they lived in a state of high alert, but on the third morning, the inevitable came.

It was not a brute-force assault; it was a silent, cunning siege. Rudra-Sen's men, now guided by the King's precise description, had located the waterfall. They waited.

Leela, one of the four maids, made the fatal error. Believing the King's frustration would lead his men away, she ventured out before dawn to check a snare line. She never made it past the large cluster of rosewood trees.

The sound that finally reached Tirumala was not a struggle, but a single, sharp, guttural cry cut short.

Tirumala and the remaining maids—Radha, Kavya, and Shanti—froze behind the roaring curtain of water. There was no need for discussion. Leela had been taken. Their sanctuary was breached.

A low, resonant voice, amplified by the natural acoustics of the rocks, sliced through the roar of the waterfall. It was Rudra-Sen, his tone laced with chilling triumph.

"Enough games, dancer!" he shouted, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "I grow tired of playing the hunter. You seek to keep your life, and I respect that. But your loyalty is a weakness I can exploit."

A second later, Leela's agonized scream ripped through the air, close enough to be real, immediate, and utterly terrifying.

"Come out now, Chandramukhi! Step into the light, or your loyal bird dies by inches. I want you, not her blood. Do not test my impatience."

Tirumala closed her eyes, fighting a paralyzing wave of white-hot fury and helplessness. She saw Leela’s face—the terror, the pain. To surrender now was to forfeit her freedom and the dynasty’s last hope. To remain hidden was to condemn an innocent life, breaking the sacred bond of the Deva-Raya court. Her calculated desire for peaceful survival crashed headlong into the King's absolute ruthlessness.

"No," she whispered, her voice a raw rasp. "I cannot."

"PRINCESS!" Radha pleaded in a whisper, gripping Tirumala's arm, her eyes streaming. "It is not your duty to save us! Please, save yourself!"

Kavya and Shanti stood silent, their faces etched with despair. But the choice was already made. Tirumala was a queen in training; she could not build a dynasty upon the murdered body of her maid. That would make her no better than the brute outside.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, her hand automatically going to the stiletto concealed beneath her tunic—the armour of the fugitive. "Rudra-Sen will not kill her," Tirumala said, her eyes opening, now hard and cold as chipped emeralds. "Not until he has me. He will only torture her until I yield."

"Ready yourselves," she ordered, her voice suddenly regaining a fraction of its royal command. "We return to the gilded cage. But we go back armed."

Tirumala led her three remaining maids out from behind the waterfall, stepping through the rushing, blinding water and into the sunlight.

Rudra-Sen stood waiting, his war-ax already sheathed, a look of predatory satisfaction replacing his rage. Leela was tied, gagged, and weeping uncontrollably at his feet, guarded by two massive soldiers.

His eyes locked onto Tirumala. He drank in the sight of her in the roughspun cloth, her face marked by dirt and defiance. He didn't see a princess; he saw the ultimate, unconquered prize.

"Smart choice, Moon-Face," he drawled, his voice thick with possessive triumph. "I knew your loyalty was as fierce as your beauty."

He gave a curt signal, and Leela was released, stumbling immediately toward the safety of her friends.

"You have chosen your role, dancer," Rudra-Sen declared, advancing toward Tirumala until he was mere feet away, forcing her to look up into his dark, penetrating gaze. "You will not hide in the mud. You will stand in my court, under my light. You will be my exclusive Royal Courtesan and Dancer."

He did not wait for an answer. With a gesture, he swept his hand toward the returning patrol of soldiers. Tirumala, Radha, Leela, Kavya, and Shanti were surrounded, disarmed of their bows and swords (though their daggers remained cleverly concealed), and marched straight back to the Vettaiyan Palace.

Upon their return, the humiliation was absolute. Tirumala was paraded before the court, publicly named Chandramukhi. Her maids were declared her Assistant Dancers and Attendants. The five women, stripped of their power and purpose, silently submitted. They accepted the silk garments, the new identity, and the gilded prison. They were dancers; that was art. But they would not be courtesans.

That night, Tirumala stood before the mirror in her luxurious new chambers, the exquisite fabric of her new clothes feeling like a suffocating shroud. Her reflection was that of Chandramukhi, the breathtaking royal courtesan, but her heart was still that of Princess Tirumala, the last heir.

She touched the small, cold hilt of the dagger concealed within the folds of her sash—a final, tiny act of defiance. Radha, Leela, Kavya, and Shanti had done the same. All five women had made a silent, unbreakable oath: they would dance for the King, they would obey the King, but they would never, ever allow any man, least of all Rudra-Sen, to touch them. Their bodies were the last, unconquered territories of the Deva-Raya Dynasty.

"The cage is beautiful, I will admit. But it is still a cage. And a queen will always prefer a knife to a crown given by a monster."