The Rajkumari's chamber was elegant and serene, its carved marble floors cool beneath the hush of the room, pastel frescoed walls glowing softly as sunlight filtered through the delicate jaali windows, and at the center stood a low ornate bed draped in sheer silk, surrounded by embroidered cushions, silver perfume bottles, and delicate jewelry arranged upon a vanity, the air faintly scented with roses so that everything within the chamber felt quiet, graceful, and touched with a kind of royal luxury that seemed almost unreal.

Vishakha lay upon her Shahi palang, still and thoughtful, as though afraid that even the smallest movement might disturb the storm of emotions inside her, for two days had passed since the Roka ceremony and the mahal had known nothing but chaos since then, servants hurrying through corridors, tailors rushing in and out, trays of ornaments and fabrics being carried everywhere, and her father—always the composed king, always the man who never allowed worry to crease his brow—had been moving from one hall to another since dawn, personally ensuring that everything for tonight's engagement was flawless.

God, she still couldn't believe it—today was going to be her engagement, today she would be promised, claimed by destiny and tradition and family honor, and the thought echoed inside her mind again and again, she was going to belong to someone else, her name soon to be spoken with another's, her identity gently tied to his like silk threads knotted together, the words too heavy to swallow and yet undeniably real, because this was happening and no wish or hesitation could stop it now.

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to that night of the Roka ceremony, to the moment she had glanced at him from behind her veil, when she could see his face clearly while he had not seen hers—not once had he tried to lift the veil, not once had he been impatient or forceful—and strangely, that quiet restraint had warmed her heart more than grand gestures ever could.

She let out a soft sigh as her gaze shifted to the lehenga laid carefully nearby, its golden fabric shimmering even in the muted daylight, beautiful enough that any girl would feel fortunate to wear it, yet as she looked at it her chest tightened with a strange mixture of overwhelm and calm, because although everything felt too sudden, too swift, there was also relief nestled somewhere deep inside her knowing she was to marry a man who did not impose, who did not rush, who did not demand.

That alone felt like a blessing.

On the other side of the palang rested the Vivah Patra, the wedding invitation her father had selected after examining thousands of designs with the seriousness of a royal decree, and when she glanced at it she couldn't help but admire it, for at the top were delicate illustrations of Shankar and Gauri Maiya, framed in gold lining that held within it the dates of the engagement and shaadi along with the names of their families written side by side.

Something tightened quietly in her chest when her eyes lingered on those names displayed together, not uncomfortable, not frightening, just unfamiliar in a way that made her aware of how her life was already shifting, as though she was beginning to like the sound of it without even realizing when that feeling had begun.

She turned her gaze toward the jaali windows, watching the servants outside arranging decorations, adjusting garlands, stepping back to inspect every detail before correcting it again, and the sight served as yet another reminder that this was not a dream or a passing thought.

She was going to be engaged tonight.

Just then a knock sounded at the door, soft but clear, and Vishakha glanced over her shoulder before saying gently, "Come in."

Her maid Anandi entered, head bowed respectfully as always. "Aapko Maharaj bula rahe hain, Rajkumari," she said.

And just like that, with another small bow, Anandi turned to leave, even though Vishakha had told her countless times that she didn't need to bow, especially when they were nearly the same age and there was no need for such formality between them, yet Anandi still followed royal protocol with quiet devotion.

Vishakha rose slowly from the bed, smoothing the folds of her lehenga before stepping toward the mirror to fix a stray crease, and then, drawing in a steady breath as though preparing herself for something far greater than a simple summons, she turned and walked out to meet her father.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

GUEST CHAMBER 

Sunlight slipped in through the tall window and spread slowly across the polished floor before coming to rest against the neatly made bed, its pale sheets still untouched, still waiting.

Yansong stood by the jaali windows, staring outside at the servants climbing along the high walls of Mewar, stringing flowers, hanging silks, dressing the entire mahal as if it were a bride herself.

It reminded him of only one thing — today was the day he was getting engaged. He would no longer be just a man. He would be someone's husband. Someone's son-in-law.

Something he had never once imagined himself becoming.

Just two weeks ago he had been a mafia boss who came to India with nothing but revenge burning in his veins for the man who betrayed him, and yet now here he was, standing in a palace, about to be engaged tonight to a woman he barely knew, whose face he had not even seen.

His gaze drifted to the kurta pajama laid carefully on the palang, fresh, regal, embroidered in gold, chosen precisely with the King's guidance because Yansong knew nothing about these things, had never worn anything like it before, was a stranger to this culture and its rituals.

Hindi he knew, yes — years of dealing across countries had taught him languages the way other men learned weapons — but beyond that he knew nothing, and now he had to learn, because he was not just marrying a woman from another world, he was marrying a Rajkumari.

Royalty.

His thoughts slid back to two days ago, to the Roka ceremony, to the veiled figure who had looked almost unreal even without her face visible, something soft and luminous about her presence alone enough to unsettle him. He had heard the whispers too, the endless talk of her beauty, but he had not tried to see her, had not tried to force a glimpse, because he knew that when the time came she would show herself willingly, and to demand it before that would be disrespect — to her, to her customs, and to his own code.

A Bai respected. He did not force. He did not take what was not freely given. And if his father ever heard he had crossed that line, not even hell itself would be able to hide him from that wrath.

He exhaled slowly, the weight in his chest settling heavier the more he thought.

Could he really do this?

Be a husband?

He was a mafia boss, for God's sake, a man built for violence, for blood, for shadows and fear — and yet he was about to bind his life to a woman who, from everything he had seen, seemed made of nothing but softness and light.

What the hell was happening to him?

Was fate laughing at him?

He did not believe in God, never had, but fate... fate he believed in, and right now it felt like someone somewhere was writing his story with cruel amusement.

Please, he thought silently, whoever you are — don't let this go wrong.

The door suddenly flew open and a breathless, unsteady Lin stumbled inside.

Yansong turned instantly, irritation flashing across his face as his eyes swept over Lin's torn shirt and dirt-streaked trousers, the man looking as if he had crawled out of a battlefield.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Lin?" he snapped, his voice sharp with annoyance, already irritated enough without this — and if anyone was to blame for him being in this palace in the first place, it was Lin.

Lin tried to speak but winced instead, breath catching, his hand pressing hard against his chest.

Yansong stilled.

The irritation vanished as quickly as it had come, his expression darkening as his eyes dropped to the way Lin's fingers trembled against his shirt. In one swift motion he grabbed the fabric and yanked it aside, ignoring the pained sound that tore from Lin's throat, and there it was — the wound.

He exhaled quietly, tension easing just a fraction. Not deep. A knife mark, shallow but fresh. He could recognize it instantly; he always could. Weapons spoke to him the way languages spoke to scholars — through shape, through damage, through the story they left behind on flesh.

He looked up again at Lin, whose face was tight with pain, every muscle strained. Yansong's expression did not soften — it never did — but his grip shifted, steadying him, pulling him closer so he wouldn't fall.

"Who the fuck did this?" he asked, his voice low now, dangerous, threaded with a protectiveness he would never openly admit.

"Boss... someone sent me a tip," Lin managed, breathing hard between words. "I went to the place... tried to find him..." He swallowed, shifting and wincing as the movement tugged at the wound. "And then when I did... someone stabbed me... right in the stomach... and told me to tell you to stop looking for Divish."

The last of his strength gave out as he finished, his body sagging sideways onto the palang.

Yansong's jaw tightened, fists curling slowly at his sides as fury rose hot and fast inside his chest. Someone had dared to send him a warning. Dared to threaten him. Dared to think they could tell him what to do.

The monster inside him stirred.

But another pained breath from Lin cut through the rage before it could take over, and Yansong forced it down, locking it away where it belonged for now.

He called sharply to the guard outside, ordering someone trustworthy to come treat the wound and warning them not a word of this was to spread.

Then he buttoned his shirt with steady hands and turned toward the door.

"Boss... where are you going?" Lin rasped weakly. "It's not safe."

"Shut up and rest," Yansong said without looking back, already walking out.

Because someone had just made the mistake of waking the monster inside him, and monsters like him did not stop, did not sleep, did not forgive — not until they were satisfied.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

SHAHI BAGH

The Shahi Bagh stretched like a living painting beyond the palace walls, its pathways lined with trimmed hedges, marble fountains whispering softly, and rows of fragrant roses swaying in the breeze. Sunlight rested gently on the green lawns while peacocks wandered freely, their feathers glinting like jewels, and the whole garden carried a calm, royal stillness as if even time walked slowly there.

It had been a few minutes since Vishakha had been searching for her father. Anandi had told her he was looking for her, yet she had wandered through almost the entire mahal and still hadn't found him.

Where was he?

After calling for her, he had simply disappeared. She sighed, lifting her dupatta to wipe the faint beads of sweat from her temple.

Just then she heard footsteps.

She turned quickly, hope flickering — perhaps it was her father.

But it wasn't.

Bai Chen stood there instead, tall and commanding, his presence carrying the same quiet authority her own father possessed, and the realization struck her instantly — this was her soon-to-be father-in-law.

Her eyes widened. Instinctively she pulled the dupatta over her head, murmuring apologies under her breath. She did not veil her face though; that was meant only for the man she was to marry. Bai Chen was to be family, and there was no need for that distance.

She hurried forward and bent to touch his feet reverently. "Uh... I am sorry," she whispered, head bowed, embarrassment warming her cheeks. She turned to leave quickly, mortified at not noticing him sooner, when his voice stopped her.

"You don't have to cover your head, Dear." Bai Chen said softly.

His tone was calm, unreadable as always, yet threaded with a gentleness he rarely used on anyone. He wanted this girl — the one who would soon become his daughter-in-law — to feel ease around him, not as if she had stepped into a cage.

Vishakha looked up, startled.

She had not expected that. Not when, in her world, women were expected to cover themselves before elders like him. Slowly she nodded, studying his face; it was no longer stern but sincere, the severity softened by something almost... kind.

Nor had she expected the nickname. It sounded strangely affectionate, as if he had already accepted her as his own.

"Ji... hame pata nahi tha aap yaha hai," she said gently, letting the dupatta fall back from her head. She noticed the way his gaze held nothing uncomfortable, nothing intrusive — only patience — and a small, nervous smile touched her lips. "Ji... hum apne baba ko dhoondh rahe the."

She truly didn't know how one was supposed to behave around a father-in-law. No one ever prepared a girl for that moment.

No one ever did.

Bai Chen nodded slightly. "Your father has gone for rounds," he replied, then paused as he noticed her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta.

"You don't have to be nervous around me, Vishakha," he added after a breath. "I may not be your father, but I will make sure you always feel at home in China. You will have everything you need."

He didn't smile, didn't show open warmth, yet his words carried enough quiet sincerity to wrap around her heart like a shawl, making her feel welcomed into a world she hadn't even entered yet.

"I feel lucky enough to have that," she said softly, meaning every word.

Silence settled between them for a moment before she spoke again. "Ji... hame chalna chahiye."

"Arre, just wait," Bai Chen called gently.

She turned back at once. "Ji?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded handkerchief. His hands trembled slightly.

For a man like him, that was rare.

Vishakha noticed at once that the cloth wasn't empty — something small was wrapped inside it. "Ji... yeh kya hai?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Bai Chen looked down at her, and this time there was no hiding the emotion in his eyes. They glistened faintly as he unfolded the cloth, revealing two gold bracelets, delicate yet rich, shining softly in the garden light.

"These are very precious to me, dear," he said quietly.

The way he held them made it obvious they were more than jewelry — they were memory, love, and loss resting in his palms.

Vishakha's breath caught. "Aap theek hai?" she asked, concern filling her voice.

"They belonged to my wife," he said, his voice tightening before he cleared his throat to steady it. "She wanted me to give these to Yansong's wife... which is going to be you."

He lifted the bracelets slightly, almost reverently. "They were very precious to her. And now... I am giving them to you, Dear."

He stepped forward and placed them gently into her small hands, his fingers still faintly unsteady.

Vishakha stood stunned, emotions rising so quickly inside her chest she could barely name them. She hadn't expected this — hadn't expected to be entrusted with something that clearly carried a lifetime inside it. Yet she gathered herself and whispered softly, eyes shining,

"Hum inko hamesha dil se laga ke rakhenge."

She meant it.

She thought of the mother-in-law she would never meet, the woman who had still thought of her, still chosen something for her, still left a piece of herself behind for the girl who would take her place beside her son.

Bai Chen watched the way Vishakha held the bracelets close, protective already, and he knew without doubt they were in the right hands. He gave a small nod and patted her head gently before turning away.

"I know you will."

And in that moment, Vishakha understood she would guard those bracelets with every breath she took from this day forward — because they were not merely ornaments of gold.

They were trust.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

GUEST CHAMBER

The guest chamber was spacious yet welcoming, with carved wooden pillars, soft cream walls, and a wide bed draped in fine linens. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, warming the polished floor, while a low table with fresh flowers and a silver water set added a quiet touch of royal hospitality — yet right now, beneath the faint fragrance of blossoms, the air was tainted with the sharp, metallic scent of blood.

Lin lay half-propped against the bed, his back stained red where it touched the sheets, eyes shut though sleep was nowhere near him; pain refused to grant him that mercy. The guard Yansong had ordered to watch him hadn't looked shocked at all upon seeing his condition, only thoughtful, as if the sight confirmed whatever suspicions he already carried about the kind of world Yansong came from. He had merely told Lin to keep pressure on the wound while he fetched someone to tend it, then left.

So Lin had stayed there, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, breathing slow and controlled, trying to suffocate the pain by will alone.

"Fuck... fuck... fuck..." he muttered hoarsely, frustration slipping through his teeth along with the agony he'd been holding in. He didn't regret it, not even a little. From the first day he had stepped into Yansong's world, he had known this was the life he was choosing — loyalty, blood, danger. He would rather die for his boss than walk away. Nanshengs didn't quit.

They never did.

Just then a soft gasp sounded from the doorway.

His eyes snapped open.

A woman stood there in a lehenga, a royal medical kit clutched in her hands, her expression frozen between shock and concern. It was Anandi — Vishakha's maid, the one closest to her.

A guard had summoned her quietly, telling her only that someone was hurt and she was not to speak of it. She hadn't understood why the secrecy was needed, but she had known better than to question palace guards, so she had come immediately.

The moment she entered, the first thing she heard was cursing — harsh, foreign, rough words that did not belong within palace walls.

Lin stared at her.

For a brief, strange second, the pain vanished from his awareness entirely. He had never seen an Indian woman this close before, never seen one this beautiful, this gentle-looking, almost unreal in the soft light spilling through the curtains.

Then he noticed the shock on her face and realized he must have frightened her with his language — perfectly normal in his world, but certainly not in hers.

He forced himself upright despite the protest screaming through his body and lowered his gaze respectfully, switching to careful Hindi.

"Ji... hame maaf kijiye," he said quietly, bowing his head.

Anandi stilled. No one spoke to her like that. No one apologized to her. No one lowered their head to her. In the palace she was only a maid — invisible, useful, forgettable.

Yet this stranger, bleeding and clearly powerful in his own way, had done so without hesitation.

Her eyes finally dropped to his wound, and she saw how calm he remained despite the injury, how composed, how almost accustomed to it. Understanding flickered in her expression — this was not new to him.

She hurried toward him at once. "Uh... I am Anandi. The guard sent me," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "I'm going to check the wound."

Lin blinked.

What the hell?

No one ever spoke this gently to him. No one ever rushed to him like he mattered, like his pain mattered. He wasn't used to concern — not since becoming second-in-command to Bai Yansong.

She carefully lifted the cloth he had been pressing to his side.

He hissed through his teeth despite himself.

Her head snapped up instantly. "I—I'm sorry... dard hua kya?" she asked quickly, already pulling her hands back in apology.

"Nahi. I'm fine," he said, glancing at her before flicking his eyes down to the wound. "Just finish it."

She nodded, noticing the steadiness in his voice, the strength in the way he held himself even now — like a warrior who refused to acknowledge pain. Gently, carefully, she began tending the wound, her fingers precise yet soft, as though she feared hurting him more than he already was.

She worked in silence after that, her fingers steady despite the faint tremor that had first greeted the sight of blood. The cloth came away fully now, and she leaned closer, studying the cut with careful eyes, the faint scent of antiseptic herbs rising from the kit as she opened it. A thin line formed between her brows — not from fear, but concentration — as she cleaned the wound with slow, practiced movements.

Lin watched her.

Not openly. Not rudely. Just... watched.

Every touch was cautious, as if she believed he might shatter under her hands, and that alone felt stranger to him than the pain. He was used to rough bandages, hurried stitching, wounds treated like inconveniences instead of injuries. But she handled him like he was something fragile, something worth preserving.

The cloth dabbed against his skin again.

He inhaled sharply.

Her eyes lifted instantly, wide with concern. "Bas thoda sa aur," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, as if softness itself could dull the sting. "Zyada gehra nahi hai... par khoon bahut nikla hai."

He didn't answer. Not because he couldn't — but because something about her tone had stilled him. No one had spoken to him like that in years.

She reached for a small vial, pouring a thin line of medicine across the cut. It burned.

His jaw tightened, fingers curling slightly into the sheet beneath him, but he didn't make a sound.

Anandi noticed anyway.

"You can hold this if it hurts," she said gently, offering the edge of folded cloth toward his hand.

Lin blinked at it, then at her. He almost laughed — not out loud, just inside his head. This girl really thought he needed something to hold onto. Him.

Still... after a pause, he took it.

Not because he needed it.

But because she offered.

Her hands moved again, wrapping the bandage around his torso with slow precision, careful not to brush the wound more than necessary. Each time her fingers grazed his skin, she hesitated slightly, as if checking whether he was alright without asking.

When she finished tying the knot, she didn't pull away immediately. She studied her work, making sure it was secure, making sure the bleeding had stopped, making sure he would be fine.

Only then did she finally exhale.

"Ho gaya," she said softly.

Lin looked down at the clean white bandage now wrapped around him, then back at her. For a moment he didn't speak, didn't move, didn't even blink — just held her in his gaze like he was trying to understand something he had never encountered before.

Care.

It was unfamiliar.

Dangerous, even.

And yet... he didn't look away.

 She stared at him, confusion slowly clouding her expression. Why had he been laughing? Was he making fun of her?

Something inside her sank at the thought.

For a moment she had believed he was kind — gentle even, in the way he spoke, in the way he bowed his head to her — but now that quiet sound of amusement lingered in her ears, and it suddenly felt foolish that she had thought so. Of course men like him did not laugh kindly. Of course she had misunderstood.

Her fingers curled slightly into the edge of her dupatta as she stepped back, the warmth gone from her face, replaced by a careful neutrality.

"Hogaya. Hum chalte hain," she said.

Her voice was no longer soft. Not cold either — just distant, like a door politely closed.

And before he could say anything, she turned and walked out.

The door shut with a faint click.

Lin blinked, the echo of it lingering longer than the sound itself.

Confusion flickered across his face, slow and unfamiliar. He replayed the last few seconds in his mind — her eyes, her voice, the way her shoulders had straightened. He exhaled under his breath, staring at the door she had just disappeared through.

He didn't understand many things about this world yet, about this palace, about its customs and its people.

But one thing he understood clearly—

He had hurt her.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

INSIDE THE MAHAL

The Mahal corridor stretched long and graceful, its marble floor gleaming beneath the soft glow of hanging lanterns, while intricately carved arches lined the walls like silent sentinels of history. Silk drapes stirred faintly in the passing breeze, and each footstep echoed lightly, as though the passage itself guarded centuries of royal secrets.

Lina walked through the corridor with measured steps, her eyes searching ahead as she tried to spot her brother. She needed to find him before evening — she wanted to go to the market and buy something suitable for the engagement ceremony tonight. She had plenty of lehengas, thanks to Vishakha, who had insisted she take as many as she liked, but jewelry... she had none.

And she didn't want to appear disrespectful.

She knew almost nothing about India, let alone Mewar's customs, yet she didn't want to offend anyone by dressing wrongly. So she needed help, and her brother was the only one who had been here before, the only one who might understand what was appropriate.

She was so focused on looking ahead that she sensed someone approaching before she actually saw them.

A moment later, a tall figure emerged from the opposite end of the corridor.

It was Maharaj Ranvijay.

Lina's expression brightened instantly and she bowed her head respectfully.

Ranvijay's stern features softened at once — not because he knew her well, but because he had noticed her efforts these past two days, the way she tried so earnestly to adapt, to respect traditions she had only just learned about.

"You don't have to do that, dear," he said gently.

Lina straightened, blinking up at him in surprise. "I don't?" she asked, genuinely uncertain, because she had seen everyone bow to him, and she had assumed she must do the same.

Ranvijay chuckled softly. "No, beta, you don't have to." His gaze dropped briefly to the lehenga she wore, approval flickering in his eyes before he looked back at her. "That's only for guards and palace staff... not for you."

He paused, then added warmly, "Not for family."

Lina stilled. The word family landed quietly in her chest, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. She hadn't truly known what that word felt like in years — not since her father had grown distant after their mother's death, not since the brother who once felt like her safe place had hardened into someone the world had shaped too sharply.

And yet here she was, being called family by a king she had known for barely two days.

She liked it.

It warmed something inside her she hadn't realized was cold.

"Are you going somewhere, dear?" Ranvijay asked, glancing at the small purse in her hand and the heels on her feet.

She nodded. "Uh... yes. I wanted to go to the market," she said softly, smiling up at him.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Arre, but you won't go alone." He paused briefly, already deciding. "Wait here. I'll send Devansh. He'll take you."

Before she could protest — or even respond — he had already turned and begun walking away down the corridor.

Lina stood there frozen for a second.

Then irritation flickered across her face.

That boy.

She did not want to go anywhere with him. He was irritating, insufferably grumpy, and always looked at her like she was a problem he hadn't agreed to deal with.

But now...

She didn't really have a choice.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

OUTSKIRTS OF MEWAR

The outskirts of Mewar are rugged and sun-washed, with dusty paths, scattered mud houses, and thorny trees dotting the land. The Aravalli hills stand in the distance, and the air feels dry, quiet, and touched with a wild, royal stillness.

Yansong arrived at the very spot where Lin's tip had led him — the place where Divish was supposed to be. Instead, all he had found was blood, danger... and trouble. Fury simmered beneath his skin, sharp and restless. That wretch Divish had caused enough chaos already. Tonight, it would end.

But first, he needed the one who had struck from the shadows — the blade-wielder who had wounded and vanished. Only after dealing with that person would he drag the truth out of them, finish what he started, and return to the Mahal before the engagement hour arrived. Time was slipping, and so was his patience.

The wind dragged across the barren stretch, hot and restless, lifting dust around Yansong's boots as if the land itself recognized the storm inside him. His steps slowed, deliberate now. This was the place. Lin's words had not been wrong. The air still held the faint, metallic scent of blood — almost gone, but not enough to escape him.

His gaze swept the ground once more. Disturbed sand. A heel mark. A broken twig. Signs of struggle... and signs of escape.

His jaw tightened.

Divish had been here. He was certain of it. And someone else too — the one who had struck first, the one who had wounded Lin and slipped away like a coward in the dark. Yansong's temper did not flare; it condensed, hardening into something far more dangerous than anger — resolve.

He crouched, brushing his fingers lightly over the mark in the soil. Still fresh.

"Not far," he murmured.

Time. He could almost hear it ticking in his mind — the approaching hour of the engagement at the Mahal, the ceremonies waiting, the eyes that would search for him if he delayed. He should leave. He should turn back now and return before his absence raised suspicion.

But the thought of walking away while Divish breathed the same air as him—

No.

His hand closed slowly, gathering a fistful of dust that slipped through his fingers like a vow being sealed. "Today," he said quietly, voice steady and cold, "this ends."

And somewhere beyond the thorn trees, just out of sight —

something shifted.

The movement was slight — so slight most men would have missed it.

Yansong didn't.

His head tilted just a fraction, eyes fixing on the thicket ahead. The thorn branches swayed, though the wind had stilled. Silence pressed in, thick and watchful, as if the land itself held its breath to see what he would do.

Slowly, he straightened.

"I know you're there," he said, voice calm — not loud, not threatening, but certain. The kind of certainty that did not ask... it declared.

No answer.

Only the distant cry of a kite circling overhead.

A lesser man might have drawn his weapon immediately. Yansong didn't. He stepped forward instead, each footfall measured, unhurried, like a predator that already knew its prey had nowhere left to run.

A dry twig snapped beneath his boot.

The sound cut through the stillness like a blade.

And then—

A breath.

Not his.

His gaze sharpened. There. Behind the twisted trunk. Hidden... but not well enough.

The corner of his mouth lifted, not in amusement, not in mercy — but in recognition.

"So," he said softly, the word almost gentle, "you're the one who thought you could strike and vanish."

The air shifted again.

This time, it wasn't the wind.

It was fear.

The man was none other than one of Divish’s own—foolish enough to believe that hurting one of Yansong’s men would frighten him, drive him back into the shadows where whispers lived and threats died. But Yansong was not a man who retreated. He was a man who answered.

And he had answered.

The moment word reached the traitor that Yansong was coming for him—not for a warning, not for a negotiation, but for him—his bravado shattered. The courage he had flaunted before others drained from his limbs like spilled wine. He knew what Yansong’s pursuit meant. It meant inevitability. It meant the kind of silence that followed a scream no one dared acknowledge.

So he ran. And now he was caught

Yansong's eyes locked on the man crouching behind the thorn trees. Without a word, he raised his gun. One shot cracked through the dry air — the man cried out, collapsing to the ground, clutching his leg.

Yansong stepped closer, boot pressing lightly against him. "Hear me well," he said, voice low and deadly. "Never cross me or my men again. Go... and tell Divish this — I will find him. No matter where he hides. No matter what he does. And when I do..." His eyes burned with controlled fury. "...he dies."

The man whimpered, nodding frantically, pain and fear etched on his face. Yansong let him crawl away, the message clear and unavoidable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

IN THE CAR

Lina sat beside Devansh, fidgeting slightly, while he drove in silence. From the way he gripped the steering wheel and kept his jaw tight, it was clear he was annoyed at having to take her to the market. She exhaled, a little frustrated herself. It wasn't as if she had been dying to go anywhere with him — truth be told, she would have much preferred to go alone than be stuck in the car with his scowling face.

Unable to keep quiet, she finally spoke. "Are you always this grumpy?" she asked, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes.

Devansh's fingers tightened around the wheel. "I AM NOT GRUMPY," he snapped, voice low but sharp, teeth clenched in barely-contained irritation.

"You are always annoyed," she stated firmly, not asking, not accusing — merely stating a fact.

"Oh, so you know me better, huh?" he said mockingly, voice low, but the edge in it softened slightly as he exhaled. "You've known me for two days, woman."

"Well, it doesn't change the fact that you are grumpy," she said again, rolling her eyes and turning her gaze out the window, letting the streets and market stalls come into view.

Devansh sighed, finally giving up. He had learned in these two days that fighting with her was pointless — like banging your head against a wall. Words could be said, arguments could start, but they never really got anywhere.

 His thoughts twisted uncomfortably around reality. Vishakha... she was getting engaged tonight. Married, soon. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. She had never been meant for him.

And yet...

His heart still ached with the stubborn, unshakable truth — he loved her deeply.

Soon, the car came to a stop at the bustling market.

The market sprawled before them like a living mosaic of color and sound. Stalls lined the narrow lanes, draped in bright silks and glittering jewelry, scents mingling in the warm air — sharp, aromatic spices, the sweetness of fresh flowers, and the teasing waft of fried snacks. Vendors called out, children darted through the crowd, and the soft tinkle of metal bells added rhythm to the chaos. It was alive, vibrant, almost intoxicating.

Devansh parked and stepped out, then opened the door for Lina, his jaw tight, expression unreadable — annoyed, yes, but beneath it all, a careful restraint that made him seem... strangely deliberate. Lina stepped out, noticing the way he stood, how he hadn't argued, hadn't spoken unnecessarily. Something in that quiet control tugged at her, though she didn't dare acknowledge it.

He guided her toward the jewelry stall, instructing the shopkeeper to show her the best pieces. Necklaces, bangles, payal, kamarbandh — a dazzling array that made her head spin. She had known only bangles, and now everything else seemed unfamiliar, overwhelming. God, she knew nothing.

Devansh leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze sharp. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped forward. "That's a necklace," he said, pointing softly. "You wear it around your neck — it's called jevar." He motioned to the kamarbandh. "This goes around your waist, over a lehenga or saree." And finally, he pointed to the payal. "These go on your feet."

Lina froze, studying the pieces as he spoke, words soft and almost intimate. "Uh... okay," she whispered, surprised by the careful patience in his tone.

"Select what you want in each," he murmured, retreating to the wall, but she could feel his eyes on her, quietly observing, steadying, almost guarding.

She chose a gold necklace, intricate and shining, then asked the shopkeeper, "Can I try this?"

"Of course, madam," he said, gesturing toward the mirror with a gentle smile.

Lina approached the mirror, fumbling with the clasp, struggling to tie it herself.  Ugh why was this so hard?

Her fingers brushed her neck — and she froze.

Devansh was there, behind her, hands warm and steady, effortlessly fastening the necklace. Her breath hitched as his chest brushed her back, a subtle press that left a strange warmth coiling inside her. She could feel him — close, aware, watching.

For a long moment, their eyes met in the mirror. The market noise faded; the world narrowed to the quiet gravity between them. His eyes held something unsaid, something raw — and she felt it, a pull she hadn't expected, trembling beneath her ribs.

"It's done," he whispered, voice low, almost intimate.

She nodded, looking away, trying to steady her breath. She had always been composed, always in control — yet in that small, fleeting moment, control had abandoned her. Heart racing, chest tight, she felt exposed, unguarded, yet... awake.

Turning back to the shopkeeper, she focused on the other pieces, fingers trembling slightly as she selected bangles and payal. Each glance toward him made her pulse stutter, each subtle movement between them laden with unspoken weight.

By the time they returned to the car, the silence was thick, electric. Neither spoke, yet the air between them hummed with something deeper — unacknowledged, undeniable, a quiet tension that neither dared to name but both felt all the same.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

AMAR KILA

Yansong had returned to the Mahal, his shirt drenched in blood. When he had crouched beside the man, the blood had seeped into the fabric, spreading dark and heavy across his chest.

He walked carefully through the corridors, each step measured, boots placed down with practiced silence. He hoped to slip away before anyone noticed him. He didn't want to scare anyone with the sight of blood. He was used to it — it was nothing to him — but in this Mahal, not everyone was.

And as if God had heard that thought and decided to defy him—

Footsteps.

He froze.

And then he saw her.

Vishakha.

Fuck... fuck... fuck.

Out of all people, it had to be her.

Thank God her face was covered with a veil. But she stopped the moment she saw him. Even through the soft fabric, he knew her gaze had dropped to his shirt. She had never seen blood like this in her life — and now she was seeing it staining him.

Then she noticed his expression.

Calm. Too calm.

He didn't look frightened. Didn't look shaken. Didn't look like a man who had just come from violence. And somehow that calmness was more frightening than the blood itself.

Her breath hitched. She was about to scream.

Yansong moved instantly.

His hand came up, covering her mouth through the veil — not touching her skin, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of his palm, the barrier of cloth the only thing between them.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He pulled her swiftly behind a pillar, shielding them from the corridor.

"Shhh," he whispered, the sound low, urgent — almost gentle. Like he was soothing a frightened bird. He could feel her chest rising sharply, could feel the tremor running through her. She was shocked. Frightened. He knew it.

His hold wasn't harsh. It wasn't threatening. It was careful. Controlled.

If it had been anyone else, he would have killed them by now. Anyone who saw him like this would not have lived long enough to speak of it.

But she did.

"Please... shaant ho jaiye," he murmured softly, his voice quieter than it had ever been, softer than even he had ever heard it. "Koi sun lega."

Her eyes widened.

Not in defiance.

In awareness.

Of how close he was.
Of the iron scent thick in the air.
Of the way his breath brushed the edge of her veil.

His jaw tightened as he noticed her gaze flickering between his eyes and his blood-soaked shirt. She could see him clearly. He, however, could not see her face — not through the veil.

She wasn't struggling anymore.

But she was trembling.

"Dekhiye," he began softly, his tone patient, as if he were speaking to a child. "Main haath hata raha hoon." His eyes searched hers — pleading. The realization shocked him. It would have made his enemies laugh themselves breathless. "Please... scream mat kijiye."

Because Bai Yansong pleading was something that should have been impossible.

Yet here he was.

Slowly, carefully, he removed his hand from her mouth.

She didn't scream.

He exhaled, a quiet breath of relief, and stepped back slightly, giving her space to breathe.

"Yeh khoon..." she whispered.

It wasn't a question. It wasn't an accusation.

It was concern.

And that nearly threw him off balance.

No one had ever looked at blood on him and reacted like that. No disgust. No fear of him. Just worry — open, unhidden, unashamed. In his world, that kind of softness was a weakness.

Something flickered in his eyes before disappearing.

But she had already seen it.

He didn't understand her. Didn't understand how she could look at him — stained like this — and not assume the worst. God, she was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

She was the first woman who had ever seen blood on him and not recoiled. The first who hadn't run. Instead, she had stepped closer with concern shining openly in her eyes.

He didn't answer. Didn't speak. He didn't know what to say.

Would she run if he told her the truth?

Vishakha's gaze dropped, and she noticed the wound at his chest where the blood had soaked through.

"Aapko lagi hai," she said simply.

In truth, he had stabbed himself before entering the Mahal — a calculated wound, shallow but convincing. If anyone saw him, he could say he'd been attacked. Not that he had been the one to call someone out.

"I am not," he whispered, turning his face away. He was Bai Yansong. He was never hurt. Never weak. Not once in his life.

And yet these simple words from her were making something inside his chest tighten.

"You are," she said again, just as quietly.

She didn't raise her voice. Didn't argue. Didn't accuse.

She simply spoke the truth.

And for the first time in years—

He couldn't deny it.

Suddenly, without thinking, he reached up and pressed his palm hard against his wound, the movement instinctive, almost automatic, the kind of thing his body did before his mind even registered it, because in fights — in violence — pain was something you subdued, something you forced into silence with pressure and will, and this was how he had always dealt with it.

Vishakha stared at him, shock flashing across her eyes as she watched the blood seep faster between his fingers and spread across his shirt, the dark stain growing, thickening, swallowing the fabric as if it had been waiting for permission.

"Aap kya kar rahe hain?" she whispered sharply, her voice still soft but no longer fragile, the gentleness gone and reprimand taking its place. "Haath hatayiye."

He didn't.

Instead, he pressed harder, jaw tightening slightly as if pain were something he intended to crush rather than endure, as if his own body were just another opponent he could overpower.

"It's nothing," he muttered.

Her brows drew together beneath the veil.

It wasn't the wound that angered her.

It was him.

The calm dismissal.
The stubborn denial.
The way he stood there bleeding as though his body meant nothing, as though flesh and bone were just tools he could afford to break.

Without thinking, she stepped forward and caught his wrist.

Yansong stilled.

Her fingers were light — not forceful, not rough — yet they stopped him more effectively than iron shackles ever could, and for a second he simply looked at her hand on him like he couldn't quite understand how it had gotten there or why he hadn't shaken it off.

"Maine kaha haath hatayiye," she repeated, firmer this time.

No one spoke to him like that.
No one ordered him.

For the briefest instant something dangerous flickered in his eyes — a reflex born from years of power, of command, of never being told what to do — something sharp enough that lesser people would have stepped back in fear.

But then he saw her expression.

Not fear.
Not submission.

Fury.

Quiet, controlled fury.

And it startled him more than any weapon ever had.

God—what was even happening to him?

A stranger would have been dead by now for daring to speak to him like that. One word out of line, one tone too sharp, and he would’ve silenced them without a second thought. That was who he was. That was the man the world knew. Feared. Obeyed.

So why—

Why couldn’t he say a single word to her?

His jaw tightened, not in anger, but in something far more dangerous—hesitation. The silence between them stretched, thick and unfamiliar, pressing against his ribs like armor that suddenly no longer fit. He searched for his usual cold retort, the cutting remark, the command that would put her back in her place…

Nothing came.

And that terrified him more than blood, more than bullets, more than the countless enemies who had once sworn to end him.

Because this—this strange, disarming quiet she forced upon him—felt like losing control.

And Yansong had never lost control in his life.

"Aap shaant ho jaiye, mujhe kuch nahi hoga," he said, shrugging it off like it meant nothing, like she meant nothing, and then added in a low whisper, almost absentmindedly, "I am used to it."

That did it.

Irritation flashed through her instantly, quick and bright, because first he had been careless enough to press his wound like that, and now he was dismissing it — dismissing her concern — like it had been pointless, unnecessary, foolish.

She was angry now. Truly angry.

She didn't argue. Didn't raise her voice.

She just glared at him through the veil.

Then, with a sharp motion, she tore a strip from her dupatta.

The sound of fabric ripping was soft — but final.

She pressed the cloth against his wound, careful but firm, tying it around his torso with swift, efficient movements that betrayed practice in composure if not in medicine, her hands trembling just slightly though her knot came out tight and secure.

He opened his mouth to speak.

She cut him off instantly.

"Kuch bolna bhi mat," she warned, lifting a finger toward him in a small, sharp gesture.

And for once in his life—

He actually went quiet.

Someone else would have died for that tone. For that gesture. For daring to silence him.

"Pressing on the wound won't reduce the pain," she said, pausing only to glare at him again. "Instead, it could cause an infection."

He had nothing to say.

Nothing.

It was almost absurd — Bai Yansong, who always had the last word, who could dismantle men with a sentence, standing there speechless while a trembling woman scolded him like he was the reckless one.

And still she stood there, small and furious and unafraid, after touching his blood, after seeing what he was capable of, after standing close enough to hear his heartbeat under her palm—

Something unfamiliar twisted inside his chest.

Not pain.

Something worse.

And then, just like that, she stepped back and turned away.

No dramatic exit. No final remark. Not even a glance over her shoulder.

She simply walked off.

Before he could say anything. Before he could stop her. Before he could decide whether he even wanted to.

He watched her go, watched the sway of her steps, the steady line of her spine, the veil settling back into perfect place as though nothing had happened at all, and he knew — with absolute certainty —

She was mad.

No.

Not mad.

Angry as hell.

And for the first time in his life, when someone walked away from him...

He wasn't smirking.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

DARBAR HALL

The Darbar Hall stretched wide and regal, its marble floors gleaming beneath shafts of sunlight and crystal chandeliers. Carved pillars lined the hall like silent guards, leading to a raised throne dais draped in silk and gold. The air felt heavy with authority, and every footstep echoed softly, as if the hall itself demanded respect.

Ranvijay sat upon his Singhasan, yet his gaze was fixed on the note clenched in his hand. Rumors had reached the mahal—whispers of danger, of an attack that might strike before nightfall.

IIt was fortunate the warning had arrived in time.

Canceling the engagement was the only way to protect everyone within these walls. After what had already happened, he could not—would not—risk another shadow falling over his daughter. Not over her. Not over this house that had stood for generations, proud and unbroken.

And everyone else in the Mahal.

The decision pressed heavily against his chest, but a ruler did not choose comfort over safety. A father did not choose reputation over his child.

He knew the invitations had already been sent. Messengers had ridden out. Seals had been stamped. Names of noble houses now rested in silken envelopes across kingdoms. Canceling it would bring whispers. Questions. Taunts disguised as concern. Courts thrived on scandal the way vultures thrived on carrion.

But let them whisper.

Let them wonder.

Let them mock if they wished.

None of it mattered if his daughter lived safely within these walls.

So he straightened, resolve settling over him like armor, and made his choice.

The engagement would be called off—tonight.

The Mahamantri and ministers stood in tense silence, waiting.

"Announce that the engagement is cancelled," he said at last, voice low, as though the words themselves weighed like iron. He inhaled sharply. "And double the security on the main gates. Immediately."

Without another glance, he rose and walked out of the hall.

Today was meant to be his daughter Vishakha's happiest day.

Instead, he felt only one thing tightening in his chest—

he was failing as a father.

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Deewangi Writess