1st book of "Javeda Shapit Mohobbat" series

ROHI: HIS OBSESSION, HIS WAR

-------------

IN EARLY 14th CENTURY-

The night did not arrive gently.

It crashed.

Dark clouds gathered over the Devvanshi kingdom like an army preparing for war. Thunder rolled across the sky in deep, guttural groans-as if the heavens themselves were in agony. Lightning split the darkness again and again, each jagged vein of light illuminating the world below in sharp, merciless flashes.

And above it all-

The moon.

But not the moon that poets sang about.

Not the silver disc that lovers gazed upon.

This moon was red.

Deep crimson.

The color of blood.

It hung low in the sky, swollen and terrible, casting an eerie scarlet glow over the palace, the forests, the rivers-over everything it touched. The birds had stopped singing hours ago. The animals had gone silent. Even the wind seemed to whisper rather than howl.

This was no ordinary night.

This was the Blood Moon.

The Rakta Chandrama.

It had appeared only once before in this yug-eleven years ago, in a land far from here. And now, it had returned.

No one knew why.

But everyone felt it.

Something was beginning.

---

The Devvanshi palace stood tall against the storm, its sandstone walls soaked with rain, its carved pillars glistening like wet bone. Torches flickered along the corridors, their flames bending and twisting as if trying to escape their iron cages.

Inside the Antahpura-the royal women's quarters-the air was thick with heat, incense, and fear.

Servants moved in hurried, silent steps. Their eyes were wide. Their hands trembled as they carried bronze vessels of warm water and stacks of clean cloth. No one spoke above a whisper. No one dared.

Because tonight-

The youngest queen of Devvanshi was giving birth.

Maharani Vasundhara.

The seventh wife.

The unwanted one.

---

Vasundhara lay on a bed of silk and cotton, her body drenched in sweat, her dark hair plastered against her forehead. Each contraction ripped through her like a blade, but she did not scream.

She prayed.

Her lips moved silently, forming the names of gods she had worshipped since childhood-Kali, Durga, Parvati. Her fingers clutched a small jade figurine of Shiva, so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

She was beautiful, even in pain.

Delicate features. Large, dark eyes that held too much sadness. Skin like burnished gold. She had been married to the king seven years ago-a political gift from a small, insignificant kingdom that needed protection. She had never been loved here. Never been accepted.

But she had survived.

Until now.

Now, she was not sure she would survive this night.

Because the child in her womb-

The child she had prayed for-

The child that had come from a miracle-

Was also the child that had made the king hate her.

---

It had happened three months ago.

Vasundhara had been alone in her chambers, as she always was. No other queen visited her. No noblewoman sought her company. The king had not touched her in months.

She had been desperate.

Not for power.

Not for status.

But for purpose.

A visiting sage had once told her about a sacred stuti-a hymn to the divine mother, Mahakali herself. If recited eleven times with pure devotion, it would bless a childless woman with a child of unmatched strength. A child who would be fearless. Unbreakable. Destined for greatness.

Vasundhara had not believed it.

She had recited the stuti out of curiosity.

Nothing more.

She had never expected it to work.

But on the eleventh recitation-

She had felt something.

A warmth spreading through her womb.

A presence.

A life.

And within weeks, her belly had grown.

The king had noticed.

And he had not celebrated. Why would he?

He had frozen.

Because in his mind-twisted by years of court politics, poisoned by the whispers of the other queens-there was only one explanation:

Betrayal.

The child could not be his.

It had to be someone else's.

And Vasundhara had never been given the chance to explain.

Not once.

Every time she tried, he turned away.

Every time she called his name, he walked past her as if she were already dead.

---

Now, as another contraction tore through her body, Vasundhara's eyes were not on the ceiling.

Not on the midwife.

Not on the pain.

Her eyes were fixed on the door.

Because he was there.

Outside.

Waiting.

She could see his shadow beneath the carved teak-a long, dark silhouette that did not move, did not pace, did not waver.

He stood there like a statue of death itself.

His sword was drawn.

His jaw was clenched.

His eyes-cold as the steel in his hand-stared at the door as if he could burn through it with hatred alone.

He had not spoken a word since arriving.

He didn't need to.

The guards had parted for him like water before a blade.

No one dared to stop him.

No one dared to even look at him.

Because Maharaja Mahendra Devvanshi-the Lion of the Eastern Kingdoms, the Slayer of the Kandahar Rebellion, the man who had buried three wives and forgotten their names-was not a man who forgave.

And tonight-

He believed he had been betrayed.

---

Near the arched window, away from the chaos of the birthing bed, stood a woman who did not tremble.

Panditain Katyani.

Everyone called her Yani Ji.

She was old-perhaps seventy, perhaps more. Her hair was white as ash, pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was lined with decades of wisdom and loss. But her eyes-her eyes-were sharp as a blade.

She had served the Devvanshi palace for forty years. She had seen kings come and go. She had whispered prayers over dying queens and blessed newborn princes. She had kept secrets that could destroy dynasties.

And tonight-

She was watching the sky.

The red moon reflected in her eyes like fire.

She had seen this moon once before.

Eleven years ago.

In a land called Shariwan.

On the night a different child had been born.

A boy with blue eyes and a cursed destiny.

She had not spoken of it then.

She would not speak of it now.

But she remembered.

And she feared.

Because two blood moons in one yug meant only one thing-

The prophecy was awakening.

---

A young woman knelt beside Vasundhara, holding her hand, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth.

Her name was Parvati.

She was the same age as the queen-not a child, but a woman of twenty-two, with a round, kind face and steady hands that had seen their share of trouble. She had been Vasundhara's personal maid for five years, ever since the queen had arrived at the palace as a frightened bride.

Parvati was not just a servant.

She was a friend.

The only one Vasundhara had in this hostile place.

"Maharani, please push a little harder," Parvati whispered, her voice gentle but firm. "The child is coming."

Vasundhara's fingers found Parvati's wrist and squeezed with desperate strength.

"Parvati... he is standing outside..."

Parvati's face went pale. She knew exactly who the queen meant.

"Your Majesty, do not worry-"

"He wants to kill this child!"

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

The other maids exchanged terrified glances. The midwife's hands began to shake. One of the younger servants-barely twelve-let out a small whimper before covering her mouth.

Parvati looked toward the door.

The shadow was still there.

Waiting.

She lowered her voice to barely a whisper.

"Maharani... the hymn you recited eleven times... did it truly work?"

Vasundhara closed her eyes.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

"We only did it to test it..."

"We never thought it would come true..."

"But when we said it the eleventh time... we felt it..."

Her voice broke.

"A soul... entered our womb..."

Parvati's eyes widened.

"So it is true? This child... is the goddess's blessing?"

Vasundhara nodded weakly.

"But who will explain this to the king? He sees betrayal everywhere... in everything..."

She opened her eyes.

And for the first time that night-

There was fire in them.

"And now he wants to take this child's life... without knowing the truth..."

---

The storm outside reached its peak.

Rain slammed against the roof like a thousand drums. Thunder shook the very foundation of the palace. Lightning illuminated the room in stark, blinding flashes-casting strange shadows on the walls.

And then-

Vasundhara screamed.

Her body arched off the bed.

Her fingers tore at the silk sheets.

The midwife rushed between her legs.

"Push, Your Majesty! Harder!"

"The child is visible!"

Parvati held Vasundhara's hand, tears streaming down her own face.

"You can do this, Maharani. You are so strong."

One final push.

A rush of warmth.

And then-

Silence.

The child was born.

The midwife caught her.

And then-

The midwife froze.

"What... what is this...?"

The child was not crying.

Not a single sound.

Her tiny chest rose and fell.

Her lips were parted.

Her small hands curled into fists.

But no wail came.

No newborn's cry.

Only silence.

The maids stared.

Parvati covered her mouth.

Yani Ji stepped forward from the window, her old bones creaking, her eyes sharp.

She lifted the infant from the midwife's trembling hands.

The baby's skin was warm.

Alive.

Perfect.

But silent.

"Why is she not crying?" one of the maids whispered. "Newborns cry..."

Yani Ji did not answer.

Because she was looking at the child's eyes.

The baby had opened them.

Not like a newborn.

Not weak.

Not searching blindly.

She looked... aware.

As if she had been waiting.

As if she knew exactly where she was-and what waited outside that door.

Her eyes were not the usual dark brown of Devvanshi royalty.

They were golden.

Light.

Piercing.

Unnatural.

Her gaze drifted past the room.

Past the walls.

Past the storm.

And rested on the blood moon visible through the window.

A chill ran down Yani Ji's spine.

She whispered, barely audible-

"Hey Mahadev..."

(Oh Lord Shiva...)

"Yeh shishu... samanya nahi hai."

(This child... is not ordinary.)

---

Vasundhara, exhausted and barely conscious, reached out her arms.

Yani Ji placed the child beside her.

The queen looked down at her daughter.

The baby stared back.

Mother and child.

Connected by blood and miracle and something else-something ancient, something that had been set in motion long before either of them had been born.

"Iravati," Vasundhara whispered, her voice barely audible.

The baby blinked.

"We name you Iravati..."

"Meaning... one who is like the earth... wherever you step... a new beginning blooms..."

A tear fell from her cheek onto the baby's forehead.

"You will change many things, Iravati..."

"Just stay alive..."

The baby did not cry.

She did not smile.

She simply watched.

As if she understood.

As if she accepted.

---

A loud metallic sound shattered the fragile peace.

A sword being dragged against stone.

Followed by footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Unstoppable.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The door trembled under a heavy knock.

Not a request for entry.

A demand.

"Open the door."

Maharaja Mahendra Devvanshi's voice.

Low.

Controlled.

Deadly.

No one moved.

The maids pressed themselves against the walls. The midwife bowed her head so low her forehead touched the floor. Parvati bit her lip so hard she drew blood.

"We said-open the door."

Vasundhara's fingers shot forward, grabbing Yani Ji's wrist.

Her grip was iron.

Desperate.

Frightened.

"Take her... now."

Yani Ji's eyes widened.

"Your Majesty-"

"SILENCE! And listen!"

Vasundhara pressed something into Yani Ji's palm.

A small silver locket.

Warm from her skin.

Intricately carved with the symbol of a lion-the crest of the Devvanshi dynasty.

"This is her identity... never lose it."

"Inside it is a secret... that will reveal itself when the time comes."

Yani Ji closed her fingers around the locket.

"Your Majesty, where shall I take her?"

Vasundhara's eyes filled with tears.

"As far as you can. Hide her. For twelve years... let no one know."

"Until she learns to fight on her own... until someone... comes to bring her back..."

The door shook again.

Harder.

Wood groaned.

Stone cracked.

"WE ARE SAYING FOR THE LAST TIME..."

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

Yani Ji moved.

She wrapped the silent child tightly in a dark shawl-the kind that would blend with shadows. She tucked the locket into the folds. She took one last look at Vasundhara.

The queen nodded.

Just once.

"Go... and keep her safe... no matter what you have to do."

Yani Ji turned-

And slipped behind the hidden passage concealed within the stone wall.

The one only she and Vasundhara knew about.

The one built centuries ago-by a king who had feared assassination.

The one that led out of the palace.

Into the darkness.

Into the storm.

Into the unknown.

The moment her body disappeared into the shadows-

The doors burst open.

---

Maharaja Mahendra Devvanshi stepped inside.

He was a tall man-broad-shouldered, thick-necked, built like a warrior rather than a ruler. His face was handsome in a harsh, unforgiving way: strong jaw, high cheekbones, a nose that had been broken twice and healed badly. His beard was trimmed short, streaked with grey. His eyes-dark, cold, empty-moved across the room like a predator surveying prey.

Rain dripped from his armor.

His sword was already drawn.

The blade was still wet-not with rain, but with something else.

He had killed a guard on his way here.

The man had simply been standing in the wrong place.

The king's presence filled the room like death itself.

The maids fell to their knees.

The midwife prostrated herself.

Even Parvati-brave, loyal Parvati-bowed her head.

His eyes moved once across the chamber-

And stopped.

No child.

No crying.

No bundle of silk and blood.

Just women.

Trembling.

Cowering.

Guilty.

His voice came low.

Controlled.

Dangerous.

"Where is the child?"

No one answered.

The silence was deafening.

He stepped forward.

His boots echoed.

"We are asking for the last time..."

He raised his sword slightly.

The lamplight caught the blade.

Rainwater dripped from the tip.

"Where is the child?"

Silence.

His patience shattered.

He turned toward the trembling maids-

"If we do not get an answer..."

"Then every person present here will not remain alive."

One of the maids-the twelve-year-old-let out a small sob.

The king's eyes locked onto her.

"Why are you crying?"

The maid shook violently.

Her lips moved, but no words came.

"We asked-WHY ARE YOU CRYING?"

"Y-Y-Your Majesty... we... we know nothing..."

"Lies."

He raised his sword higher.

"We will sever your neck."

"SOMEONE SPEAK!"

"STOP!"

The voice cut through the room like a blade.

Not loud.

Not trembling.

Firm.

The king turned.

Slowly.

Dangerously.

Vasundhara had sat up on the bed.

Her body was broken.

Blood still stained the sheets beneath her.

But her eyes-

Her eyes-

Met his without flinching.

"You..."

"You still wish to say something?"

"Yes."

The king laughed.

Cold.

Empty.

Cruel.

"What do you have to say, Vasundhara? That this child is not mine? That you lay with another? That your womb is filled with some mystery?"

Vasundhara's jaw tightened.

"This child is yours."

"And she was not born of sin... but of the gods' blessing."

The king's grip tightened on his sword.

"Blessing?"

He stepped closer.

"What do you take us for? That we are blind? That we cannot see the lie in your eyes?"

"This is not a lie!"

"THEN WHAT IS THE TRUTH? SPEAK!"

Vasundhara took a breath.

And she told him.

Everything.

The stuti.

The eleven recitations.

The warmth in her womb.

The miracle.

She spoke for a long time-her voice steady, her eyes never leaving his.

And when she finished-

The king was silent.

For one moment-just one-something flickered in his eyes.

Doubt?

Confusion?

Hope?

And then-

It was gone.

Replaced by something colder.

"You... speak of a hymn?"

"You expect us to believe that without us... a god gave you a child?"

"This is your new lie, Vasundhara."

"First you broke our trust. Now you insult the gods."

He raised his sword.

"And the punishment for this lie... for you... and that child... is death."

---

Behind the stone wall-

Yani Ji ran.

The passage was narrow.

Dark.

Filled with cobwebs and the smell of ancient dust.

Water leaked through the cracks in the stone, soaking her feet.

But she did not stop.

She could not.

The child in her arms was still silent.

Not a cry.

Not a whimper.

Only those strange... steady breaths.

As if she already knew-

that sound... would mean death.

Behind her-

Muffled.

But there-

She heard the king's roar.

"FIND HER!"

"ALIVE OR DEAD!"

"NO ONE CAN SAVE THAT OLD WOMAN AND THAT CURSED CHILD!"

Yani Ji's heart pounded.

Not for herself.

For the life in her arms.

She whispered a prayer to Lord Shiva and kept running.

She reached the end of the passage.

A small opening.

Covered by thorny bushes.

She pushed through-

Thorns tore at her arms, her face, her shawl.

But she held the child tight.

Protected her with her own body.

And stepped into the raging storm.

---

The rain was merciless.

It fell in sheets so thick she could barely see three steps ahead. The wind howled like a wounded animal. Thunder cracked directly overhead, so loud that the ground seemed to shudder.

Yani Ji ran.

Her sandals slipped in the mud.

Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Her old bones screamed in protest.

But she ran.

Behind her-

Torches.

Voices.

Soldiers.

"She must be somewhere nearby!"

"SEARCH QUICKLY!"

"IT IS THE KING'S ORDER - ALIVE OR DEAD!"

Yani Ji ducked behind a massive banyan tree, pressing her back against the wet bark. She pulled the child closer, covering her completely with her shawl.

The baby's breathing was still calm.

Still steady.

As if this was normal.

As if being hunted through a storm was something she had expected.

Two soldiers passed just ahead.

Their laughter was cold.

Cruel.

"An old woman and a baby..."

"Tonight, both will be finished."

"His Majesty himself has promised - whoever finds them will be filled with gold."

"So why wait? Come, let us hunt."

They moved forward.

Searching.

Hunting.

Yani Ji waited.

Counted her breaths.

One.

Two.

Ten.

Thirty.

When their torches disappeared into the rain-

She ran again.

Faster.

Ignoring the pain in her knees.

Ignoring the blood mixing with mud under her feet.

Ignoring the branches that whipped across her face.

And then-

She saw it.

Through the curtain of rain.

A structure.

Ancient.

Silent.

Waiting.

The temple of Lord Shiva.

The doors were partially open.

As if expecting her.

As if inviting her.

---

Yani Ji stumbled through the entrance of temple and fell to her knees.

The storm outside felt distant suddenly.

Muted.

As if the temple had its own weather.

Its own silence.

The air inside was heavy.

Sacred.

Still.

Ancient lamps flickered along the walls, their flames untouched by the wind outside. The smell of old incense and dried flowers filled her nostrils.

At the center-

A massive Shivling stood.

Black stone.

Polished by centuries of touch.

Covered in water, flowers, ash.

And silence.

Yani Ji crawled forward on her knees.

Her shawl was torn.

Her body was bleeding.

Her lungs burned.

But she placed the child carefully on the stone floor before the Shivling-

And her hands trembled.

For the first time that night-

Fear showed in her eyes.

Not fear of death.

But fear of failing.

She folded her hands.

Bowed her head.

And prayed.

"Mahadev..."

"Aap sab jaante hain..."

(You know everything...)

"Yeh shishu koi saamanya janm nahi hai..."

(This child is not an ordinary birth...)

"Yeh vardan bhi hai... aur shraap bhi..."

(She is a blessing... and a curse...)

Her voice broke.

Tears mixed with rainwater on her face.

"Us raat ka shraap... aaj phir jeevit ho gaya hai..."

(The curse of that night... has awakened again...)

"Mahakali aur aapke beech jo vachan toda gaya tha..."

(The vow that was broken between you and Maa Kali...)

"Uska bojh ab in do jeevan par hai..."

(Its burden now rests on these two lives..

The baby blinked.

Her golden eyes fixed... on the Shivling.

Still silent.

Still watching.

Yani Ji slowly placed the silver locket beside her.

The one Vasundhara had given.

It gleamed in the lamplight.

"Agar yeh jeevit rahi..."

(If she lives...)

"Toh itihas badlega..."

(History will change...)

"Aur agar yeh mar gayi..."

(And if she dies...)

"Toh shayad sab kuch khatam ho jayega..."

(Then perhaps everything will end...)

"Lekin main nahi marne dungi isse..."

(But I will not let her die...)

"Chahe mujhe apna janam hi kyun na dena pade..."

(Even if I must give my own life for hers...)

A loud thunder shook the temple.

The flames of the diyas flickered violently.

And then-

Footsteps.

Yani Ji's eyes snapped toward the entrance.

Torchlight.

Shadows.

Soldiers.

They had reached.

---

Her face changed.

Fear disappeared.

Replaced by something else.

Determination.

She picked up the child one last time.

Held her close.

Pressed her forehead against the baby's.

"Sun lijiye, Rajkumari..."

(Listen, Princess...)

"Aapka jeevan aapka nahi hoga..."

(Your life will not belong to you...)

"Aap ladengi..."

(You will fight...)

"Girengi..."

(You will fall...)

"Phir uthengi..."

(Then you will rise again...)

Her voice softened.

Almost breaking.

"Par kabhi jhukengi nahi..."

(But you will never bow...)

She looked around.

Then moved quickly.

Behind the Shivling... there was a narrow stone opening.

Hidden.

Ancient.

Almost invisible.

A small cavity where offerings were once kept.

Now empty.

Waiting.

She placed the baby inside.

Carefully.

Wrapped tightly in her shawl.

Covered with dry leaves and cloth from nearby offerings.

The baby did not cry.

Did not move.

Only watched.

Yani Ji smiled faintly.

"Shayad aapko rona aata hi nahi..."

(Perhaps you never learned to cry...)

"Ya shayad aap jaanti hain... ki ab rone ka waqt nahi..."

(Or perhaps you know... that now is not the time for tears...)

She pressed a kiss to the baby's forehead.

"Barah varsh..."

(Twelve years...)

"Bas barah varsh... aur phir... aap wapas jayengi..."

(Just twelve years... and then... you will return...)

"Tab tak... main aapki maa hoon... aapki guru hoon... aapki dhaal hoon..."

(Until then... I am your mother... your teacher... your shield...)

She stood up.

Turned toward the entrance.

The soldiers were inside now.

Swords drawn.

Eyes searching.

"There!" one of them shouted.

Yani Ji stood straight.

Facing them.

Alone.

"Where is the child?"

She did not answer.

Just looked at them.

Calm.

Unshaken.

The first soldier stepped forward.

Anger rising.

"Old woman, we are asking you - WHERE IS THE CHILD?"

Still no answer.

He raised his sword.

"Speak... or this silence of yours will become your last breath."

Yani Ji smiled.

A strange smile.

Peaceful.

"Yeh janm... tum sab par bhaari padega..."

(This birth... will weigh heavily upon all of you...)

The soldier's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Tumhe pata bhi nahi... ki aaj raat tumne kis shishu ki maut ka sauda kiya hai..."

(You do not even know... what child's death you have bargained for tonight...)

"ENOUGH!"

The sword moved.

Fast.

Cold.

Merciless.

And in the next moment-

Silence.

---

Outside-

The rain continued.

Relentless.

Endless.

Inside-

Behind stone.

Hidden in darkness-

A newborn child opened her eyes.

Wide.

Unafraid.

The storm did not scare her.

The blood did not disturb her.

The death did not reach her.

She heard the sword fall.

She heard the soldiers curse.

She heard them search-overturning pots, tearing cloth, shouting at each other.

But she did not cry.

She simply waited.

Because somewhere inside her-

In a place that had no name, no form, no memory-

She knew.

This was not the end.

This was only the beginning.

---

Back in the palace-

Maharaja Mahendra Devvanshi stood in the center of the birthing chamber.

His sword was wet.

Not with rain.

His chest heaved.

His eyes were wild.

He had just killed three maids.

They had given him nothing.

Nothing.

The bodies lay where they had fallen.

No one had moved them.

No one dared.

And Vasundhara-

She lay on the bed, her face pale, her lips moving in silent prayer.

She had not watched the killings.

She had closed her eyes.

But tears still slipped from beneath her lids.

The king turned to her.

"You sent her away."

She did not answer.

"You sent your own child into the mouth of death."

Still no answer.

He stepped closer.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

"Do you know... what you should have done?"

He leaned down.

His lips near her ear.

"You should have come to us. You should have wept before us. You should have begged our forgiveness."

"MAYBE THEN WE WOULD HAVE SOFTENED."

He straightened.

"But you did not. You sent that old woman. You sent your child away from our sword."

"And now... we will find her."

He walked toward the door.

His boots left bloody prints on the stone floor.

At the threshold-

He stopped.

His voice came out low.

Dangerous.

Broken.

"And when we find her..."

"We will personally show you her last breath of death."

He stepped out.

And roared to his soldiers-

"LISTEN, EVERYONE!"

"FIND THAT PRIESTESS!"

"SHE HAS FLED THIS PALACE!"

"WHEREVER YOU FIND HER... KILL HER!"

"AND THAT CHILD TOO!"

"ALIVE OR DEAD!"

His voice echoed through the rain.

"WE WILL NOT SIT IN PEACE UNTIL WE SEE THE END OF THAT OLD WOMAN AND THAT CURSED CHILD!"

He gritted his teeth so hard they almost cracked.

His fingers clenched around his sword.

"We make a vow..."

"The day that child comes before us..."

"We will look into her eyes and laughing take her life."

Thunder roared.

Lightning flashed.

And somewhere in the darkness-

A baby girl slept.

Hidden behind stone.

Wrapped in a torn shawl.

Her golden eyes closed.

Her breathing steady.

Waiting.

---

The night had not ended.

It had only changed.

The storm still raged outside the ancient temple, but within its walls, there was a different kind of silence. Not peaceful. Not calm. But heavy-as if the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Yani Ji lay where she had fallen.

The soldiers had left her body.

They had searched the temple-overturned every pot, torn every cloth, kicked every shadow.

They had found nothing.

Because the child was hidden.

Behind the Shivling.

In a cavity so small, so dark, so forgotten that even the most thorough search would miss it.

The soldiers had cursed.

They had argued.

One of them had suggested burning the temple down.

But another-older, wiser, more fearful-had shaken his head.

"This is Lord Shiva's abode. If you set it on fire, you will burn yourself."

They had left.

Their torches had disappeared into the rain.

Their voices had faded into the storm.

And now-

There was only silence.

And the child.

---

The baby did not cry.

She did not whimper.

She did not even stir.

She lay in her hiding place, wrapped in the torn shawl, her tiny chest rising and falling with steady, even breaths.

Her golden eyes were open.

Fixed on the darkness above her.

As if she could see through the stone.

As if she could feel the weight of the Shivling pressing down on her hiding place.

As if she knew-

That she was not alone.

After a long time-minutes, hours, she had no way of knowing-there was a sound.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Halting.

Painful.

Someone was coming.

The baby did not move.

The footsteps stopped.

A shadow fell across the Shivling.

And then-

A hand.

Bloodied.

Trembling.

Reached into the cavity.

---

Yani Ji was not dead.

The sword had cut deep-across her shoulder, down her arm. Blood soaked through her clothes, pooled beneath her on the stone floor. But the blow had not been aimed true. The soldier had been in a hurry. Impatient. Careless.

She had fallen.

She had lain still.

She had waited.

And when the soldiers had left-

She had crawled.

Inch by inch.

Dragging her broken body across the stone floor.

Leaving a trail of blood behind her.

Her vision blurred.

Her breath came in shallow gasps.

But she did not stop.

Because the child was still hidden.

And the child was still alive.

She reached the Shivling.

She pulled herself up using the stone.

Her fingers found the cavity.

And she felt-

Warmth.

Breath.

Life.

She pulled the baby out.

Held her against her chest.

And wept.

Not loud sobs.

Not dramatic cries.

But silent, shaking tears that fell from her eyes and mixed with the blood on her clothes.

"Jeevit ho..."

(You are alive...)

"Tum jeevit ho..."

(You are alive...)

The baby blinked.

Her golden eyes looked up at the old woman.

And for the first time-

Something crossed her tiny face.

Not a smile.

Not a cry.

Something else.

Something that looked almost like... recognition.

---

Yani Ji sat with her back against the Shivling.

The baby lay in her lap, wrapped in what remained of the shawl.

Outside, the rain had softened to a gentle drizzle.

Inside, the lamps burned low, their flames flickering in the draft.

Yani Ji looked down at the child.

At her golden eyes.

At her steady breathing.

At the strange calm that seemed to surround her.

And she understood.

This was no ordinary child.

This was not just a princess born of a miracle.

This was something more.

Something the world had not seen in centuries.

Something that would change everything.

She took a deep breath.

And began to speak.

"Sun lijiye, Rajkumari Iravati..."

(Listen, Princess Iravati...)

"Aapka janm kisi rahasya se kam nahi hai..."

(Your birth is nothing less than a mystery...)

"Aap devi ka vardan hain... aur usi vardan mein ek shraap bhi hai..."

(You are the goddess's blessing... and within that blessing is also a curse...)

"Aapki maa ne aapko hamare hawale kiya hai..."

(Your mother has entrusted you to us...)

"Aur hum aapki raksha ka vaada karte hain..."

(And we vow to protect you...)

Her voice grew stronger.

"Hum aapko shastra sikhayenge..."

(We will teach you weapons...)

"Hum aapko vidya denge..."

(We will give you knowledge...)

"Hum aapko nirbhay banayenge..."

(We will make you fearless...)

She pressed her forehead to the baby's.

"Kyunki ek din... aapko wapas jaana hoga..."

(Because one day... you will have to return...)

"Us mahal mein... jahan aapki maa akele roti hai..."

(To that palace... where your mother cries alone...)

"Us raja ke saamne... jo aapki maut ka saudaa kar raha hai..."

(Before that king... who is bargaining for your death...)

"Aur us din... aapko taiyaar hona hoga..."

(And on that day... you will have to be ready...)

The baby's eyes did not waver.

She closed her eyes.(Yani ji)

And made her vow.

"Main, Katyani... aapki guru hoon... aapki rakshak hoon... aapki maa hoon..."

(I, Katyani... am your teacher... your protector... your mother...)

"Aur jab tak mera ek saans bhi chalega... koi bhi aapko choo nahi sakta..."

(And as long as I draw even one breath... no one can touch you...)

The baby's tiny hand curled around her finger.

And Yani Ji smiled.

A tired, broken, but hopeful smile.

"Ab aao... hum tumhe apna ghar dikhate hain..."

(Now come... let us show you your home...)

---

Behind the temple's main hall, through a narrow passage hidden by a fallen pillar, there was a room.

Small.

Simple.

But safe.

A stone cot covered with old blankets. A clay lamp that still had oil. A shelf with dried herbs and bandages. A small window-too high for anyone to see in-that let in a sliver of moonlight.

This was where Yani Ji had lived for the past twenty years.

This was where she had prayed.

This was where she had waited.

For what-she had never known.

Until tonight.

She laid the baby on the cot.

She lit the lamp.

She tended to her own wounds-tearing strips from her remaining clean cloth, wrapping them around her shoulder, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

Then she turned to the child.

And began the first lesson.

"Aapka naam Iravati hai..."

(Your name is Iravati...)

"Arth... jo dharti ki tarah ho..."

(Meaning... one who is like the earth...)

"Par aap sirf dharti nahi hain... aap aag bhi hain... toofan bhi hain..."

(But you are not just earth... you are also fire... a storm...)

"Aur aapko yeh yaad rakhna hoga..."

(And you must remember this...)

She dipped a cloth in water and gently wiped the baby's face.

"Jab tak aap kamzor hain... aapko chhupa rehna hoga..."

(As long as you are weak... you must remain hidden...)

"Par jab aap taakatvar ho jayengi..."

(But when you become strong...)

"Toh saara aasmaan aapke saamne jhukega..."

(Then the entire sky will bow before you...)

The baby yawned.

Her golden eyes fluttered.

And for the first time since her birth-

She closed them.

And slept.

---

Far away-

In the Devvanshi palace-

Maharaja Mahendra sat on his throne.

The court was empty.

The guards stood at a distance.

No one dared approach him.

His sword lay across his knees.

His eyes stared at nothing.

And yet-

He saw everything.

He saw Vasundhara's face as she screamed.

He saw the empty birthing chamber.

He saw the hidden passage he had discovered too late.

He saw the trail of blood leading out of the palace.

And he burned.

Not with guilt.

Not with regret.

But with rage.

"That old woman..."

"That child..."

"We... wherever... whenever... will find them..."

He stood up.

His voice echoed through the empty hall.

"LISTEN TO OUR WORDS..."

"WHOEVER GIVES THAT CHILD SHELTER..."

"THEIR HOME WILL BE BURNED..."

"WHOEVER FEEDS THAT CHILD..."

"THEIR TONGUE WILL BE BURNED..."

"AND WHOEVER... SAVES THAT CHILD..."

"THEIR... EVERY BREATH... WILL BE BURNED..."

He raised his sword.

"THIS IS MAHENDRA DEVVANSHI'S VOW..."

"AS LONG AS THIS SWORD IS IN OUR HAND..."

"THAT CHILD HAS NO FUTURE..."

He brought the sword down-

Slicing through the arm of his throne.

Wood cracked.

Silk tore.

And the kingdom trembled.

---

Morning came slowly.

The storm had passed.

The sky was clear-pale blue, streaked with orange and gold.

The blood moon had set.

But its memory remained.

Yani Ji stood at the small window of her hidden room, looking out at the waking world.

The baby-Iravati-slept peacefully on the cot.

Her golden eyes were closed.

Her tiny fists were relaxed.

She looked like any other newborn.

But Yani Ji knew better.

She looked down at the silver locket in her palm.

The one Vasundhara had given her.

She opened it.

Inside-

A small lock of hair.

Black as night.

And a single line of text, carved into the inner surface:

"Jab do rakte chand milenge... tab pralay aayega..."

(When two blood moons meet... then the destruction will come...)

Yani Ji closed the locket.

Tucked it into her clothes.

And whispered to the sleeping child-

"Tumhe pata bhi nahi, Rajkumari..."

(You do not even know, Princess...)

"Kitni badi cheez tumse shuru hone wali hai..."

(How great a thing is about to begin with you...)

The baby stirred.

Her eyes opened.

Golden.

Knowing.

And for the first time-

She smiled.

---

23 YEARS LATER

THE PALACE OF DEVVANSHI, INDIA, RAJASTHAN — MORNING

The sun had just begun to paint the sandstone walls of the Devvanshi palace in shades of gold and amber. The air was warm, carrying the scent of jasmine from the royal gardens and the distant call of peacocks from the courtyard.

Through the arched corridors of the royal gardens, two figures ran.

Laughing.

Breathless.

Wild.

Iravati Devvanshi sprinted ahead, her dark hair flying loose behind her, her golden eyes bright with mischief. In her right hand, she held a delicate golden bracelet-intricately carved with tiny flowers, with small bells that jingled with every movement.

Behind her, Radha chased.

"Iravati! Give it back, you little demon!"

Radha was nineteen, two years younger than Iravati, with a round face, dimples that appeared when she smiled, and a laugh that could fill an empty room. She had been assigned to Iravati's service three years ago, but somewhere along the way, servant had turned into sister.

"Not until you tell me where you got it!" Iravati called back, dodging around a marble pillar. She held the bracelet up to the sunlight, making the bells jingle. "This is gold, Radha. Real gold. With bells. Who gave you something so pretty?"

She ducked into the garden courtyard, her bare feet slapping against the cool stone. Radha followed, her cheeks already flushing.

"No one gave it to me! I found it!"

"Arre bhai, do I look like a fool?" Iravati stopped suddenly, spinning around. "You expect me to believe you found a gold bracelet with tiny bells in a palace where nothing ever goes missing?"

Radha bit her lip.

"Maybe I found it."

"Achha? Where?"

"In the... in the garden."

"Which garden? The one where no one ever loses anything?"

"Why are you so difficult?"

"Why are you such a bad liar?"

Radha groaned and threw her hands up.

"Fine! Fine, okay? Someone gave it to me!"

Iravati's eyes lit up. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper.

"Kaun? Bolo bolo bolo!"

(Who? Tell tell tell!)

Radha's face turned crimson.

"No one."

"That is not a name."

"A traveler."

"What kind of traveler gives a gold bracelet to a random maid?"

"He is not random! He was... he was passing through. And I was... I was at the eastern gate. And he was lost. And I helped him. And then he gave me this."

Iravati raised an eyebrow.

"He was lost? In the Devvanshi palace? Where no outsider is allowed?"

"He was not an outsider! He was a... a merchant. From somewhere far. He had permission."

"A merchant." Iravati's grin widened. "With gold bracelets. Who gives them to pretty girls he just met."

"I am not pretty!"

"That is not what he thought, clearly."

Radha snatched the bracelet back and clutched it to her chest.

"You are impossible."

"I am curious. There is a difference."

Radha turned away, but Iravati could see the smile she was trying to hide.

"What was his name?"

"I do not remember."

"Liar."

"Zayan."

Iravati blinked.

"Zayan? That is an Arabian name."

"So?"

"So... an Arabian merchant with a gold bracelet gave it to you at the eastern gate, and you expect me to believe it was just a coincidence?"

"It was a coincidence! He was traveling through! His route passed through India! That is all!"

"And he just happened to meet you?"

"There was no one else at the gate! I was just... standing there! And he asked for directions! And I helped him! And then he gave me this and left!"

"Bas? That is all?"

(That's all?)

"Yes!"

"No dramatic confession? No 'I will remember you forever'? No staring into each other's eyes like lovesick fools?"

"IRA!"

Iravati burst out laughing.

"Okay, okay! I believe you!"

"You do not."

"I do! A mysterious Arabian traveler gave you a bracelet and left. Very romantic. Very dramatic. Very unbelievable."

Radha hit her arm.

"You are the worst."

"And yet you love me."

Radha rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. She looked down at the bracelet in her hands, her fingers tracing the tiny bells.

"He was... nice. Strange. But nice."

"Nice enough to give you gold?"

"He said..." Radha hesitated. "He said the bells would remind me that the world is not always quiet. That somewhere, someone is always laughing."

Iravati's teasing expression softened.

"Wah. Deep philosopher, this merchant of yours."

"He is not mine."

"Not yet."

"IRA!"

They both laughed, the sound echoing through the garden.

Then Radha's eyes narrowed.

She looked at Iravati with sudden, mischievous intent.

"Alright, Princess. Your turn."

Iravati's smile faltered.

"My turn for what?"

"That locket."

Iravati's face went blank.

"What locket?"

"Arey don't do that. The silver locket. The one you keep in that old trunk. The one you take out at night when you think I am sleeping."

Iravati's cheeks turned pink.

"I do not-"

"You do. I have seen you. Sitting by the window. Holding that locket. Staring at it like it holds the secrets of the universe."

"That is nonsense."

"Then explain it."

"There is nothing to explain."

"Achha? Then why are you blushing?"

Iravati touched her cheek. It was warm.

"I am not blushing. It is hot."

"It is morning. The sun has barely risen."

"I am... warm."

"You are lying."

Radha stepped closer, her eyes gleaming.

"Come on, Ira. You have teased me enough. Now it is my turn. Who gave you that locket?"

"No one."

"Liar."

"It is just an old thing. No meaning."

"Then why do you hide it? Why do you only look at it when you think no one is watching? Why do you get that look on your face-"

"What look?"

"That soft look. Like you are remembering something. Someone."

Iravati looked away.

Her hand moved unconsciously to her chest, where the locket usually hung-but today, it was not there. It was hidden. As always.

"It is nothing, Radha."

"Then tell me."

"I cannot."

"Why not?"

Iravati was silent for a long moment.

Then, quietly-

"Because I do not even know his name."

Radha's eyes widened.

"His? His?"

"Do not-"

"A man gave you that locket? A man? And you never told me?"

"There is nothing to tell. It was years ago. I was twelve. He was a stranger. He saved me from something, gave me this, and left. That is all."

"That is not all! What did he look like? Where was he from? Why did he give you a locket?"

"I told you, I do not know."

"You are hiding something."

"I am not."

"Then why is your voice shaking?"

Iravati opened her mouth-

"Rajkumari Iravati!"

A voice cut through the garden.

Both women turned.

A palace guard stood at the entrance to the courtyard, his posture stiff, his expression neutral.

"Your Majesty, it is time for your sword practice. Prince Vikrant has been called to the northern border. You will train alone today."

Iravati's expression shifted instantly.

The softness vanished.

The teasing disappeared.

In its place-focus.

"Understood. I am coming."

She turned to Radha and whispered:

"We are not finished."

Radha grinned.

"Kabhi nahi, Princess. Kabhi nahi."

(Never, Princess. Never.)

Iravati rolled her eyes-but she was smiling as she walked toward the training grounds.

---

THE TRAINING GROUNDS - MORNING

The training grounds of Devvanshi were carved into the eastern slope of the palace complex-a wide, open expanse of packed earth surrounded by high stone walls. Wooden dummies stood in rows. Weapon racks lined the edges. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and discipline.

Iravati stepped onto the grounds and rolled her shoulders.

She was not dressed like a princess.

She wore a simple cotton choli and loose salwar, both in dark brown-the color of earth, the color of invisibility. Her hair was tied in a tight braid. Her feet were bare.

The training master-a grizzled old warrior with one eye and a scar across his throat-watched her from the side.

"Prince Vikrant sends his apologies, Rajkumari. Border patrol."

"I do not need him."

"I know. That is why I am not worried."

Iravati smiled.

She picked up a sword from the rack. Heavy. Balanced. Perfect.

She faced the row of wooden dummies.

And then she moved.

The first dummy lost its head in a single spinning strike-wood splintering, the carved face flying through the air. She was already pivoting, her body flowing like water, her sword cutting through the second dummy's chest. The third lost both arms. The fourth-

She leaped.

Twisted in the air.

Came down with the blade buried in the dummy's skull.

Crack.

The wooden torso split in half.

The training master nodded slowly.

"Not bad, Rajkumari."

"Not bad?" Iravati pulled the sword free, breathing hard but steady. "I just destroyed four dummies in fifteen seconds."

"Four. Prince Vikrant does six."

"Prince Vikrant is twice my size and has been training since he could walk."

"Excuses."

Iravati laughed-a sharp, confident sound that echoed off the stone walls.

"Fine. Again."

She raised her sword-

"Rajkumari Iravati."

Another guard.

This one looked nervous.

"What is it?"

"Maharaj is calling for you. Immediately."

Iravati lowered her sword.

Her stomach tightened.

The king never called for her.

"Did he say why?"

"No, Your Majesty. Only that you must come. Now."

She looked at the training master.

He shrugged.

She handed him the sword.

And walked toward the palace.

---

THE KING'S CHAMBER - MORNING

The walk to the king's chamber was long.

Iravati had made this walk only a handful of times in her life-each time with her heart pounding, each time expecting the worst.

The guards opened the heavy teak doors.

She stepped inside.

Maharaja Mahendra Devvanshi sat on his throne.

He was older now-grey streaking through his beard, deeper lines around his eyes. But his presence was still immense. Still commanding.

He did not look at her when she entered.

"You came quickly."

"You called, Maharaj."

"Yes. We called."

He finally looked at her.

His eyes-cold, assessing, calculating-moved over her from head to toe.

"You have been training."

"Yes, Maharaj."

"Good. You will need it."

Iravati's heart began to beat faster.

"What do you mean, Maharaj?"

The king stood.

He walked to a large map spread across a wooden table-a map of the known world, marked with kingdoms, borders, and trade routes.

His finger landed on a territory in the west.

"Do you know what this is?"

Iravati stepped closer.

"Arabia. The Shariwan Sultanate."

"Yes. Once a crumbling empire. Now..." His jaw tightened. "Now it is the most powerful kingdom in the region. Ruled by a man no one has seen. A man they call the Shadow King."

"The Sultan Al-Khalmiror."

"You know of him."

"Everyone knows of him, Maharaj. He has conquered seven kingdoms in the last ten years. His army is unstoppable. His spies are everywhere."

"And his intentions?"

Iravati hesitated.

"No one knows. He does not speak to ambassadors. He does not negotiate. He simply... takes."

The king nodded slowly.

"Which is why we need to know what he is planning. Before he turns his eyes toward Devvanshi."

Iravati's blood went cold.

"Maharaj... what are you saying?"

He turned to face her fully.

"We are sending you to Arabia."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

"What?"

"You will go as a spy. Blend into the population. Gather intelligence on the Sultan-his movements, his weaknesses, his plans."

"Maharaj, I am a princess. I cannot-"

"You are a princess no one wants."

The words struck her like a slap.

The king's voice was cold. Clinical. True.

"The other queens hate you. The court ignores you. Your mother has no power. You have no political value, no marriage alliance, no future here." He paused. "But you are useful. You are trained. You are smart. You are expendable."

Iravati's hands trembled at her sides.

But she did not cry.

She would never cry before him.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we will send someone else. Someone less capable. Someone who will likely be caught and killed." He tilted his head. "Would you prefer that? To know that another person died because you were too proud to serve your kingdom?"

Manipulation.

Pure, calculated manipulation.

And Iravati knew it.

But she also knew-there was no escape.

"How long?"

"Until we have what we need."

"And my mother?"

"Your mother will remain here. Protected." His eyes glinted. "As long as you do your duty."

Iravati closed her eyes.

Took a breath.

Opened them.

"When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow. Dawn."

She nodded once.

Turned.

Walked toward the door.

"Iravati."

She stopped.

Did not turn around.

"Do not fail us."

She walked out.

---

🩸 THE BLOOD MOON SAGA

CHAPTER TWO: THE SPY WHO FELL

---

LOCATION GUIDE

Region Kingdom/Area Key Locations

India Devvanshi Kingdom Palace of Devvanshi, Royal Gardens, Training Grounds, King's Chamber, Queen's Chamber

Between Travel Route Thar Desert, Indus River, Border Mountains

Arabia Shariwan Sultanate Hidden Tunnel, Citizen Quarters, Shiva Temple, Kali Temple Path

---

PART II - THE JOURNEY AND THE HIDDEN KINGDOM

---

THE QUEEN'S CHAMBER - AFTERNOON

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the western mountains, casting long shadows across the palace corridors. Iravati walked with heavy steps, her mind still reeling from the king's words.

Arabia.

Spy.

Expendable.

The words echoed in her skull like thunder.

She stopped outside a familiar door-carved with flowers and vines, smaller than the others, tucked away in a corner of the palace where no one bothered to look.

Her mother's chamber.

She pushed the door open.

---

MAHARANI VASUNDHARA - THE MOTHER

The room was simple.

Unlike the other queens who decorated their chambers with gold and silk and treasures from distant lands, Vasundhara's room was modest. A cot with white sheets. A small window overlooking the eastern gardens. A wooden trunk at the foot of the bed. A clay lamp that never went out.

And in the center of it all-

Maharani Vasundhara.

She sat on a woven mat near the window, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. She was in her mid-forties now, but she still looked like a painting-delicate features, large dark eyes that held too much sadness, skin like burnished gold that had not faded with age.

Her hair, once black as a moonless night, was now streaked with silver.

Not from time.

From sorrow.

She looked up as Iravati entered, and her face softened.

"Beti... tum aaj bohot khamosh ho. Kya hua?"

(Daughter... you are very quiet today. What happened?)

Iravati closed the door behind her and leaned against it.

"Maa... Maharaj ne mujhe Arabia bhejne ka faisla kiya hai."

(Mother... the king has decided to send me to Arabia.)

Vasundhara's hands, which had been folding a piece of cloth, went completely still.

"Kya?"

(What?)

"Ek jaasoos ke roop mein. Sultan ke baare mein jaankari ikattha karne ke liye."

(As a spy. To gather information about the Sultan.)

The cloth slipped from Vasundhara's fingers and fell to the floor.

She did not pick it up.

"Woh tumhe maut ke munh mein bhej raha hai."

(He is sending you into the mouth of death.)

"Main jaanti hoon, Maa."

(I know, Mother.)

"Aur tum ja rahi ho?"

(And you are going?)

"Mere paas koi chaara nahi hai."

(I have no choice.)

Vasundhara stood up slowly, as if her bones had aged twenty years in ten seconds.

She walked to her daughter and cupped her face.

Her hands were trembling.

"Iravati... tum meri iklauti ho. Tumhare bina... main kya hoon?"

(Iravati... you are my only one. Without you... what am I?)

Iravati placed her hands over her mother's.

"Aap meri maa hain. Aur maa kabhi kamzor nahi hoti."

(You are my mother. And a mother is never weak.)

Vasundhara's eyes filled with tears.

"Yeh dil nahi maan raha, beti."

(My heart is not accepting this, daughter.)

"Mera bhi nahi. Par karna hai."

(Neither is mine. But we must.)

Vasundhara pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly.

"Vaada karo. Vaada karo ki tum wapas aaogi."

(Promise me. Promise me that you will return.)

Iravati closed her eyes.

"Main vaada karti hoon, Maa."

(I promise, Mother.)

"Mere paas kuch hai tumhare liye."

(I have something for you.)

Vasundhara pulled back and reached into the folds of her dupatta. She pulled out a small pouch-faded red velvet, tied with a golden thread.

"Yeh lo."

(Take this.)

Iravati opened it.

Inside was a small ring-silver, with a dark blue stone that seemed to glow in the fading light.

"Yeh kya hai?"

(What is this?)

"Tumhari dadi ka. Unki maa ka. Kabhi fail nahi hua. Tumhe suraksha degi."

(Your grandmother's. Her mother's. It has never failed. It will protect you.)

"Maa, main yeh nahi le sakti-"

(Mother, I cannot take this-)

"Tum logi. Aur har roz pehnogi. Samjhi?"

(You will take it. And you will wear it every day. Understood?)

Iravati looked at the ring.

Then at her mother.

"Samajh gayi."

(Understood.)

She slipped it onto her finger.

It fit perfectly.

As if it had been waiting for her.

---

THE CHAMBER - NIGHT

The moon was high when Iravati finally returned to her own room.

Radha was already there, sitting on the floor, surrounded by bundles and bags.

"Finally! I have been packing for hours! Do you know how difficult it is to pack for a spy mission when you have no idea what you are walking into?"

Iravati smiled despite herself.

"You are still coming?"

"Obviously. Someone has to keep you from falling in love with some Arabian prince."

"There are no Arabian princes."

"There is a Sultan."

"He is the enemy."

"Even better. Very dramatic."

Iravati threw a pillow at her.

Radha caught it and laughed.

Then her expression softened.

"How is she?"

"She is scared."

"She is not the only one."

Iravati sat down on her cot and looked at the trunk in the corner.

The old trunk.

The one with the locket.

"Radha..."

"Hmm?"

"Do you think it is possible to miss someone you never really knew?"

Radha paused.

"Is this about the locket again?"

Iravati did not answer.

Radha put down the bundle she was holding and walked to the trunk.

She opened it.

Reached inside.

Pulled out the silver locket.

"This?"

Iravati nodded.

Radha sat beside her and placed the locket in her palm.

"Tell me about him."

"There is nothing to tell."

"Then why do you hold onto this?"

Iravati looked at the locket.

The silver was worn now-softened by years of touch. The engraving on the front was almost faded. But the weight of it was still the same.

"Because when I hold it... I feel safe."

"Safe from what?"

"From everything."

Radha was quiet.

Then she said:

"Then take it with you. To Arabia."

Iravati looked up.

"What if I lose it?"

"You will not. You have never lost it before."

"This is different."

"How?"

"Because..." Iravati hesitated. "Because if I take it with me, and something happens to it..."

"Nothing will happen to it. Nothing will happen to you. Because you are the most stubborn, most annoying, most unbreakable person I know."

Iravati laughed softly.

"You really know how to compliment a person."

"I try."

Iravati closed her fingers around the locket.

"Okay. I will take it."

"Good. Now help me pack. We leave at dawn."

"One more thing."

"What?"

"We need Arabian names. Indian names will attract attention."

Radha thought for a moment.

"You choose mine."

"Layla."

"Layla?"

"It means 'night'. Because you talk all day and keep me awake all night."

"That is... actually pretty."

"I know."

"What about you?"

Iravati looked out the window at the moon.

"Amira."

"Amira?"

"It means 'princess'."

"That is not very spy-like."

"That is why no one will suspect it."

Radha shook her head, laughing.

"Fine. Layla and Amira it is."

---

The carriage was small.

Unmarked.

Disposable.

Just like her.

Layla (Radha) stood beside it, a bundle in her arms, her face set with determination.

Parvati stood nearby, her eyes red from crying.

And Vasundhara stood at the palace gates-her face pale, her hands trembling, but her chin held high.

She walked to Amira (Iravati) and cupped her daughter's face.

"Sun meri beti..."

(Listen, my daughter...)

"Tum wahan ja rahi ho jahan tera koi nahi. Par kabhi yeh mat bhoolna ki tu akele nahi hai."

(You are going where no one knows you. But never forget that you are not alone.)

"Teri maa ki dua tumhare saath hai. Hamesha."

(Your mother's blessings are with you. Always.)

Amira's eyes burned.

"Main vaada karti hoon, Maa. Main wapas aaungi."

(I promise, Mother. I will return.)

Vasundhara pressed her forehead to her daughter's.

"Ja, Amira. Aur apna khayal rakhna."

(Go, Amira. And take care of yourself.)

Amira stepped back.

Turned.

Climbed into the carriage.

Layla climbed in after her.

The wheels began to turn.

The palace grew smaller behind them.

Vasundhara stood at the gates until the carriage disappeared into the morning mist.

And then she fell to her knees.

And prayed.

---

THE JOURNEY - SEVEN DAYS

Day One - Through the Devvanshi Forests

The carriage rattled over uneven roads. Amira watched the familiar trees disappear behind them-the banyans, the neems, the jackfruit groves. Layla fell asleep against her shoulder.

Day Two - Crossing the Thar Desert

Green gave way to gold. Sand stretched in every direction. The sun was merciless. They traveled at night to avoid the heat, the stars their only guide.

"Have you ever seen so many stars?" Layla whispered.

"No."

"It is beautiful."

"It is."

Day Three - The Indus River

They stopped at a small village. Traders. Travelers. A woman selling chai from a clay stove.

"Two cups," Layla said.

They drank in silence, watching the river rush past.

Somewhere beyond this water was Arabia.

Somewhere beyond this water was enemy territory.

Day Four - The Border Mountains

The terrain grew harsh. Rocky. Unforgiving. The carriage struggled.

"We walk from here," the driver said.

They walked for hours.

Their feet blistered.

Their water ran low.

But they did not stop.

Day Five - The Hidden Tunnel

An old man met them at the mountain pass-his face weathered, his eyes sharp.

"You are the ones?"

"We are," Amira said.

"Follow me."

He led them to a cave entrance hidden behind a waterfall.

"This tunnel is old. Very old. Leads to the heart of the citizen quarters. Few know of it."

"Who else knows?"

"Only those who need to."

He handed her a torch.

"The tunnel is long. Do not stray from the path."

Amira took the torch.

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me, child. Just survive."

Day Six - Inside the Tunnel

Darkness.

Cold.

The smell of wet stone and ancient dust.

Layla held Amira's hand.

"I do not like this."

"Neither do I."

"How much further?"

"I do not know."

They walked for hours.

Their footsteps echoed.

Their breath was visible in the air.

Day Seven - Emergence

The tunnel ended at a wooden door, hidden behind a stack of crates in a storage cellar.

Amira pushed it open-

And stepped into Arabia.

The air was different here. Drier. Hotter. But also... alive.

They emerged into a narrow alley between two stone buildings. The sounds of the city washed over them-merchants shouting, animals braying, children laughing. The smell of spices and grilled meat filled the air.

"We made it," Layla breathed.

"We made it," Amira agreed.

They changed into simple clothes-cotton abayas and headscarves, the kind worn by ordinary women.

Amira looked at Layla.

"Remember. We are sisters. From a village in the eastern mountains. Our parents died in a flood. We came here for a better life."

"I am Layla. You are Amira."

"And we know nothing about palaces or kings."

"Just merchants and farms."

"Good. Let us go, sister."

They stepped out of the alley-

And into a world they did not recognize.

---

THE CITIZEN QUARTERS - AFTERNOON

The city was massive.

Amira had seen cities before. She had visited the marketplaces of Devvanshi, walked through the trading posts along the Indus. But this was different.

The buildings were made of sandstone and limestone, their walls carved with geometric patterns. The streets were narrow and winding, shaded by cloth awnings that stretched from rooftop to rooftop. The people spoke a language she barely understood.

But there were also familiar things.

Women in colorful dupattas. Men with tilaks on their foreheads. The smell of ghee and jeera coming from a nearby kitchen.

"Layla, look."

She pointed to a small shop at the corner.

The shopkeeper was Indian.

His sign was in Devanagari.

"What is an Indian shop doing here?" Layla asked.

"I do not know."

They kept walking.

And the further they walked, the more they saw.

A temple.

A Shiva temple.

In the middle of Arabia.

"This is impossible," Layla breathed.

"Come."

They walked toward the temple.

---

THE SHIVA TEMPLE - EVENING

The temple was beautiful.

Sandstone walls carved with figures of gods and goddesses-Shiva, Parvati, Ganesh, Kali. The dome was painted in colors that had faded with time but still held their glory. The entrance was framed by two stone elephants, their trunks raised in blessing.

The courtyard was crowded with people-women in bright lehengas, men in white kurtas, children running between the pillars.

Amira stepped inside.The air was cooler here-thick with incense and the sound of bells.

She saw an elderly woman sitting near the steps, her hands busy stringing flowers into garlands.

"Excuse me," Amira said. "Can you tell us... why is there a temple here? In Arabia?"

The old woman looked up.

Her eyes were kind.

"Beta, tum naye ho kya?"

(Child, are you new here?)

"Yes. We just arrived."

"Toh suno. Yeh mandir yahan pehle bhi tha. Phir toot gaya. Phir bana. Ab khada hai. Bas itna jaan lo ki jo bhi hai, woh devtaon ka samman karta hai."

(Then listen. This temple was here before. Then it was broken. Then rebuilt. Now it stands. Just know that whoever is here, he respects the gods.)

"Who rebuilt it?"

The old woman smiled mysteriously.

"Beta, yahan uske baare mein baat karna mana hai. Bas itna jaan lo ki jo bhi hai, woh insaan nahi... kaafir nahi... woh badshah hai."

(Child, talking about him is forbidden here. Just know that whoever he is, he is not a man... not an unbeliever... he is the king.)

Layla tugged Amira's sleeve.

"Amira. Look."

She pointed toward the entrance.

People were moving.

Whispering.

Bowing.

And then-

Chants began.

"Sultan Al-Khalmir ki jai!"

"Sher-e-Shariwan ki jai!"

"Jo dushman ko mitti mein milaye, uski jai!"

The crowd parted like water before a ship.

---

The first thing she saw was the horse.

Black.

Massive.

Breathing steam into the evening air.

And then-

Him.

The Sultan Al-Khalmir

He had just returned from war.

His upper body was covered by a long black cloth-wrapped around his shoulders and chest, flowing down his back. But the cloth was open at the front, tied at the sides, leaving his abdomen completely visible.

His abs.

Defined. Muscular. Moving slightly with every breath he took.

A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the golden light of the setting sun.

On his right hip, a sword hung-its hilt wrapped in dark leather, its scabbard carved with ancient symbols.

His face was covered by a black shemagh-wrapped low, showing only his eyes.

Dark blue.

Piercing.

Unreadable.

His hair-dark, slightly long-fell across his forehead in damp waves.

Amira's throat went dry.

"Layla," she whispered.

"I see him."

"His stomach is..."

"Visible. Yes. I have eyes."

"Why is it visible?"

"Because he just came from war. He is probably too hot to care."

"He does not look hot."

"Amira, your mouth is open."

Amira closed her mouth.

Her face was on fire.

The Sultan dismounted.

His movements were slow. Deliberate. Controlled.

His feet were bare.

He wore loose white trousers, tied at the waist, sitting low on his hips.

A sword hung from his right side, swaying slightly with each step.

Every movement made the muscles in his abdomen ripple.

The crowd cheered.

"Sultan! Sultan! Sultan!"

He did not acknowledge them.

He walked toward the temple steps.

The crowd parted.

He climbed the steps.

One by one.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The Sultan stepped inside.

The crowd followed at a distance-close enough to see, far enough to respect.

Amira found herself being pulled forward by the movement of the people.

She ended up near a pillar.

Close.

Too close.

The Sultan stopped before the Shivling.

He removed his shoes.

Then-

He joined his hands.

A simple gesture.

But on him-

It was devastating.

His biceps flexed. His shoulders straightened. His abdomen tightened as he took a deep breath.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

His lips moved silently-a prayer, perhaps.

Then he opened his eyes.

And reached for the silver vessel beside the Shivling.

He lifted it.

Poured water over the black stone.

The water cascaded down, catching the light, shimmering like liquid diamonds.

His hand was steady.

His forearm-muscular, veined-moved slowly, deliberately.

Then he picked up a second vessel.

This one contained milk.

He poured that too.

The white liquid flowed over the stone, mixing with the water, creating a soft, sacred sound.

His neck was visible above the cloth.

Strong. Tanned.

A vein pulsed gently beneath the skin.

Amira could not stop staring.

"Amira," Layla hissed.

"What?"

"Aap phir se dekh rahi ho."

(You are staring again.)

"Main nahi dekh rahi."

(I am not staring.)

"Aapki aankhen jhooth bolti hain."

(Your eyes are lying.)

"Shut up."

The Sultan finished the ritual.

He stepped back.

Bowed his head once more to the Shivling.

And then-

He turned.

---

The temple was crowded.

People pressed forward to catch a glimpse of the Sultan.

Someone pushed from behind.

Someone else stumbled.

And Amira-

Fell.

Not dramatically.

Not slowly.

But fast.

Her foot slipped on the smooth stone floor.

Her body tilted backward.

Her arms flailed.

She was going to hit the ground-

But he moved.

The Sultan's hand shot out.

His fingers closed around her wrist.

Tight.

Strong.

He pulled.

She stumbled forward.

Her back hit his chest.

Her head barely reached his upper chest.

For a fraction of a second-0.1 seconds-her eyes met his.

Blue met gold.

And then-

He released her.

Stepped back.

His expression did not change.

His eyes did not linger.

He turned away as if nothing had happened.

As if she was nothing.

As if touching her meant nothing.

The crowd cheered again.

"Sultan Zindabad!"

He walked toward the entrance.

The crowd parted.

He stepped outside.

Mounted his horse.

And rode toward the jungle path without looking back.

---

Amira stood frozen.

Her wrist-where he had grabbed her-was burning.

Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure everyone could hear.

Her breath was shallow.

Her vision was blurry.

"Amira."

Layla's voice.

Distant.

"Amira!"

She blinked.

Layla was standing in front of her, waving a hand in her face.

"Kya hua? Tum theek ho?"

(What happened? Are you okay?)

Amira looked down at her wrist.

There were faint red marks where his fingers had held her.

"He... he caught me."

"I saw."

"His hand..."

"I saw that too."

"He did not even look at me."

"He looked at you for 0.1 seconds. I counted."

"Layla-"

"Aapki hatheli laal ho gayi."

(Your wrist has turned red.)

Amira touched her wrist.

It was still warm.

"Chalo. Humein yahan se nikalna hai."

(Come. We need to leave here.)

Layla grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the entrance.

Outside, the crowd was still chanting.

"Sultan! Sultan! Sultan!"

Amira looked toward the jungle path.

He was gone.

The dust from his horse had already settled.

"Amira, chalo."

(Amira, come.)

"Haan... chalo."

(Yes... let's go.)

They walked in silence.

After a few minutes, Layla spoke.

"Tumhare haath kaanp rahe hain."

(Your hands are shaking.)

Amira looked down.

They were.

"Main theek hoon."

(I am fine.)

"Tum bilkul theek nahi ho."

(You are not fine at all.)

"Layla-"

"Usne tumhe chua aur tum bheegi billi ban gayi."

(He touched you and you turned into a wet cat.)

"I am not-"

"Tumhari saans abhi bhi tez hai."

(Your breathing is still fast.)

Amira stopped walking.

Took a deep breath.

"He is the enemy, Layla. The enemy. We are here to spy on him. Not to... not to feel anything."

"Aapke dil ko bolo. Usne feel karna shuru kar diya."

(Tell that to your heart. It has already started feeling.)

"You are impossible."

"Aur aap blush kar rahi ho."

(And you are blushing.)

Amira touched her cheek.

It was burning.

She cursed under her breath and kept walking.

Layla followed, laughing.

---

THE ROOM - NIGHT

They found a small room to rent-a single chamber above a pottery shop, with two cots, a clay lamp, and a window that faced the eastern mountains.

It was humble.

It was theirs.

For now.

Amira sat on her cot and looked at her wrist.

The red marks were fading.

But the memory of his touch was not.

"Layla."

"Hmm?"

"Tomorrow... there is a festival."

"How do you know?"

"I heard the old woman at the temple. The Sultan gives clothes and gold coins to the people. Everyone attends."

"So?"

"So... we attend too."

Layla sat up.

"You want to go toward the Sultan? After what happened today?"

"We are spies, Layla. We need information. Where better to gather information than a festival where everyone will be watching him?"

Layla considered this.

"That is... actually smart."

"I have my moments."

"Rare ones."

"Shut up."

Layla laughed and lay back down.

"Fine. We go tomorrow."

She paused.

"Amira."

"What?"

"Aapne dekha usne aapki wrist kaise pakdi?"

(Did you see how he held your wrist?)

Amira was silent.

"Woh haath..."

(Those hands...)

"Layla, goodnight."

"Aap socho mat uske baare mein. Main jaanti hoon aap sochogi."

(Do not think about him. I know you will think about him.)

"LAYLA."

"Goodnight, Amira."

Layla closed her eyes, still smiling.

Amira looked at the moon.

And thought about blue eyes.

And cursed herself for thinking about them.

---

THE FESTIVAL GROUNDS - NEXT DAY

The sun was high and merciless, but the people of Shariwan did not seem to notice.

The festival grounds stretched across the eastern quarter of the city-a massive open space filled with colorful tents, food stalls, and crowds of laughing, chattering citizens. Children ran between the legs of adults, chasing each other with sticky fingers. Old women sat on woven mats, their hands busy with embroidery. Young men showed off their swordsmanship in friendly competitions.

And at the center of it all-

A raised platform.

Covered in silk.

Waiting.

Amira stood at the edge of the crowd, her eyes scanning the platform.

"Layla, why is everyone so excited?"

"Because the Sultan gives gifts to every single person today. Clothes. Gold coins. Sometimes even land."

"Every single person?"

"Every single person."

Amira raised an eyebrow.

"That is... generous."

"That is politics." Layla grinned. "But also generous."

The crowd began to cheer.

Drums rolled.

And the Sultan appeared.

He walked onto the platform-not rode, walked. His black shemagh covered his face as always, showing only those dark blue eyes. His upper body was covered by a long black cloak that flowed behind him, but as he moved, the fabric parted slightly, revealing glimpses of his chest and the sword at his hip.

He carried no weapon in his hands.

He did not need to.

Behind him, servants carried massive chests filled with folded clothes and small leather pouches-the gold coins.

The Sultan raised one hand.

The crowd fell silent.

"Aaj ka din aap sab ke liye hai."

(Today is for all of you.)

His voice was low. Deep. Commanding.

"Jo mangoge, woh doge nahi. Jo doge, woh humesha yaad rakhoge."

(What you receive, you will not give away. What you give, you will remember forever.)

He gestured.

The servants began distributing.

The crowd surged forward-but not chaotically. There was an order to it. People lined up. Families together. Elderly first.

Amira watched, fascinated.

"He is... organized."

"He is a king, Amira. That is literally his job."

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant."

Layla nudged her.

"Aap phir se dekh rahi ho."

(You are staring again.)

"Main nahi dekh rahi."

(I am not staring.)

"Aapki aankhen wahi hain jahan Sultan hai."

(Your eyes are exactly where the Sultan is.)

Amira looked away.

Her cheeks were warm.

"Let us get in line."

---

The line moved quickly.

Amira and Layla stood behind an elderly couple and in front of a young mother with a crying baby. The sun beat down, but the servants moved efficiently, handing out clothes and coins with practiced ease.

When it was their turn-

A servant handed Layla a blue silk dupatta and a pouch of coins.

Layla beamed.

"Yeh toh bohot khoobsurat hai!"

(This is very beautiful!)

Then the servant turned to Amira.

He handed her a deep red abaya-rich fabric, embroidered with gold thread at the edges.

And a pouch.

But before she could take them-

A hand appeared.

Large.

Gloved.

Familiar.

The Sultan himself took the items from the servant.

And handed them to her.

Directly.

Their fingers brushed.

His were warm.

Calloused.

Amira's breath caught.

She looked up.

Blue eyes met gold.

For one second.

Then he moved to the next person.

As if nothing had happened.

As if he handed gifts to random women every day.

Amira stood frozen.

"Amira."

"Hmm?"

"Aapki saans ruk gayi."

(Your breathing stopped.)

"Nahi ruki."

(It did not.)

"Ruki thi."

(It did.)

"Layla, chup kar."

(Layla, shut up.)

Layla laughed and dragged her away.

---

THE DAWAT - EVENING

After the distribution, the festival shifted into a grand dawat-a feast for the entire kingdom.

Long tables had been set up under silk canopies. The smell of roasted meat, spiced rice, and fresh bread filled the air. Musicians played in the corner. Children danced.

Amira and Layla found a spot near the edge of the celebration, sitting on a carpet with strangers who quickly became friends.

An old woman offered them kheer.

A young man tried to flirt with Layla.

She shut him down in three words.

Amira laughed.

"Zayan would be proud."

"Zayan who?" Layla's face turned red. "I do not know any Zayan."

"The merchant with the bracelet."

"He is not-"

"Your face is red."

"It is the sun."

"It is evening."

"Layla, just eat your kheer."

Amira grinned and looked around.

The Sultan was nowhere to be seen.

Probably back in his palace.

Probably alone.

Probably-

"Amira, aap phir se wahi dekh rahi ho."

(Amira, you are looking there again.)

"Main nahi dekh rahi."

(I am not looking.)

"Aapki aankhen jhooth bolti hain."

(Your eyes are lying.)

"Chup kar."

(Shut up.)

Layla laughed.

The feast continued.

The night grew dark.

And the guards grew drunk.

---

THE PALACE CORRIDORS - NIGHT

The festival had ended hours ago.

Most of the city was asleep.

But Amira was not.

She had heard something-a rumor, a whisper-about a secret chamber in the palace where the Sultan kept his war plans.

And she was curious.

Stupidly.

Dangerously.

Curious.

So now she was running.

The guards' footsteps thundered through the marble corridor.

And She(irawati) was running like an ostrich.

Face covered with white scarf.

Turbine on the head.

Only her beautiful dark brown eyes are visible.

And it looks like she is talking to someone? or to herself? or... who knows?

......or to her Mhadev‽

And he(Shiv ji) is also.....replying??

---

"Hye Shivjiiii, aaj bcha lijiye naaa...."

(Hey Shivji, please save me today)

Lord Shiv ji - "What will I get in return?"

"Mere Shiv ji, aap karam kijiye phal ki chinta mat kijiye."

(My Lord Shiva, do your duty and do not worry about the results)

Lord Shiv ji - 🤨

"hehe, maf kar dijiye .... Hehehe, Ek balti bhang ki Chadhayenge hum aapko, pakka, waada rha, wo bhi apne hathon se ragad ke, par kripya aaj hame in gorillon se bcha lijiye naaa.....uhmm.." she asked lord Shiva while crying dramatically"

(Hehe, please forgive me.... Hehehe, I will offer you a bucket of Bhaang, I promise, that too by rubbing it with my hands, but please save us from these gorillas today naaa.....uhmm..)

Lord Shiv ji - "✋🔆🌟"

She was running, while mumbling to herself.

And somehow in that corridor there was no guard....

Just then she turned to the right gallery and saw two guards standing side by side in the room but.....

The guards were sleeping?

Hein???...

like seriously...

BOTH.

WERE.

SLEEPING.

WHILE.

STANDING...

she went near them, silently... Wave her hand in front of their faces.....

One guard yaan , and lean more with the wall..

"Umm...Okay. So these Gorillas are seriously sleeping"

She was just staring at their faces like crazy ....like thinking is this seriously Kingdom everyone feared...¿

Just then she heard a guard's voice from somewhere behind

"Look properly, that person must be here somewhere!!"

Her heart raced.

Heart racing, she slipped through that archery (the room, which two guards were guarding) and pressed herself behind heavy silk curtains just as their voices faded into the distance.

Silence.

A slow, victorious grin curved her lips.

She peeked outside the curtains

No-one...

Accepted those sleeping guards....

"Is this seriously Kingdom everyone afraid of..¿ like these Gorillas are so idiots, this room is in front of them and they are not looking here, their king, aka Sultan must also be like them..." she mumbled to herself, while peeking outside.

She exhaled deeply

"Hun! Whatever, I am so intelligent", she whispered to herself while giggling...

Hehehe... idiots.

Searching every hall, every balcony-except this one.

She exhaled dramatically, eyes closed, a quiet giggle escaping her.

I'm a genius. A stealthy, brilliant, completely safe genius.

Still leaning against the curtains, she savored the moment... then finally turned around.

Her smile died instantly.

In the center of a vast stone chamber lay a pool-huge, carved from ancient rock, steam rolling over its surface like breath. And inside it sat a MAN.

Shirtless.

Elbows stretched wide on the edge, head tilted back as if in command of the very air. He didn't move. He didn't need to.

"Woow, his back looks so sexy and ho-

-STOP!!

"What the fuck .... I am even thinking ...aahhh.., i never ever thought like this about any man before, so why now..." she mentally slapped herself

"and why the hell this man is sitting like own the whole room , no ...like own the whole kingdom,no... Like he is every person in this world... li...like.. Like he owns ..Me‽"

"Aahhh... what the Hell I am even thinking again, how can I even think like that" She mentally scolds herself for thinking like that..

Wait, what if he sees me!.

no no no...

Run run run run-

No. Outside meant guards.

So she did the only possible thing.

She tiptoed-breath held, toes curling-behind the nearest pillar, like small penguin.

Okay. Okay. Calm. He didn't see me.

Probably meditating. Or sleeping with his eyes open.

Do demons sleep? Why does he have shoulders like that-STOP.

Her thoughts spiraled wildly.

Then-

A faint shift.

A ripple in the water.

Her pulse spiked.

She peeked around the pillar.

The pool was empty.

GONE.

The surface lay still, mist curling softly.

She goes near that pool..

Look here and there for him but there is no sign of him.

Did I imagine him?

Hallucination? Stress? Hunger? Or-

"Hal tabhathina 'anni ?" - in arabic

(Are you looking for me?) - in english

(Kya aap hame kooj rahin hain?) -in hindi

The voice came from right behind her.

Low. Rough. Close enough to vibrate through her bones.

She jerked back. Her foot slipped on a wet stone.

For a fraction of a second, she saw him-blue eyes cutting through the steam, not angry... predatory.

Then she fell.

Her hand caught muscle instead.

And dragged him down with her..

And then...

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Chaaapaakkk---

They both feel into the water.

Water crashed over them.

The pool was deep. Too deep.

Maybe for her. Maybe not for him.

She sank instantly.

Her lungs burned. Panic ripped through her chest. Darkness pressed in as she th

rashed-and through the blur, she saw him watching.

Not moving.

Not helping.

Just observing.

Then he turned away. To go.

Instinct took over.

She grabbed him-hard-clinging to his torso, still under water dragging herself up with him. She burst from the water coughing, gasping, shaking-and did not let go.

Just then, he felt an electric shock through his body like a seriously physical electric current, like they were always meant to be like this?

Arms locked around his neck.

Legs around his waist.

Face buried in his chest.

Her body pressed tight against his.

Breathing harsh, broken, desperate.

And he?

He was completely still. Because, never ever in his life anyone touch him like that.

Not because anyone does not try. But because, he never let anyone.

But here she is pressing to him, whole , like a baby monkey.

She was not in her senses at that time, looking like a fragile, scared little kitten, like she is afraid of water?.... or maybe deep water?

He let her hold him.

Not touching her.

Just waiting, she will pull away..

But nothing....

Now his patience is getting thin time by time.... But she is not moving an inch...

But still he waited.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting....

.

.

.

.

.

His patience gets Snapped.

He tried to push her away.

Once.

Twice.

Hard.

Nothing.

She didn't fall.

Didn't loosen.

Like a stubborn child clinging to the only solid thing in a storm....

And then-

Her lips.

Against his neck.

Not on purpose.

Just the movement of her breathing.

But it burned.

A shiver ran down his spine-the first time in his life he had ever felt such a thing.

He went completely rigid.

Then he moved.

He lifted her-easily, like she weighed nothing-and carried her to the edge of the pool. He climbed out, water streaming down his body, and set her on her feet.

She was still shaking.

Still not looking.

Her eyes were closed

The water still dripped from their bodies.

Iravati stood shivering by the edge of the pool, her wet clothes clinging to her like a second skin. Every curve, every line of her body was visible through the soaked fabric. Her white scarf hung limp around her neck. Her hair-dark, long, dripping-plastered against her cheeks and shoulders.

She was not aware.

Not yet.

Her eyes were still closed from the panic, her breath still uneven.

The Sultan watched her.

His own body was bare above the waist, water streaming down his chest, his abs, his arms.

He looked at her.

And something tightened in his chest.

He turned.

He walked away.

Changed into dry clothes behind a screen.

Came back.

Walked to a wooden chest against the wall.

Opened it.

Pulled out a large, dry cloth-thick, soft, made of fine wool. Big enough to wrap around a person twice.

He walked back to her.

She did not move.

Did not open her eyes.

He unfolded the cloth.

And wrapped it around her.

Not roughly.

Not gently.

Carefully.

He covered her shoulders first, then her arms, then her body-tucking the edges so that not a single curve was visible. The cloth swallowed her, made her look small. Vulnerable.

She opened her eyes.

Looked up at him.

Those blue eyes.

That covered face.

He was close.

Too close.

"Why..." she whispered.

He did not answer.

His hands lingered on the cloth for a moment-at her collarbone, where the fabric folded. Then he stepped back.

Turned.

Walked toward the door.

And then-

He stopped.

Looked over his shoulder.

"Andhere mein mat bhagna. Raaste mein kuein hain."

(Do not run in the dark. There are wells on the path.)

He left.

She stood there, wrapped in his cloth, surrounded by his scent-sandalwood and smoke and something else, something dark.

Her heart would not calm down.

---

The guards arrived.

Two of them, breathless, swords drawn.

"Huzoor, hum ise le jaate hain-"

(Your Majesty, we will take her-)

"Nahi."

(No.)

The Sultan's voice was low.

Final.

The guards froze.

"Huzoor-"

"Hum khud le jaayenge. Koi haath mat lagana."

(We will take her ourselves. No one touch her.)

He bent down.

Iravati was still weak from the water, still trembling. She tried to step back, but her legs would not obey.

He lifted her.

One arm under her knees, the other behind her back.

Effortlessly.

She gasped.

"Put me down-"

"Chup."

(Silence.)

He carried her.

Through the corridors.

Past the sleeping guards (who would be dealt with later).

Down a spiral staircase.

Into the lower levels of the palace.

She should have struggled.

Should have screamed.

But she was wrapped in his cloth, held against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.

And something in her did not want to move.

His heartbeat was steady.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She could feel it through his bare skin.

Her own heart was a chaos.

---

The cell was clean.

Stone walls. A cot with fresh sheets. A small window high above, letting in moonlight.

He set her down on the cot.

Gently.

Too gently.

She looked around.

"Where-"

"Chup."

(Silence.)

He stood above her.

Looking down.

Those blue eyes-dark, intense, unreadable.

She should have felt afraid.

But she did not.

She felt... watched.

Claimed.

He reached down.

His hand moved toward her head.

She flinched.

He stopped.

Waited.

Then continued.

His fingers found the pins holding her wet hair in place.

One by one.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He pulled them out.

Her hair-long, dark, wet-tumbled down her shoulders, cascading over her back like a waterfall of silk.

She was still as a statue.

He reached for the white scarf still tangled around her neck.

Unwound it.

Her face was fully revealed.

Her golden eyes.

Her lips.

The small bindi between her eyebrows.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

Then his hand moved.

To the back of her head. Nape of her neck.

His fingers slid into her wet hair.

He stroked. Slowly. Roughly.

From the upper nape of her neck-where her hair met her skull.

Down to the lower nape-where her neck met her shoulders.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Massaging.

Intimately.

Her lips parted.

Her eyes rolled back.

She could not breathe.

Her hands-without her permission-reached up.

One fisted the fabric of his kurta at his chest.

The other pressed against his stomach-warm, muscular.

He did not stop. Only smirk in side cloth, deepened.

His fingers continued their slow, torturous path.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Her head fell back against the wall.

A soft sound escaped her throat.

Not a word.

Not a cry.

Something else.

His other hand came up-cradling the other side of her head, his thumb brushing her temple.

He pulled her closer.

Slowly.

Her chest pressed against his.

Her face tilted up.

His face hovered inches from hers.

She could feel his

breath through the cloth.

Warm.

Unsteady?

No.

That was her.

She was unsteady.

He leaned down.

His lips near her ear.

Not touching.

But almost.

And then-

He whispered.

In pure Urdu.

Low.

Hot.

Intimate.

"Swagat hai Shariwan mein, Shazadi... ya hum kahein... jasoos... Iravati ji."

(Welcome to Shariwan, Princess... or shall we say... spy... Iravati.)

----

To be continued...