In his palace, there's a room that always stays locked. His servants avoid it like it's haunted. He can't tell them otherwise. For all he knows, it might be.
On bad nights he paces in front of the door, never daring to open it. Occasionally he can reach out to brush the knob, but he never turns it. He's memorized that room; handwoven silk carpets, plundered Kyrati art on the walls, bright splashes of Lakshmana's blood sprayed all over.
He knows that by now everything's draped in twenty-five years of dust and that her blood has faded to a dull rusty brown. Maybe one day he'll go in, sweep the past out, remove the last lingering traces of his daughter. But not today.
The King strides away, calm and composed. He'll execute a rebel or two to cheer himsefl up.