The room was silent. Silent in a way that made every heartbeat sound like thunder. The only light came from the oil lamp—a dull golden flame that flickered near the wall, casting our shadows across the carved sandstone.

I lay still.
My body faced the edge of the bed, dupatta wrapped tightly around my shoulders, fists clenched beneath it.
I didn’t want him to see even a single tremble.

He lay with his back turned to me. Calm. Still. Untouched.
As if nothing had happened.
As if he didn’t know.

But then...
It began.

At first—just a prickling sensation.
A pulse beneath my skin.
Then, sharper. Like tiny, invisible knives dancing along my waist and thighs.
Then came the fire.

My breath hitched. My lungs protested.
The patch of skin beneath my lehenga—the very place where I had brushed the poison in secret—felt like it was tearing open.

I gritted my teeth.
No.
I had coated the area with aloe. I was prepared for the sting.
But this… this was worse.

It crawled under my skin.
The pain was personal.
As if the poison knew me.
As if it mocked me—So brave, Rajkumari? Then stay silent now.
I could almost hear it laugh.

My body curled in on itself slowly.
Each breath shallow. Each second, unbearable.

I wouldn’t cry.
I wouldn’t speak.
I wouldn’t let him see it.
I wouldn’t beg.

But agony has its own way of breaking pride. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. Still, a cracked whisper escaped.

“Hahh…”

No response.
Just the distant hum of the lamp. I turned, eyes bleary, lips chapped.

He was already watching me.
Propped up on one elbow—expression unreadable.
Like he had been waiting for me to reach this point.

"Even if I die tonight..." I choked, "...I'll die with pride. I didn’t bow... not to you."

His eyes didn’t blink.
Then—he moved.

Not fast. Not panicked.
Just calm. Like a man who had already decided what to do.

"Shivanya..."
His voice sliced the air—quiet, low, but laced with iron.

I tried to shift away, but I couldn't move. My limbs trembled. My spine burned.

"Don't you dare touch me," I rasped.

He didn't stop.His hand slid beneath the blanket, fingers steady. He tugged at the lehenga's side tie but it wouldn't come undone.

He didn’t try again. In one swift motion—rip.
The side seam tore.

I gasped, more from shock than pain. The cool air hit the side of my burning skin, and I flinched.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said coldly.
"I'm not looking at you. And I’m not touching you out of desire."

He reached behind him. I heard the clink of a clay bowl. The rustle of a cloth.

"You wanted pain? You got it."
His voice was detached. Controlled.
"Now shut up and stay still."

I wanted to throw the bowl at him. Curse him. But my body was traitor now—limp and burning.

He dipped the cloth in the mix—gulab jal, haldi, crushed tulsi.
The scent wrapped around me—sacred, sharp. Almost holy.

And then—
His hand slid inside my torn lehenga. The warm, soaked cloth met my skin.

I jolted.
A cry escaped me.
Not loud. But real.

It burned.
Then cooled.
Then burned again.

"You think I care if you live or die?" he murmured, wiping carefully.

"I don't." His words sliced, but his hands… were too careful.
"Still… if anyone destroys you, Rajkumari—it will be me. Not some poison you can’t even handle properly."

I squeezed my eyes shut.
Was it pain? Or shame?
The way he cleaned the inside of my thighs—silent, methodical, never looking—made my breath shake.

"I repeat," he said, voice lower now. "I'm not watching."

But I could feel his gaze on my face. He didn’t stop. He wiped me properly, carefully. And I didn’t stop him.

Because I couldn’t.

"You think pride keeps you alive?"
He spoke as he worked—slow, sharp words cutting between soft touches.
"No, Rajkumari. I do. It’s always been me."

His voice carried something else now—grit, anger, a possessive bitterness.
Not kindness.
Not love.
But something darker. Something that tasted like revenge.

When the cloth withdrew, my skin was raw. But the fire had dimmed.
He wrapped a blanket around me, not with softness—just enough to cover the shame.

He stood. Walked to the edge of the table. Didn’t look back.

And I—still wrapped in torn silk and faded pride—could only lie there, numb.

My last memory was the sound of him blowing out the lamp…
And the ghost of roses clinging to my poisoned skin.

In the morning

The early light slipped into the chamber like a thief—soft, golden, treacherously gentle.

I stirred.

The silk sheets tangled around my bare skin like whispered lies. They were unfamiliar too smooth, too rich, too intimate for a prisoner. For a heartbeat, I blinked at the high-carved ceiling of Devgarh like a stranger. Then I remembered.

The poison.
The burning.
The heat crawling down my inner thigh like fire given breath.
And his voice.
Cold. Curious. Cruel.

I bolted upright.

My ghaghara had slipped dangerously low around my hips, half-torn at the side. The dori hung limp, untied. My chest rose sharply. A wave of shame, of rage—of fear and pride, collided in my throat.

Had he...?
Did he...?

No.

No, he didn’t see me like that.
He wouldn’t touch me that way.
He was too proud.
Too controlled.
Too cold to ever want me that way.

Still, my fingers flew to clutch the silk sheet across my chest. Like armor. Like dignity.
And then—
I saw him.

Rudransh Singh Chandravansh.

Standing at the arched jharokha like a carved sculpture brought to life, gilded in sunlight.

Fully dressed in deep blue angavastra lined with gold, hair still damp from his royal bath. A golden cuff gleamed at his wrist, the mark of Devgarh’s reigning shadow.

He looked... effortless.

Effortless while I felt like I had survived a storm with my pride shredded, body aching, lips parched from fire.

"Ah," he said without even turning his head. "The Rajkumari awakens. Still breathing. What a shame."

That voice. So casual. So indifferent. It slapped harder than violence. I narrowed my eyes.

"You undressed me."

His brows rose slightly as if bored.

"No. I saved you."

I stood slowly, the sheet still tight around me. My knees felt weak, but I refused to stumble in front of him.

"You touched me."

He smirked. That damn smirk.

"Only where necessary," he murmured, eyes raking over my face. "Trust me, Rajkumari—if I had touched you properly..."

He leaned in, his breath a wicked brush against my cheek.

"You wouldn’t be able to walk this morning."

A sharp, involuntary breath escaped my lips. I hated the way heat coiled low in my belly. I hated him for it. He stepped back, plucking a grape from the silver tray like this was breakfast and not aftermath.

"Your little plan," he said between bites. "Impressive. Poison on your pussy? Tell me, Shivanya... what was that supposed to be?
A seductive suicide?"

I clenched my jaw. "You weren’t supposed to know."

He laughed. Low. Dangerous.

"Oh, but I did. The moment you walked in—eyes blazing, hips swaying like an offering, and that faint scent... not rose, not sandal... but jungle venom."

He tossed the grape stem onto the tray.

"You think I’ve never smelled it before? I grew up around war and betrayal. You can't hide poison behind perfume, Shivanya."

I swallowed. My throat was dry.
My chest burned—not from poison, but from humiliation.

"You don’t know how to kill me," he said softly, coming closer. "You don’t even know how to scare me."

He tilted his head, studying me like I was both puzzle and prey.

"You want to be dangerous? Then stop setting yourself on fire and praying I inhale the smoke."

My hands trembled against the sheet. My voice cracked despite the steel I tried to wrap around it.

"You think this is a game?"

He paused.

"No." His voice turned glacial. "This is war."

Then, with that same damn smirk:
"But unlike you, I don’t go to war half-naked and half-prepared."

The silence between us snapped like a whip.

"You think I needed your help?" I spat. "I didn’t cry. Not once. Even when I was burning."

He turned fully to face me. The teasing left his face. Only shadow remained. "No," he said, quietly. "You didn’t. You screamed through your silence. But you didn’t break."

He walked toward the small table, poured warm spiced milk into a silver goblet, and placed it beside my bed.

"Drink that. It’ll ease the burn. Don’t worry, I didn’t lace it with anything. I only poison things that talk too much."

I almost laughed. A bitter, aching laugh.

He reached the door, paused without looking back.
"And Shivanya?"

His voice was suddenly a blade.

"Next time you try to kill me..."

A pause that sliced.

"Make sure you survive it."

He disappeared through the door.
And I stood there—wrapped in silk, defiance, and the stench of almost-failure—heart pounding like a war drum.

I had survived the night. But at what cost?

And worse—he had seen me. Not bare, but cracked.
He had left me not touched—but shaken.

---

The sun had risen higher now, spilling molten gold onto the jharokhas, filtering through the jaali screens like spilled honey across marble.

Inside the chamber, silence stretched like a worn silk shawl. My body still throbbed, not with pain—but something heavier. A slow, aching soreness that came from warring hearts and unspoken words.

I sat still before the carved teakwood mirror in the bathing area, draped in a white cotton angvastra, damp against my back. Hair undone. Ankles bare. Lips swollen. My eyes… they bore the exhaustion of a battle no soldier would ever see.

The chamber doors creaked.
A burst of anklets and scent.

"Shivanya!"

Saanvi.

She entered like jasmine wind—her presence so familiar, it unstitched the walls I had slowly built around myself all morning. Her arms were full: fragrant fresh robes, a bowl of herbal paste, and mischief that shimmered in her gaze like the sparkle of morning dew on rose petals.

She halted, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. And then—

“ohh god, you look like you wrestled a naagin in your sleep,” she gasped, setting the cloths down.

I didn’t blink.

“I did. And she had claws, fangs, and the audacity to call himself a king.”

Her mouth curved. “Ah. Our Maharaj Rudransh.”
Then she gave me that look. One brow raised. A teasing hum in her throat.

“So… how was your grand assault, Rani-sa?”

I narrowed my gaze at her. “Do you want to bathe without teeth?”

She giggled and plopped beside me, her silks whispering against the marble.

“No, but I do want to know… did he moan? Did he beg? Did he—”
She cupped her hands dramatically, as if cradling something invisible.
“—Lick the poison from your cunt like a dying lover from some forbidden poem?”

I groaned. “You’re impossible.”

She leaned in, eyes wide with mock innocence.
“Wait—did he lick you somewhere else instead?”
Then whispered, hand to her mouth, “Tell me the truth, Shivanya?”

I slapped her arm, hard.
She only howled with laughter, clutching her side.

“Don’t tempt me to drown you in the snana-griha,” I threatened.

“But he’s perfectly healthy today!” she gasped through giggles. “That means nothing happened. Right? Or was it your touch that healed him, hmm...hmmm?”

I flushed.

She paused, then reached forward, took my hand and kissed it softly.

“You didn’t lose, Shivanya. You simply provoked a tiger before learning how to purr.”

I looked away.

“I wasn’t trying to purr,” I murmured. “I was trying to burn him.”

She smiled, faint and wise.
“And yet… he brought rosewater to your fire.”

My throat tightened.

Saanvi clapped twice. The chamber rippled to life as handmaidens entered quietly, bowing. They moved like mist—pulling open curtains, drawing down silk screens, preparing the bath behind a lattice of gold filigree and sunlight.

The snana-griha lay sunken into the floor, a pool of marble and steam. Water shimmered with strands of kesar, crushed petals, drops of sandalwood oil. Brass lotas lined the edge, and fresh milk ubtan steamed gently in silver bowls.

Saanvi guided me wordlessly, her fingers warm as she peeled the cotton wrap from my shoulders. The steam kissed my skin first. Then the water.

I sank in. Saanvi rolled up her sleeves. Dipped the cotton pad in the golden paste. And began.Her fingers moved gently.
Shoulders. Neck. Arms.

“You smell like war,” she whispered, teasing.
“Let me turn you back into a queen.”

I closed my eyes.

“Saanvi…” I said softly. “Why did he save me?”

She paused.
Then said slowly—

“Because even fire deserves to be protected. Especially when it doesn’t know it’s burning for someone else.”

I turned away.

“No… he saved me because he wants to be the one to kill me.”

The water rippled around me. Neither of us spoke.

After a moment, as she rinsed my arm with gulab-jal, her voice turned casual.

“There’s a guest arriving today.”

I stirred.

“Who?”

“Rajkumari Meersha of Amarvaan.”

The name meant nothing to me.

Yet it made something in my stomach twist.

“So?”

Saanvi’s hands moved again, this time slower.

“She was under the same tutor as Rudransh. Their families are close. Her father and Rajmata... they’ve shared allies, armies, even royal secrets.”

I sat straighter in the water.

“And Rudransh?”

She twisted the silver bowl in her palm.

“They trained together. Rode together. Fell out of trees together.”

She looked at me. Her voice dropped lower.

“It’s said... if Rudransh was ever meant to marry someone without war, scandal, or blood... it would’ve been Meersha.”

My heart stilled.

Second daughter.
Second?
That’s what Rajmata called her.

And yet—here I was. The enemy. The unwanted. The bride born of strategy, not love.“Does she still love him?” I asked. My voice tried to sound flat. It failed.

Saanvi took a moment too long to answer.
“Rumor says she refused many proposals. She’s beautiful. Graceful. Everything the court calls ‘a woman worthy of a king.’”

The water wasn’t warm anymore.
I stared ahead, at nothing.

Saanvi reached forward, brushing a damp curl from my temple. Her touch lingered.

“Don’t look like that, Shivu. Just because she was in his heart... doesn’t mean she still is.”

I tried to laugh.
“I don’t care who’s in his heart.”

“You will,” she whispered, voice like prophecy.

I shook my head.
“I just want to run away from here.”
Then whispered so softly it barely reached her—
“But not before killing him first.”

Saanvi leaned closer, her tone changing.

“You say that… but if he touches you again tonight—kisses your neck slowly—will you still dream of killing him?”

My breath hitched.

“Will you push him away if he licks that same spot you offered poison?”

“Saanvi—”

“Will your thighs stay locked or open?” she teased.

I splashed water at her.
She squealed.

“Don’t act innocent! You returned this morning wrapped in his scent and silence. Don’t lie to me—your lips were bitten. Were you moaning ahh or ummm?”

I covered my face with my hands.
“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You just hate that you didn’t hate him enough.”

She smiled like a sister who saw too much.

And deep in the steaming water, I sat.
Not thinking of poison.
Not thinking of war.
Just a name.

One I had never heard before.
But now couldn’t stop hearing in my head.

Meersha.
.
.
.

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