DARBAR HALL

RAJASTHAN - MEWAR

"My daughter... is yours."

The words didn't fade.
They stayed—circling, clawing—ringing inside Yansong's head again and again. For a moment, he thought he had misheard.

Marry?
His daughter?
A king's daughter?

Was this a test? A cruel joke dressed as gratitude?

Yansong stared at Maharaj Ranvijay, his expression unreadable, but beneath that stillness, something stormed violently. A thousand thoughts—none of them spoken. He didn't dare voice them. Not here. Not in a king's darbar.

What kind of father gave away his daughter like a bargaining chip? And to a stranger no less.

Madness, perhaps.

His jaw tightened, eyes darkening. Even if this man truly meant it—what made him think Yansong was capable of such a thing? Of her?

Yansong knew nothing of palaces or silk-draped lives. His world was steel and shadows—deals struck in blood, survival etched with knives and gunfire. He had never learned another way. Never wanted to.

Ranvijay cleared his throat. The sound snapped Yansong back into the suffocating reality of the moment. This wasn't just a king he had saved. This was a price being placed on his life—and he hadn't been asked.

He was being given something."You are... selling me your daughter?" The words left Yansong in a low whisper—blunt, unfiltered. He didn't realize that a single sentence had just signed his death warrant. In this darbar, men vanished for far less.

Silence crashed down. Every soul froze.

Ranvijay's gaze hardened—dark, lethal. For a heartbeat, it truly seemed as though he might draw his talwar and end this insolent young man where he stood. No trial. No hesitation.

No one would question it.

The Mahamantri shot to his feet, fury blazing. Ministers exchanged sharp glances, tension thick as smoke. The Senapati snarled under his breath, steel sliding halfway free as he looked to his king for permission.

Even the pundit faltered—the beads stilled mid-chant in his fingers. Guards shifted uneasily, eyes wide, hands tightening around their weapons.

Everyone held their breath.

Everyone—except Yansong.

Ranvijay said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on Yansong, who stood tall and unyielding, unaware of just how close death hovered. There was defiance in his gaze—not arrogance, but refusal. A man who had survived worse than this.

Suddenly, Ranvijay rose. The movement alone sent a ripple of fear through the hall.

With long, deliberate strides, he crossed the distance between them. His royal angarkha whispered behind him with every step, authority trailing like a shadow. This was the king men feared—the one who made hardened warriors bow without being told.

Yet Yansong did not move.

Did not flinch.

Did not break.

Ranvijay stopped directly before him, studying him now—properly. Up close. Still no tremor. Not a flicker of retreat.

"You have spoken words," Ranvijay said slowly, voice low and dangerous, "that no man dares to utter in my darbar."

A pause.

His gaze searched Yansong's face. "But perhaps," he continued, the edge softening into something unexpected, "only my son-in-law would possess such audacity."

A chuckle followed.

A chuckle.

The darbar froze in disbelief.

Had the king truly laughed?

Yansong stiffened at last—shock flashing openly across his face. Son-in-law? The word struck harder than any blade. God. What the hell was happening?

The silence stretched—heavy, suffocating.

Yansong's breath came slow, measured, though something had fractured inside him. Son-in-law. The word echoed like a curse, like a verdict passed without his consent. He had faced death more times than he could count, yet this—this felt stranger. He didn't know how to stand in front of it.

Ranvijay turned away first.

The simple act alone broke the spell. He walked back to his throne, unhurried, as though the air itself bent to his will. When he seated himself once more, the darbar seemed to breathe again—carefully, cautiously.

"You saved my life," Ranvijay said, voice carrying across the hall. "Not for gold. Not for favor. You did not even know who I was."

His gaze returned to Yansong, sharp and assessing. "Such men are rare."

The Mahamantri stepped forward, unable to restrain himself. "Maharaj—this is reckless. We do not know his lineage, his past, his intentions—"

"I know enough," Ranvijay cut in calmly. The words fell like an executioner's blade.
The Mahamantri fell silent at once. No one else dared speak—they knew that tone. Once Ranvijay used it, there was no turning back.

Ranvijay leaned back against the throne, fingers resting against the armrest. "A man's past does not frighten me."

His eyes narrowed. "And this one did not bend—even when death stared him in the face."

Yansong finally spoke, his voice steady, edged with something he didn't quite understand.
"I didn't save you for this."

A murmur rippled through the darbar. Ranvijay's lips curved faintly. "No," he said. "You saved me even when you could have walked away." His gaze flickered to Yansong's arm—still bandaged, still stained with what he had bled. "You put yourself in my place. You took the bullet meant for me."

Yansong said nothing.
Because the king was right—and he hated that most of all.

"You think I am selling my daughter," Ranvijay continued, his voice firm now. "You are wrong."

He straightened. Whatever warmth had lingered vanished, replaced by the weight of a ruler shaped by wars, betrayals, and bloodshed.

"I am entrusting her to you." The word struck harder than before. 

"Enemies circle my kingdom," Ranvijay went on. "Some wear crowns. Others wear smiles. Vishakha will not survive among silk-tongued cowards."

His gaze locked onto Yansong. "She needs a man who does not fear blades. Who does not lie when fear tightens around his throat. Who stands when everyone else bows."

A pause.

"And you," he added quietly, "need something you do not yet understand." King whispered as if he already knew what Yansong needed in life.

Yansong's fists clenched at his sides. "You don't know what I am." His words trying to whisper of the dark world he lived, something Rajkumari would never be able to take.

Ranvijay's eyes darkened. "I know exactly what you are." He leaned forward slightly. "A man who believes himself unworthy—and is therefore dangerous."

The words landed too close.

Ranvijay rose once more, but this time his voice softened—just a fraction. "I will not force you. This is not a command."

The darbar stiffened. No one truly believed that. 

"But know this," he said quietly. "In Mewar, the man who saves the king is written into the kingdom's record. He is entitled to accept whatever the king offers."

His gaze softened—not weak, but unguarded.
"And I offer you my heart. My daughter."

Yansong swallowed. Slowly, his gaze lifted—not to the throne, but to the empty space beside it. The place where a princess would stand. The place meant for someone he had never seen... and already felt the weight of.

"What about her?" he asked at last.

Whatever he was—monster or not—there was one line he would never cross. He would not bind a woman to a marriage she did not choose.

Ranvijay's expression shifted. Something guarded passed through it.

"My daughter will agree," he said simply. "That much, I know."

There was no arrogance in his tone. Only certainty. Ranvijay knew Vishakha would never refuse him—and he knew, just as surely, that if the day came when he was gone, this was the only man he could trust with her life.

Yansong stood frozen for a moment before finally speaking.

"I won't deny you whatever you offer me," he said quietly. "But your advisor is right."

His eyes flicked briefly to the Mahamantri, who returned the look with open hostility—as if he would gladly end Yansong where he stood.

"You should have my past examined," Yansong continued. "Because I don't think you would approve of my life. Nor would your daughter accept the lies that come with it."

He paused, letting the words settle. "And after that—if you still wish to marry your daughter to me," he finished evenly, "then it's fine by me."

Without waiting for permission, Yansong turned and walked out of the darbar.

The doors closed behind him as he returned to the guest chambers—the same place where his wounds had been tended, and where, for the first time, the weight he carried finally had a name.

Ranvijay watched Yansong walk away, something unfamiliar flickering in his otherwise unreadable eyes. This man was a mystery—unlike any he had encountered before.

Any other man would have seized the opportunity without hesitation, agreed to the alliance, and married his daughter without a second thought. Power, security, legacy—most would have bowed gratefully.

But this young man had done the unthinkable.

He had not only saved him, but had paused—asked about Vishakha's wishes, her consent. And then, with the same calm authority, had ordered a background check on himself.

Ranvijay exhaled slowly. A man who questioned power. A man who invited scrutiny.

That, he knew, was far more dangerous than blind ambition.

"Dig into his past," the king said, each word measured, absolute. "I want every truth, every lie, every debt that bears his name. By nightfall."

He did not wait for acknowledgment. Rising from the throne, he turned his back to the court—an act only a king certain of his power would dare. His departure was unhurried, his footsteps steady, echoing through the marble hall like a verdict already passed.

No one spoke.

The darbar remained suspended in the aftermath of his command—confusion flickering briefly before being swallowed whole by fear.

VISHAKHA'S CHAMBER

9 PM - AT NIGHT

Night lay heavy over the palace, wrapped in silence. In her chamber, Rajkumari Vishakha lay awake, the soft amber glow of shaded lamps reflecting off polished wood and ivory walls. 

She had not yet changed; her lehenga still framed her form, the silk whispering faintly each time she shifted—restless, unwilling to settle.

Sleep evaded her. Her gaze rested on the ceiling, but her thoughts remained with the day—too close, too sharp. With the image of her father lying still, surrounded by physicians and guards who had arrived a moment too late.

Around her, the maids moved with quiet precision. Bangles were removed and placed into velvet trays. Her dupatta was eased from her shoulders, folded with care. No one spoke until she did.

"Did the royal physicians say anything further?" Vishakha asked softly, worry lacing her voice—so unlike the calm, unreadable poise her father wore as a crown.

"They are satisfied with his condition, Rajkumari," one  of the maid replied softly. "Maharaj is out of danger."

"And the man..." she asked after a brief pause, her voice lowering, as the image returned unbidden—the tall stranger who had stepped into danger without hesitation to shield her father.

The maids stilled, just briefly. "The one who intervened," the eldest said softly.

"Yes."

"He has been taken to the guest chambers. He was wounded while protecting Maharaj. The doctors believe he will recover."

Vishakha turned onto her side, the lehenga rustling quietly against the sheets. "Unhone kuch bola?" she asked.

"No, Rajkumari." The Eldest Maid replied again.

"Not even recognition?" she asked, astonishment threading her voice. A man who neither knew her father nor had ever laid eyes upon him had stepped into danger without a moment's hesitation—just like that.

The maid shook her head. "Nothing."

Silence followed.

Vishakha's fingers curled slightly against the bedding. A stranger who stepped into danger without pause. Who bled so her father could live. A man who did not wait to be commanded.

"Aakhir esa unhone kyu kiya. Why save someone he never knew?" Vishakha murmured, the question restrained—yet heavy with wonder.

No one answered. Some questions were never meant to be spoken aloud, much less answered.

One of the maids stepped forward, drawing the embroidered coverlet higher, smoothing its folds with practiced, reverent care. "You must rest now, Rajkumari," she said gently. "Tomorrow will ask much of you."

Vishakha wished to object, but weariness claimed her before words could. She nodded, yielding at last.

"Shubhratri," she whispered softly, her fingers curling into the silken edge of the coverlet.

"Shubhratri, Rajkumari," the maids replied in unison.

They withdrew with measured steps, the soft echo of anklets fading into silence, leaving the chamber wrapped once more in stillness and lamplight.

Alone, Vishakha stared into the dim glow of the oil lamp. Somewhere within these palace walls lay a man wounded—not by duty, nor by command, but by choice.

She had never seen his face.
Yet the thought of him lingered—quiet, steady, and unsettling—long after her eyes finally closed.

MIDNIGHT

Midnight had claimed Amar Mahal, yet the hour felt altered—solemn, hushed—as though Lord Shankar himself kept vigil over the palace, blessing it with his silent watch.

For only he knew a meeting would unfold that night—unseen, unspoken. And from above, Shankar watched in silence, fate's quiet conspirator, the perfect matchmaker.

The palace lay hushed, its grandeur softened by darkness. Even the oil lamp beside her bed burned low, its flame trembling as though it too sensed her unrest. 

Vishakha lay still beneath the embroidered coverlet, eyes fixed upon the canopy above, her thoughts circling endlessly—her father's pale face, the physicians' murmured reassurances, the unasked questions she carried in her chest.

And yet, restlessness clung to her—sleep refused to come, no matter how she tried. Tonight, it simply would not.

As though she had already sensed it, somewhere within the palace a stranger lay wounded upon his bed, his mind as unsettled as hers, the same unease threading through the dark.

She rose before she even realised it, worry guiding her steps—her only thought to check on her father.

Bare feet met the cool marble floor, silk whispering softly as she drew her dupatta over her head, careful, practiced—like someone who had grown up learning how to move unseen when needed. The doors of her chamber opened with a soft creak, and Vishakha slipped into the corridor, the stillness greeting her like a held breath.

And far above, watching from the skies, Mahadev let out a knowing chuckle.

She moved carefully, each step measured, careful not to draw attention or be caught by a passing maid. Gods—she could not bear that now. Not tonight. They would never allow her to wander the palace like this.

She moved slowly—past shadowed pillars, flickering lamps, and sleeping sentries who bowed low, too startled or too respectful to question her presence.

And whenever she passed a guard, she offered a pleading glance—those doe eyes lifting just enough.

It worked.

It always did.

Her father's chamber lay quiet when she reached it. The guards assured her he slept peacefully. Relief touched her briefly—but it was incomplete. 

She paused outside, listening. The calm murmur of breath reached her ears, steady and alive. Relief washed through her, soft but incomplete, like a prayer only half-answered.

She felt she could not yet return to her chamber and surrender to sleep. She simply could not. It was as though she was meant to see something...

Or perhaps—someone.

She kept walking, her fingers fiddeling with her dupatta, she knew she should go back to her chamber or maybe call the maids if she had been having a trouble to sleep.

But she kept walking, she didn't stop. Even though everything felt wrong still deep inside it was right.

And then there it was - she turned the corner and stopped.

Light flickering from the room - it was unusual when everyone had been gone to sleep hours ago.

Was there someone else who couldn't sleep just like her restless?

As she reached more close - curious. There it was the door ajar open, the bed had been perfectly made as if no one had ever slept on it.

And then the balcony

As she crossed the open door of her chamber, she did something she knew she shouldn't. The night breeze lifted the hem of her lehenga, teasing against her ankles. Moonlight spilled in from the balcony ahead—bright, unguarded, almost inviting.

And there—

A figure.

A man stood by the railing, bare-chested, his back turned to the world. White bandages crossed his shoulder, stark against skin still bruised, still healing. He was looking out into the night as though the sky might offer him answers the palace could not.

And then her breath hitched—this was him.

Yeh wahi hai.

It was him. The man who had thrown himself into danger to save her father. For a heartbeat, she could not understand it—how could he be so calm? He had saved a man he barely knew, in a kingdom that was not his own, in a country that held no claim on him.

And yet... he had stepped forward without a second thought. Taken the bullet meant for her father. And now, here he stood, as if he were nothing more than any other man—far from the fearless figure whispered about in every corner of Mewar.

Yansong stood, bare chest kissed by the cold night breeze, shivers tracing a line down his spine. Sleep had eluded him; he had tried, but the thoughts of the Rajkumari would not let him rest. By tomorrow, she would be his wife—the Rajkumari of Mewar, bound to the most dangerous man in all of Asia.

Then, he felt it—a presence. He froze, instincts sharp, hands brushing the waistband where his gun rested.

Vishakha stilled as well, heart beating in quiet defiance. He turned, swift and controlled, yet her face remained hidden, gaze lowered, posture unyielding in its dignity.

A Rajkumari did not allow herself to be seen. Not by strangers. Not even by fate.

She acted first, her fingers finding the strings hidden along the wall. Slowly, the curtains descended. Every chamber of Amar Mahal had been prepared for such moments—designed so that if a woman of Mewar ever stood before a stranger, she could speak, move, or even vanish from sight without compromise.

Now, the heavy drapes fell gracefully, veiling her presence. The stranger could see nothing of her, yet she could observe everything.

Yansong froze at the sight of the woman behind the curtains. Who was she? And what was she doing here?

Then his eyes caught the intricate design of her lehenga—the same one the Rajkumari had worn when he had saved Maharaj. The same color, the same elegance.

He froze. She was the Rajkumari.

Rajkumari Vishakha.

The woman who was meant to be his wife. The woman who had no inkling that she was being bound to a man the world whispered about as a monster.

He lowered his gaze slightly, sensing her desire not to be seen, even through the veil of curtains. Yet his attention lingered—on the way her fingers fidgeted with the dupatta covering her face, on the intricate mehendi adorning her hands, patterns he had never encountered before. Fascination, quiet and deep, rooted itself in him.

She was unlike any woman he had ever known. Dresses like these, adorned with such grace and aura, were foreign to his world of steel and danger. And yet, here she stood—silent, dignified, breathtaking.

For the first time in a long while, Yansong felt something stir within him that he could neither name nor resist. She was unlike anything he had ever seen.

"Aapke haath sundar hai, Rajkumari."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Yansong froze, a hand flying to his mouth, cursing himself for speaking.

More than anything, it unsettled him—because he had never been a man who paused for beauty, especially not in a woman he had never truly seen.

God, what the fuck was wrong with him?

He was a mafia boss. For God's sake.

On the other side of the curtain, Vishakha froze too. For a heartbeat, she feared he was trying to be manipulative, like so many others. But then she noticed the sincerity in his eyes, the way he scolded himself for his own words.

And then—there it was. A giggle. Her shoulders shook as she tried to stifle it, a sound so rare, so unguarded. She had never laughed in front of a stranger—not a man—only before her father or the maids.

Yansong stiffened, expecting outrage or disgust, though his admiration for the delicate mehendi on her hands was genuine. But she didn't recoil. Instead, her quiet amusement reached him through the veil.

He couldn't help it—his lips twitched. Almost a smile.

Hah.

Even here, in the shadowed quiet of the palace, BAI YANSONG smiled. And the Rajkumari—unaware—had just drawn the Most Dangerous Man in all of Asia to smile.

Through the veil of the curtains, Vishakha's eyes watched him. Yansong's silhouette shifted slightly, his head tilting as if sensing the subtle movement of air—the presence that had already made him pause.

He did not speak. Neither did she. Words were unnecessary; the silence itself carried a weight heavier than any declaration. Every breath, every blink, was a conversation of its own.

Her gaze lingered on the way his shoulders tensed, the way his bare chest rose and fell with controlled calm. And for a fleeting moment, she wondered—how could someone who faced death without hesitation betray such human fragility in one simple shift of posture?

But then she looked away, heart hammering. What was she doing?

God, what was wrong with her. Her gaze had lingered too long... on his bare chest.

A blush rose to her cheeks, deepening with every passing second.

She had already committed a crime by stepping into the room of a stranger—had she now compounded it by seeing him like this? She turned swiftly, as if distancing herself could undo what had happened.

God... what have I done?

Even though the curtains veiled her completely, Yansong could feel the shift in the air—the subtle movement, the way her presence grew tense, as if she was trying to escape something. He didn't need to see her face to know. He knew that feeling.

For a second, he remained frozen, unsure whether to move or to just let the silence stretch between them. But he couldn't. There was something about her, something about this moment, that made him feel more alive than he had in a long time.

And there it was—the one thing he couldn't deny.

She was beautiful. Not just in the way others were, but in a way he had never seen before. The grace, the elegance of a woman like her, wrapped in something so foreign to him.

It wasn't just her looks—it was something deeper. Something he could sense, even without fully understanding it.

Her presence, the way the moonlight played on her skin through the veil of curtains, the softness of the fabric she wore... it all felt like it belonged to another world. A world far from his own

Vishakha, on the other side, leaned against the wall, her breath catching in her throat. What was she doing? She shouldn't have stayed this long, should never have let her thoughts wander into the dangerous territory of curiosity.

Yet, despite herself, her gaze slipped again—just for a second—towards where he stood. Even behind the heavy curtain, his presence was undeniable.

For a moment, they just stared at each other through the thin curtain that separated them—an invisible wall, but one that felt heavy, almost as if fate itself had woven it.

Then it came.

The faint murmur of voices, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, and drawing nearer.

Both of them tensed, instinctively. Vishakha's fingers tightened around the fabric of her lehenga, her pulse quickening. What if someone saw them like this?

What would she even say?

The guards' voices grew louder, their footsteps closer, each second pressing harder. There was no time left to retreat.

Vishakha's breath caught, her eyes flicking toward the curtain, then back to the man who stood on the other side—too close, yet still a world away.

In that instant—Yansong—acted.

He moved first—reaching out and yanking the curtain aside that had kept them apart.

Before she could take another step back, his hand closed around her wrist, firm but quiet, driven by instinct more than thought. Vishakha startled, her balance slipping for a breathless second as she stumbled toward him.

The space between them vanished.

Not pulled in violence. Not claimed.
Just... caught—by circumstance, by silence, by a moment neither of them had planned for.

And then—the moment.

She fell, not into space, but into him. Yansong's arms shot out to catch her—strong, unyielding. His bare chest met her for a breath, the warmth of him unmistakable, like fire against her cool skin. For a heartbeat, they were suspended—locked in the kind of closeness that only fate could define.

His arm came around her instinctively, steadying her before she could hit the floor. The contact was brief, unavoidable. She felt the warmth of his bare chest, the sharp intake of his breath as he realised who was in his arms.

Yansong froze as her breath brushed against his bare chest, the contact sending an unwelcome shiver down his spine.

God—what was this woman doing to him?

He was a man known for control. For discipline. And yet this woman—who barely reached his chest—was making him question all of it.

Vishakha looked up instinctively... and stopped.

His eyes were closed.

He wasn't looking at her. Not even now. Any other man would have. Any other man would have taken advantage of the moment.

But he stood there, holding her steady, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight—as if restraint itself were a choice he was actively making.

Did men like him even exist?

She didn't think so.
And yet—here he was.

The sound of footsteps snapped them both back. Closer now. Too close.

In one swift movement, he shut the chamber doors and reached for the oil lamp, extinguishing it before a single shadow could betray them. Darkness swallowed the room.

They stood frozen, breaths held, hearts pounding, as muffled whispers drifted past the door.

Then—slowly—the footsteps faded.

Only then did they breathe again.

He pulled back at once, releasing her as though the very contact had startled him. His arm fell to his side, sudden and still, like a weapon set down. He turned his face away and closed his eyes—not because he wished to, but because he had to.

"Forgive me," he said under his breath, urgency slipping through. He bowed his head as he stepped back. "I am sorry," he added quietly, still facing away. "I did not wish to—"

She stopped him.

"Aapki galti nahi hai."

She adjusted the veil over her head, steadying herself despite the wild, unfamiliar rush in her chest. This was new. Not like this. Not ever.

She had never even allowed herself small mischiefs. Never known this kind of feeling.

"Humein yahan nahi aana chahiye tha," she said softly. "I am truly sorry. Kripya humein maaf kar dijiye."

The words struck deeper than anything else that night.

No one had ever spoken to him like that—not without wanting something in return. Kindness, in his world, always came with a price. Always rehearsed. Always false.

This wasn't.

This was something else. Something he had told himself he did not need. Something he had buried so far down he'd forgotten it existed.

And it would be a lie to say it didn't warm something deep inside him.

She took a breath, steadying herself one last time. "Humein... humein jaana chahiye," she said softly.The words lingered between them.

He did not turn. Did not open his eyes. He remained exactly where he was, head bowed, hands still, as if movement itself might undo the restraint holding him together.

Vishakha hesitated for a heartbeat—just one. Then she turned away.

Her footsteps were light, careful, fading slowly across the chamber floor. He counted them without meaning to. One step. Then another. And another. Until the sound grew distant... and finally disappeared altogether.

Only then did he open his eyes.

The room felt emptier. Quieter. As though something had passed through it and taken warmth with it.

And for the first time in a very long while, Yansong stood alone with a feeling he did not know how to bury.

Vishakha returned to her chambers without a sound and lay down, the silk of her bedding cool against her skin. Sleep did not come. Not tonight. It would not.

She had seen gentlemen before. But never someone like him.

God—how could a person be this generous, again and again?

For the first time, she wasn't replaying a small mischief in her mind. She was thinking of a man. A man who had once saved her father without hesitation, and who had just saved her—without asking for anything in return.

He did not understand her customs. Did not know her traditions. And yet he had respected them instinctively—so completely that he had not looked at her even once.

That thought stayed with her. Warm. Unsettling.

This had not been an act. She could feel that much. His restraint had been real. His respect, genuine.

He did not know it yet.

But somewhere in the quiet of her chamber, beneath the weight of the night, Vishakha realised the truth.

He had already won her heart.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Deewangi Writess