The temple

Her pov

The waterfall roared behind me, loud enough to swallow every other sound, and yet the world here felt strangely still.

Cold water ran over my fingers as I scrubbed at the stubborn streaks of mud. The daldal had not been kind. It clung in dark, uneven patches across my arms, my sleeves, the ruined fall of my dress, as though it had no intention of letting go. I rubbed harder than necessary, a small frown pulling at my brows, as if irritation alone might make it disappear faster.

It didn’t.

Of course it didn’t.

A quiet breath slipped out of me, and I eased my movements, settling for what I could manage. The mud lightened, thinned beneath the water, but it did not vanish entirely. It would have to be enough.

I splashed water across my face next. The cold struck sharply, pulling a breath from my chest and forcing me back into myself. Damp strands of hair clung to my cheeks; I pushed them away, blinking against the mist that lingered in the air.

For a moment, I simply looked.

At my reflection.

The surface of the pool trembled with every falling drop, breaking my face into fragments—soft, blurred, uncertain. It looked like me, and yet not quite. Something about it felt unsteady, as though I were looking at a version of myself that had not decided what it was yet.

My fingers stilled in the water.

Then a thought, sharp and sudden, cut through everything and made me turn.

He stood exactly where I had left him, at a respectful distance, near a smooth black rock, posture easy, almost careless, his gaze fixed entirely on the waterfall. Not on me. Not once. Not even by accident.

Even earlier—when I had been dragged half into the daldal, clothes ruined, dignity barely intact—his eyes had remained precisely where they should have been.

On my face.

Only my face.

I frowned slightly, studying him from where I stood.

Strange.

For someone who lies so easily, there is something… inconveniently honest about him.

The thought came uninvited, and lingered longer than I liked. A small smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it, and I turned away quickly, as if that might erase it.

My gaze drifted instead—

and caught.

Through the mist, past hanging vines and rain-dark trees, something rose from the earth itself.

Stone.

Carved stone.

My breath caught.

“Oh.”

He turned immediately. Of course he did.

“What happened?”

I didn’t answer. Words felt too slow for the sudden brightness in my chest. Instead, I pointed, unable to hold it back.

“The temple,” I said, the excitement slipping into my voice before I could stop it. “It’s there—see?”

He followed my gaze, but I didn’t wait for his reaction.

“I’m going.”

Before caution could catch up to me—before sense could remind me that I was not alone—I gathered my dress and moved.

The path was narrow and uneven, roots twisting beneath my feet, the ground slick from the rain, but I didn’t slow. Curiosity pulled stronger than caution, and for once, I let it.

I had barely gone far when I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned sharply.

Of course he was there.

“What?” I demanded.

He blinked, mildly. “What?”

“Why are you following me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His calm was infuriating.

“You said you wanted to see the waterfall,” I said as if explaining something painfully obvious. “I’ve seen it “, he replied with the same ease.  Then, with a small, easy gesture ahead, he added, “And now I want to see the temple.”

I opened my mouth—to argue, to refuse, to remind him that this was not his path—but the words faltered.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

That was the worst part.

“Fine,” I said, sharper than necessary, and turned away.

This time, he didn’t follow behind me. He walked beside me. As if that had always been the intention.

The forest closed in as we moved deeper, the rain softening beneath the canopy into a steady hush. The ground was slick, roots catching at every step, and the air was thick with damp earth and something green and alive.

We walked in silence.

Not awkward.

Not comfortable either.

Just… present.

“Tell me more about your kingdom.”

I slowed slightly, wary.

“What do you want to know?”

“You work at the palace, don’t you?”

I nodded once.

“How are they?” he asked, glancing sideways. “How do they treat people?”

Something in me bristled instantly at the question. As though he had already decided the answer would be lacking.

Before I could respond, he added lightly, “Attendants. Staff.”

Oh.

I turned to him, faintly offended.

“Better than your king treats you.”

That made him look at me properly, interest sharpening his gaze.

“And why do you think they don’t treat us nicely?”

I lifted my chin.

“I’ve heard your kingdom treats soldiers like property. They don’t even let them go home.”

He stared at me for a moment—and then laughed.

Warm. Unbothered. As if the accusation amused him more than it offended.

“That’s because we train,” he said. “Discipline requires presence.”

I frowned.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It answers enough.”

“It doesn’t,” I insisted. “What if they miss their families?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Too quick. Too honest.

And the moment they left me, I realized it. The mistake.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

A brow lifted, just slightly.

“Then we visit them,” he said. “It’s not like they keep their soldiers tied.”

My heart stumbled.

That is exactly what happens.

I looked away quickly, heat rising in my chest—not quite anger, not quite embarrassment, but something uncomfortably close to both.

“What if they miss them in between?” I said instead, more defensive than I intended.

He looked at me then, properly, and smiled.

That same knowing, infuriating smile—as if he could see straight through what I was not saying.

“Then we write letters.”

I slowed.

That— I hadn’t expected that. I turned to him fully. I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Silence said enough. He knew that’s exactly how it works.

He laughed again, softer this time, something gentler beneath it.

I stopped, turned, and glared at him.

“Whatever,” I muttered, walking ahead faster.

Behind me, his laughter followed—warm, unrestrained, and annoyingly… not unpleasant.

“You are the most irritating soldier I have ever met.” I said under my breath. But apparently, he heard me.

Because he responded, “And you are far too clever for an attendant.”

I won’t answer this. I kept walking. So did he.

And despite everything—the irritation, the questions, the way he unsettled every certainty I had—something shifted.

Quiet.

But real.

The trees began to thin as we walked, the forest loosening its hold. Stone replaced roots beneath my feet, ancient and worn, and then— the temple stood before us.

Silent.

I slowed instinctively as we stepped into its shadow. The air changed here, cooler, heavier, carrying something older than the forest itself.

I turned slightly toward him, about to speak when we both heard it.

A sound.

Faint at first. Then clearer. From somewhere deeper inside the jungle. My entire body went still. And in the next instant, awareness crashed over me all at once.

The daldal.

The water.

My clothes.

Though I had washed what I could, the fabric still clung where it shouldn’t, damp and heavy, outlining more than I liked. Not improper—but enough. Enough to make heat rise to my face despite the cold air.

My fingers moved immediately, tugging my dupatta higher, smoothing the front of my dress, trying to fix what could not truly be fixed.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t look. Didn’t comment. Didn’t let it linger.

Instead, he shrugged off his outer robe, the motion effortless, unhurried, carrying a quiet, almost old-fashioned ease. The dark fabric slipped from his shoulders, still faintly warm, and he held it out to me.

I blinked, caught off guard.

“No, it’s—”

“If you say no,” he said quietly, “I won’t insist.”

There was no pressure in his voice.

Only a simple offering.

The sound was growing closer. There was no time for pride.

Slowly, I reached for it.

Our fingers brushed—just for an instant—but the warmth that passed between us was sharper than the chill of rain had ever been.

I pulled back quickly, draping the robe around myself. It settled over my shoulders, heavier than my own clothes, grounding in a way I hadn’t expected.

It smelled faintly of rain.

Of sandalwood.

Of him.

That unsettled me more than it should have.

Beside me, he stepped closer. Not enough to crowd, not enough to claim—just enough that anyone approaching would see us together.

The sound stopped.

Abruptly.

Silence rushed back in. We both stilled. Then, slowly, we looked at each other.

He spoke first, his tone easy, almost casual, though his gaze remained fixed ahead.

“Probably an animal,” he said. “It’s a jungle.”

I nodded.

“Yes.”

And then we started walking again.

The path narrowed into silence as we drew closer.

Our laughter faded without effort, dissolving into something quieter the moment the temple revealed itself through the thinning trees. I felt it before I fully saw it—that subtle shift, as though the air itself had stilled in anticipation.

And then it stood before us.

Rising from the heart of the jungle like a forgotten prayer.

Ancient stone walls, darkened by rain and age, stood half-claimed by roots and hanging vines. Moss spread across the carved pillars in soft green layers, swallowing patterns that must once have been etched by master hands. Time had worn the temple down, softened its edges, broken its crown—and yet, it had not taken its dignity.

If anything, the ruin made it feel more sacred.

I slowed without realizing it. Something in my chest had quieted. We stepped through the broken stone archway together.

The moment I crossed the threshold, the air changed.

Cooler.

It carried the scent of wet earth, moss… and something else. Something faintly familiar. Old incense, perhaps—so deeply absorbed into the stone that it refused to fade, even after all this time.

I drew in a slow breath.

And then I saw it.

At the centre of the sanctum stood the Shivling.

Black stone, smooth and luminous beneath a steady stream of falling water—likely fed by the nearby waterfall, guided through hidden channels or along tree branches that carried it into the sanctum. The fractured roof above had opened directly over it, as though the sky itself had been invited to continue what no priest remained to do. Water fell in an unbroken silver line, striking the stone and flowing over it in quiet devotion.

Abhishek—without hands.

Without interruption.

Without end.

Fresh bilva leaves lay at its base. Marigold petals too. Not withered. Not forgotten. Placed. As though someone still came here.

Or something.

A faint shiver traced its way down my spine, though I could not tell if it was from the cold—or the feeling that we were not entirely alone in this place.

The sound filled the temple.

Water against stone.

Soft. Rhythmic. Endless.

It echoed gently through the empty halls, settling into the silence rather than breaking it. The floor beneath my feet glistened in shallow pools, reflecting fragments of the sky above through the broken roof. Petals drifted slowly across the water, shifting each time the rain strengthened.

Lightning flashed overhead.

For a brief, blinding moment, the sacred lines upon the Shivling gleamed bright—three white strokes across the black stone, the red bindu at the center glowing like a watchful, unblinking eye.

I stopped.

Completely.

My breath caught before I even realized I had held it.

“It’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” I whispered.

My voice felt small here.

Almost undeserving of the space.

For once, I didn’t think about him—didn’t measure his reaction, didn’t brace for a remark.

But I felt it.

The stillness beside me.

And when I glanced at him, just for a moment, I saw that even he—who always seemed so composed, so untouched—was quiet.

Not amused.

Not teasing.

Just… looking. At the temple. Then, briefly— at me. And in that silence, something settled between us. Not spoken but understood. Some moments do not belong to words.

This was one of them.