His pov
“Why would I tell you that?” she said instantly.
I laughed before I could stop myself, the sound slipping out low and unguarded, startling even me as it softened the damp quiet between us. It wasn’t mockery, nor amusement alone—it was the sheer unfamiliarity of the moment. The thought had struck too sharply, too unexpectedly.
No one refused me answers.
Not openly. Not without hesitation. Not when I asked.
And yet she had.
Not out of fear. Not even out of defiance. Simply because she chose not to.
For a fleeting instant, a name rose in my mind—one that usually carried weight long before I ever needed to speak it.
Ravi Raj Ishvadheer. Prince of Aaryagarh.
A title that bent conversations in my favour, that made people careful, agreeable, obedient.
Here, it meant nothing.
I let the thought pass, as though it had no place in this rain-soaked clearing.
“I was just asking,” I said, a faint trace of amusement threading through my voice now. “It’s alright if you don’t want to.”
She turned her face away, exhaling slowly, as if distancing herself from the question—and perhaps from me. For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it.
But then I saw it.
The shift.
Subtle, but unmistakable. Suspicion.
It settled into her expression as her gaze lifted back to mine, no longer merely cautious but searching now, as though she were trying to read something beneath the surface.
“Who are you?” she asked.
There was a brief pause before she added, more firmly, “And why are you here?”
For a moment, the truth hovered at the edge of my thoughts.
I had only meant to explore—to step away, if only briefly, from the weight of expectation. A prince of a neighbouring kingdom, bound by diplomacy and watchful eyes, slipping free for a few hours into something unclaimed. The jungle had been a story I wanted to see for myself—the rain, the hidden paths, the quiet that demanded nothing in return.
I had not expected her.
Or the daldal.
Or the way both had disrupted the stillness I had come looking for.
But truth is not something you offer a stranger. Not like this.
So, I gave her something simpler.
“I’m Aditya,” I said.
It wasn’t entirely false.
Just incomplete.
“I’m not from this kingdom. I heard there’s a waterfall in this jungle—that it’s beautiful. I came to see it for myself.”
That, at least, sounded believable.
She folded her arms lightly, though the faint tremor from the cold still lingered in the movement.
“And instead of waterfalls,” she said, “you found trouble.”
A quiet breath of laughter left me again, softer this time, easier.
“Seems so.”
But her gaze didn’t shift. If anything, it sharpened.
“You’re here just for a waterfall?”
There it was—the question beneath the answer, the doubt she hadn’t voiced yet but refused to ignore.
For a moment, the truth rose again, heavier this time.
Diplomacy. A royal visit. An alliance that would shape more than borders.
None of it belonged here. Not in this jungle, not in this moment, not between two strangers standing ankle-deep in mud and unspoken questions.
So, I chose the safest lie.
“A friend’s wedding,” I said smoothly.
She blinked, caught off guard.
“A wedding?”
I nodded once, keeping my expression easy, unaffected. “In a nearby village.”
Silence followed, but it wasn’t empty. It was measured, deliberate.
She studied me carefully, weighing my words, my tone, the ease with which the answer had come. She didn’t believe me—not completely. I could see it in the slight tilt of her head, in the way her gaze lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.
But she didn’t challenge it.
Didn’t push.
And, more interestingly, she didn’t dismiss it either.
She simply let it exist there, suspended between belief and doubt, as if deciding that, for now, it was enough.
That intrigued me more than open suspicion ever could have.
Most people leaned one way or the other—they trusted too quickly, or they questioned too loudly.
She did neither.
And then her gaze dropped—to herself.
To the mud clinging to her clothes, to the ruined fall of fabric that might once have been pale, though now it was impossible to tell beneath the wet weight of it. The wind had only made it worse, pressing it against her skin, turning it heavy, uncomfortable.
The sigh that left her was softer than anything she had said so far.
But I noticed.
Of course I noticed.
“There’s a waterfall nearby,” I said after a moment.
Her head lifted immediately, suspicion returning just as quickly.
“So?”
“So,” I replied evenly, “you can wash the mud off your clothes there.”
Her expression sharpened further, as if she were already preparing to refuse.
I added, without giving her space to twist the meaning, “That’s it.”
And then, because I knew exactly how it might sound—
“It’s alright if you don’t want to go.”
I didn’t wait for her answer.
I turned and stepped back into the forest, and I moved through the trees. If she chose not to follow, I would leave it there.
A stranger pulled from the daldal.
Nothing more.
I had taken no more than a few steps when I heard it—
the faint shift behind me, fabric brushing softly, footsteps placed with care.
I didn’t turn.
Didn’t acknowledge it.
But something quiet settled in my chest.
She had chosen to follow.
Interesting.
For a while, we walked in silence, the sound of rain and leaves filling the space between us. Then, almost as if the question had slipped out before she could stop it, she spoke.
“What do you do?”
The moment the words left her, I could feel the hesitation that followed them, the regret threading through her silence.
I glanced at her, one brow lifting slightly. “Why?”
She looked away at once, as if the path ahead had suddenly become far more interesting than the conversation.
“You just pulled me out of daldal,” she said, attempting casualness and failing. “I just…”
The rest dissolved somewhere between pride and embarrassment.
Then, more quietly, “It’s okay. Forget it.”
A soft laugh left me—not mocking, not sharp, just… warm.
It unsettled her more than it should have. I could see it in the way her shoulders stiffened slightly, in how she refused to meet my eyes.
There was something else there too, beneath the embarrassment. Curiosity. She had noticed the strength it took. The way I had held my ground, the way I had pulled her free.
She wanted to ask.
She didn’t know how.
Her pride sat stubbornly in the way—almost as visibly as the streak of mud along her cheek.
After a moment, I answered anyway.
“I’m a soldier.”
Her gaze snapped back to me instantly.
That explained it.
I saw the understanding settle—quick, precise. The strength, the reflexes, the control. It all fit too easily.
“A soldier?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Which kingdom?”
For the first time, I looked at her properly. There was the smallest pause before I answered.
“Aaryagarh.”
The name hung between us, quiet but not without weight.
Her breath caught—so slight most would have missed it, but not me. She hid it quickly, smoothing her expression into something neutral.
“Oh,” she said, almost lightly. “I’ve heard they have a very strong army.”
I glanced at her, curiosity sharpening.
“And how do you know that?”
The question reached her too quickly.
I saw it—the flicker of realization, the inward curse, the way she searched for something to steady herself.
“People talk,” she said at once, attempting a shrug. “Especially lately. Their prince is supposed to arrive here today, isn’t he?”
She knew it the moment she said it.
She had gone too far.
I stopped.
So did she.
The rain seemed louder in the silence that followed, each drop striking leaf and earth with quiet insistence.
My gaze settled on her—not harsh, but intent.
“That,” I said slowly, “is not something common people know.”
Her pulse betrayed her, even if her face did not.
For a fraction of a second, something like panic flickered through her eyes.
Then she steadied.
“I work at the palace,” she said quickly. “I’m an attendant there.”
The lie came easily. Too easily. Not careless—practiced.
Palace-trained.
My suspicion deepened, though I let none of it show. Whoever had written the diplomatic correspondence from this kingdom had understood us far too well—our strengths, our intentions, even how an alliance could serve both sides.
That kind of understanding did not come from servants.
So how did she know?
I held her gaze a moment longer, searching—not for the lie itself, but for what sat behind it.
Then, after a beat, I gave a small nod and resumed walking.
For now, I let it pass.
Behind me, I heard her exhale quietly before she followed.
The forest began to thin ahead, and soon the distant sound of rushing water rose above the rain.
Until the trees finally parted.
The waterfall revealed itself all at once.
Silver water plunged over dark rock in a continuous, shimmering sheet, crashing into the pool below with a force that sent mist curling upward like breath. Ferns clung to the stone, vivid against the black, and the water blended seamlessly with the cascade until it became impossible to tell where sky ended and water began.
For a moment, everything else fell away.
She stepped forward slightly, her gaze fixed on it, wonder softening every guarded edge she had carried until now.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
I looked at her.
Not the waterfall.
Her.
At the way the suspicion had loosened, just for a second. At the quiet awe in her expression, unguarded, uncalculated.
And somehow—that felt far more dangerous than any lie either of us had told.
She moved nearer to the waterfall The waterfall roared behind her, loud enough to swallow the world, yet the space around us felt unnaturally still. She started to wash the mud off herself.
I let my gaze rest on the falling water, steady, unhurried—anywhere but her. And yet—
I was aware of her.
Not looking did not mean not noticing.
The quiet scrape of her hands against wet skin. The sharper rhythm when she grew annoyed. The faint hitch in her breath when the cold water struck her face. Even the way the sound of the waterfall seemed to shift around her, as though it softened, just slightly, in her presence.
The daldal had not been kind.
That much I had seen. I shifted my weight slightly against the rock, letting my posture remain loose, unguarded, as though I had no particular interest in anything beyond the waterfall before me.
It was easier that way. Safer.
A small sound reached me then. Barely there. Her. I didn’t turn.
But I knew. She was looking at me.
There was a difference in silence when someone watched you—subtle, but unmistakable. It pressed differently against the air.
Curious. Measuring. I almost smiled. She had questions. That much was obvious. She always did. And she did not like unanswered things. That much I’ve figured. A shift in the air. The faintest change in weight on wet ground. She had turned away.
Only then did I allow my gaze to move.
Not to her fully.
Just enough.
Enough to catch the edge of it—the almost-smile she tried to hide, the way she straightened too quickly, as though something had unsettled her.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
For someone who trusted so little, she let her thoughts show far too easily.
Or perhaps— only when she forgot to guard them.
My attention returned to the waterfall, but the stillness no longer felt the same.
It had shifted.
Quietly.
And I found, to my own mild irritation, that I was no longer entirely focused on the water at all.
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