Devrat Sangini

She looked up from his embrace, their faces inches apart, and whispered the only word that made sense"You…"

And he, voice low and timeless, answered,"I finally found you...."

Her breath hitched. Her spine stiffened. She pushed away from him, firmly, feet landing in the dust with quiet defiance.

“What did you just say?” she demanded, voice like tempered steel.

The man straightened, his expression unreadable.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said evenly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, you did. I heard you.”

“You must have imagined it.”

“I don’t imagine voices,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “Or men materializing from the night like cursed shadows.”

He smiled faintly. Not mockingly. Calmly. “Then perhaps I am a shadow.”

“I don’t like riddles.”

“Then ask better questions.”

She stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. “Who are you?”

He paused. The silence that followed was not awkward—but ancient, like it belonged to the stones and stars.

“A traveler,” he said. “Like you.”

Her eyes flicked to his robe’s hem—immaculate white, untouched by the soil she had trekked through. “You’re lying. No traveler walks this path clean.”

“No,” he said, eyes locked to hers. “But I’ve been waiting here.”

“For what?”

He didn’t blink. “You.”

Her breath caught again—this time with something deeper, something uneasy.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Chandrika said coldly.

“You don’t have to,” he said with a serene smile. “It believes in you.”

And with that, before she could speak again, he turned. Not in haste—no flurry of footsteps or rustling of leaves—just a graceful step into the bushes, his white form vanishing into the shadows as though the night itself welcomed him home.

Chandrika stood frozen, lips parted, brow furrowed. The silence he left behind was louder than his words.

What in the gods’ names just happened?

She glanced around, half-expecting him to reappear. He didn’t.

“Arrogant mystics,” she muttered under her breath, brushing the dust from her robes. Her irritation simmered like a storm in a teacup.

Still, she stood there for another moment. Listening. Watching.

Then, shaking her head, she turned and walked away—her steps swift, her spine straight, her mind... unwillingly intrigued.

The golden sun peeked over the ramparts of the royal palace, casting long rays over the dew-dusted grounds. The great eastern gate stood open, a grand arch of carved sandstone adorned with lotus motifs and gold inlays. Morning bells echoed gently in the air, and servants moved like clockwork through the palace courtyard.

The entire royal household had gathered at the gate.

Maharaja Sudarshan, regal in his deep maroon robes, stood with his arms folded behind him. Beside him stood his two queens: Pragya, sharp-eyed and poised with a natural command, and Nandini, warmth and affection radiating from every smile. Around them stood Chandrika’s four brothers—each a force of his own.