The Daldal

Her pov

The world split into two silences.

Above me, the surface lay still—too still. It felt wrong, that calm. As if the world had decided to watch… and do nothing.

Below—the earth swallowed me.

At first, I hadn’t understood what was happening. One step had felt soft, the next unstable—and then suddenly, the ground had opened like a mouth.

Daldal.

Thick. Heavy. Alive.

Now it dragged me down inch by inch.

My legs were gone. Not gone—but trapped, consumed beneath the weight of it. The mud clung to me with a sick, sucking pull, tightening every time I tried to move.

My breath came sharp and uneven. My fingers dug into nothing but wet, shifting earth that offered no hold.

This can’t be happening.

A bitter, almost hysterical thought rose through me.

I just wanted one day.

One day away from the palace.

From whispers and watchful eyes. From expectations that pressed tighter than any prison.

Just one day of quiet. And this is what I get?

A humourless laugh almost escaped me—but it broke into a gasp instead as the mud dragged me lower.

“No—no—”

The word slipped out before I could stop it. The swamp answered with a slow, sickening pull.

I dropped forward instinctively, pressing my hands against the surface, trying to spread my weight the way I had once been told—some half-forgotten advice that now felt like my only chance.   But the swamp didn’t care for advice.

It trembled beneath me, alive in a way that made my stomach twist.

Each movement I made sank me deeper.

My legs disappeared beneath the dark, glossy surface, the mud climbing past my knees, my thighs—pulling, dragging, claiming.

Panic rose sharp and immediate.

I tried to push myself up, but my hands slipped, my body sinking another inch with a wet, awful sound.

“Help—!”

My voice cracked, swallowed by the stillness around me.

The jungle had gone silent.

Too silent.

My chest pressed lower against the surface as I forced myself flat, clinging to the thin idea that if I stayed still, I wouldn’t sink faster. My dupatta dragged through the mud, heavy and useless, my clothes clinging to me like a second skin.

My hair fell forward, sticking to my face, my breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.

Think.

Don’t move too much. Don’t struggle.

But how do you stay still when the earth is eating you alive?

The mud shifted again.

A sharp, wet sound.

I dropped another inch.

A gasp tore from my throat, my fingers clawing at the surface, finding nothing to hold.

This is how it happens, isn’t it?

Quietly.

Just one wrong step—and then nothing.

My throat tightened.

“Don’t move.” The voice cut through everything.

My head snapped up so fast it hurt.

He was there.

I hadn’t even heard him approach.

For a second, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing—just the shape of someone at the edge. He was there, half-sprawled over the edge of solid ground, as if he had thrown himself there without a second thought. One knee dug into the grass, the other braced behind him. His body angled downward toward me, stretched to its limit.

One hand gripped a thick tree root beside him.

The other hand reaching toward me. “Give me your hand.”

I stared at him.

My hand?

My hand was shaking so badly I could barely feel it.

“I— I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, sharper this time, his voice leaving no space for argument. “Stop fighting the mud. Move slowly. Reach.”

Something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t a question, like failure wasn’t an option—cut through the chaos in my head.

I swallowed.

Forced my body to still.

Just for a second.

The mud shifted again beneath me, impatient, pulling—but I ignored it.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted one arm.

It felt impossibly heavy, like even the air was trying to drag me down.

A terrified sound broke from me as I sank another inch, my chest nearly brushing the surface.

“Now!” he snapped.

I lunged. Desperately. Our hands met at the boundary.

Firm. Certain.

“Do you hear me?” he said, his voice lower now but no less intense. “Stop struggling. You’ll sink faster.”

“I—I can’t—” My voice trembled, breaking apart with my breath. “It’s pulling me—”

“I know.”

His grip shifted, tightening just enough to ground me.

“I’ve got you.”

The words were simple, but they settled something inside me that nothing else had managed to reach. The panic did not vanish, but it quieted enough for me to listen, to trust, to stop fighting the very thing that was pulling me under.

I forced myself to go still.

The daldal resisted, clinging stubbornly to me as though unwilling to let go of its hold. It dragged at my body one last time, heavy and suffocating, but this time I did not struggle against it.

Instead, I let him guide me.

His grip tightened, and with a sharp, decisive motion, he shifted his weight backward, using the rooted tree and the firmness of the ground to pull me free. The resistance was immediate, the mud stretching and holding as though it had a will of its own.

“On three,” he said. “One—”

The mud tightened, as if sensing what was coming.

“Two—”

My heart pounded so hard I could hear it.

“Three.”

He pulled.

Not just with his arms.

With his whole body.

Then, with a violent, wet sound, it released me.

The sudden freedom sent me forward, my body lurching out of the swamp’s grip and into him. We collapsed onto the grass together, the force of it knocking the breath from my lungs.

For a moment, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. The absence of pulling was almost a dream to me now. But he was still holding me, his arms still around me. Tight. As if letting go was still not a choice. I could hear his breathing fast, ragged and uneven.

And something about the way his chest rise and fall against my shoulder, made a strange realization about the fact that a moment ago I was not the only one scared.

For a few long seconds, neither of us moved. The jungle returned slowly—first the distant hum of insects, then the faint rustle of leaves, as if the world had decided we were no longer worth holding its breath for.

I became aware of everything at once—the mud drying against my skin, the ache in my limbs, the way my heart was still beating far too fast for something that was already over.

But his arm was still around me. And for one microsecond, I don’t want him to let go.

The thought came quietly, almost disbelieving. I shrugged the thought off and shifted slightly, testing the ground beneath me, half-expecting it to give way again.

It didn’t.

Still, I pushed myself up slowly, carefully, every movement deliberate, as if the earth might change its mind if I moved too quickly.

His arm loosened fully this time.

I sat up, brushing wet strands of hair away from my face, only to smear more mud across my cheek.

A breath left me—half laugh, half disbelief.

“This is…” I glanced down at myself, then at the churned patch of swamp beside us. “Not how I imagined today going.”

I looked at him then, properly.

Up until now, he had been nothing but movement—hands, strength, a voice cutting through panic.

But sitting here, with space between us, he became a person.

A stranger.

His off white kurta was streaked with mud at the hem, sleeves still pushed up to his forearms. Over it hung a darker robe, loose and untied, falling open as though he had thrown it on without care. Unlike the kurta, the robe had somehow escaped the worst of the swamp, marked only faintly at the edges, as if it had been spared by chance rather than effort.

 His hands—those same hands that had just pulled me out of the earth—were marked with dirt and faint scratches, his grip lines still visible where tension hadn’t quite faded.

He looks unguarded.

His breathing had steadied, but not completely. There was still a quiet tension in the way he held himself, something in his shoulders that hadn’t quite released.

He noticed me looking.

Of course he did.

His gaze lifted to meet mine, direct and unflinching, as if he had expected it.

“You should watch where you’re walking,” he said bluntly.

No preamble. No softness. Not even “Are you fine!” for the sake of saying only.

Just a statement, edged enough to catch.

I blinked, the words landing a second later than they should have.

Then, despite everything—despite the mud, the near-death, the lingering tremor in my hands— I somehow managed to get an urge to give him answer in the same tone.

“Oh, I’ll remember that next time I accidentally step into quicksand,” I said lightly. “Very helpful advice.”

There was the faintest shift in his expression.

Not quite a smile.

But close enough to feel like one.

“Daldal,” he corrected. “And it wasn’t an accident. You didn’t look.”

I huffed a breath, pushing damp hair back again.

“Right. Of course. I woke up this morning and thought—why not walk straight into danger today?”

“You walked into it anyway.”

“That’s because it looked like normal ground.”

“It never does.”

I paused.

I fell quiet for a moment.

He was right—and I knew it. I had been too distracted, too intent on reaching that hidden temple before anyone from the palace noticed my absence. Careful, I had told myself. Invisible. Quick. And yet I had walked straight into a trap like a child chasing a story.

Admitting that, however, felt far more difficult than it should have.

Arguing, strangely, felt easier.

My gaze drifted back to the patch of swamp, now eerily still again, its surface smooth and indifferent, as if it had never tried to drag me under. A shiver passed through me.

“I didn’t know it could… pull like that,” I admitted, my voice quieter now.

“It can’t,” he said.

I frowned, turning to him. “It just did.”

“It reacts to movement,” he clarified. “The more you panic, the deeper you sink.”

I looked down at my hands, still faintly trembling, streaked with drying mud. For a moment, I said nothing.

Then I glanced back at him.

There was no arrogance in his voice, no trace of mockery—only certainty. Calm, unshaken certainty.

And somehow, that was worse.

“You make it sound like I went looking for it,” I said.

“You walked into it,” he returned. “That’s close enough.”

I should have been offended.

No one spoke to me like that.

Not to me—Megha Priya, princess of Indravansh.

The thought rose instinctively, sharp with habit… and just as quickly, I pushed it down.

Out here, it meant nothing.

Out here, I was no one.

And yet, instead of irritation taking hold, I found myself watching him again.

Not the mud. Not the danger.

Him.

The way his fingers flexed slightly, as though still remembering the strain of pulling me free. The faint scrape along his knuckles. The steadiness in his posture that had not faltered even when I had been sinking.

There was something controlled about him. Measured. Like every movement had purpose.

He noticed my silence.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The question was simple, but his gaze sharpened, studying me more closely now.

I met it, just as carefully.

Up close, the impression only deepened. Even in mud-streaked clothes and rain-damp hair, there was something unmistakably refined in the way he held himself—straight-backed, composed, every movement deliberate.

Dangerous, I thought.

Not because he seemed cruel.

Because he seemed impossible to read.

So, I chose the safest lie I could.

“Barkha,” I said, lifting my chin slightly. “I’m from a nearby village.”

For a fleeting second, his mouth almost curved—as if he had recognized the lie but decided not to challenge it. Perhaps I had taken too long to answer.

He didn’t press.

Instead, his gaze shifted toward the deeper stretch of forest ahead.

“What were you doing here?”

“I came to visit a temple,” I said, steadying my voice. “A hidden Shiva temple.”

His brows lifted slightly. “A temple?”

“One of my… friends told me about it,” I added, choosing the word carefully.

His eyes dropped briefly to the mud still clinging to my clothes, then flicked toward the swamp.

“And you found this instead.”

I shot him a look. “Why would I go there intentionally?” I said at once. “It was an accident.”

For the first time, something warmer flickered in his expression—genuine amusement.

“Alright,” he said, lifting his hands slightly in surrender. “I was only asking.”

The forest settled back into quiet, broken only by the soft persistence of rain.

Then he tilted his head, studying me again. “You’re from this kingdom, aren’t you? You’ve never visited the temple before?”

My breath caught.

For a fraction of a second, my thoughts scattered in every direction.

How was I supposed to explain that princesses did not wander alone into forgotten jungle shrines? That every step outside the palace came with guards, permission, and expectations that followed like shadows?

Instead, I answered carefully, “It’s a forgotten temple. Very few people go there. I just… never happened to visit.”

He gave a small, unreadable nod.

But then, almost too casually, he asked, “Then why now?”

I opened my mouth.

Because I needed a place where I could breathe. Because I wanted one prayer that belonged only to me. Because for once, I wanted to go somewhere without the palace knowing.

“I just—”

The words faltered and died before they could take shape.

My eyes narrowed slightly as I looked at him.

“Why would I tell you that?”

This time, he laughed softly, the sound low and unexpectedly warm against the damp hush of the forest.

“I was just asking,” he said, almost teasing now. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”

I looked away, exhaling slowly.

Then my gaze dropped to myself again—the mud-streaked dress, the ruined dupatta, damp hair clinging uncomfortably to my neck.

And a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden.

Why was he asking me so many questions?

He was here too.

Alone. In a place like this.

I lifted my gaze back to him, studying him with renewed intent.

“Who are you?”