Her pov
The temple’s sanctum had settled into a sacred hush once again.
Water still poured through the broken ceiling in a silver stream over the Shivling, each drop echoing softly against ancient stone. The dark robe wrapped around my shoulders had begun to warm against my skin, its weight strangely comforting—too large, too foreign, yet the only thing grounding me in that moment.
For a few moments, we simply stood there in silence.
Then he glanced toward one of the side corridors where the temple branched deeper into shadowed chambers.
“There seem to be older carvings beyond this hall,” he said. “I want to explore a little more.”
His voice carried softly in the sanctum, respectful of the silence, yet steady with curiosity. I followed his gaze toward the darkened passage—the kind that swallowed light whole.
He tilted his head slightly.
“Do you want to come?”
I looked around the sanctum instead, letting my eyes settle on the Shivling, on the rainwater that fell like a continuous offering from the sky itself. The stillness here felt sacred… protective, almost.
“No,” I said softly. “I’m good here.”
His gaze lingered on me for a moment—longer than necessary. As if he were measuring the risks I didn’t say aloud. As if leaving me here did not sit entirely right with him.
Then he nodded.
“I’ll be nearby.”
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the dim corridor, his footsteps fading into the deeper temple until even their echo dissolved into silence.
I turned back toward the Shivling.
The constant abhishek from the broken roof made the entire chamber glow in shifting silver light. Droplets scattered as they struck the stone, merging into shallow pools where flower petals floated—faded marigold, crushed rose, remnants of devotion.
The air smelled of wet stone, incense long burnt out, and something ancient… something unmoving despite time.
For the first time all day, I allowed myself to breathe. The tightness in my chest loosened, just a little.
Then— voices broke the silence. Laughter. Soft chatter. The sound of several footsteps approaching—unhurried, unaware.
My breath stilled.
I turned.
A small group entered through the broken archway—perhaps nine or ten people. Their silhouettes formed first against the grey light outside, then sharpened as they stepped in. At the centre was a newlywed couple, unmistakable even from a distance.
The bride’s red veil shimmered faintly in the rainlight, droplets catching along its embroidered edge like tiny sparks. Fresh garlands hung around her neck, petals still vibrant. The groom stood beside her, a ceremonial cloth tied firmly around his wrist, his posture proud but softened by the occasion.
They carried with them warmth. Belonging. A world I was not part of in that moment. The moment they saw me, the group slowed.
I felt it before I fully registered it—the shift.
Their laughter dimmed. Their steps lost rhythm. Then they stopped. Completely. Their gazes moved over me. Slow and careful. Taking in everything—
My damp clothes, clinging unevenly. The oversized dark robe of a man precisely draped around me—clearly not mine. My hair, still wet from daldal and waterfall mist, strands sticking to my skin.
The fact that I stood alone. In a place like this. Something in their expressions changed. Not just curiosity. Something sharper. Something cautious.
And in that instant— the calm I had just found began to slip quietly through my fingers.
One older woman frowned first.
“Who are you?”
The bride’s gaze lingered on me, not unkind, but uncertain. I straightened slightly, forcing my spine to hold, my chin to lift just enough.
I could handle this.
I knew how to handle this.
“Where have you come from?” a man finally asked, stepping forward.
His voice was not loud.
But it carried authority.
Too much authority.
I opened my mouth.
“I—”
“Why are you alone?”
The questions came all at once, voices overlapping, pressing in, tightening around me like a noose.
I could answer.
I should answer.
I knew this village. I knew its customs, its people, its rhythms. I could weave a story, give a name, create a truth convincing enough to pass.
But they wouldn’t stop talking.
Every time I tried to speak, another voice cut through.
“Speak up!”
“Why is she quiet?”
I opened my mouth again My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Too many thoughts crashed into one another at once—my hidden identity, the robe wrapped too obviously around me, the possibility of being recognized, and the sheer impropriety of how this must look to anyone watching. The weight of it all pressed against my chest until even breathing felt deliberate.
Someone spoke again, sharper this time.
“Whose daughter, are you? I might know your father.”
Father.
That word struck deeper than the rest.
My pulse spiked instantly, the sound of it loud in my ears, as if it might betray me before I ever spoke. The word echoed—sharp, suffocating—and my throat tightened around it.
Any random name would be dangerous; she clearly knew too many people here. One wrong answer, one careless slip, and I would be caught in my own lie within moments.
And my real father’s name— King Yashorath.
That was a risk I could not afford.
Not here.
Another voice followed immediately, impatient.
“And who are you here with?”
I froze where I stood.
The robe suddenly felt too heavy against my shoulders, as though it carried its own accusation. The room seemed smaller now, the walls closing in, every gaze fixed too directly on me, stripping away whatever composure I had left.
I had gone completely quiet, and this time they truly waited for my answer—but nothing came out.
The older women exchanged knowing looks, the kind that already decided what they believed.
She asked again, more firmly, “Who is your father? Speak up.”
My pulse slammed harder against my ribs.
That question felt like a blade.
My father’s name could not be spoken. Not here. Not like this.
I searched desperately for anything—some story, some name, something believable—but my thoughts tangled around a single, dangerous possibility.
Aditya.
He was nearby. What if he came? What if he said something—anything—that would unravel everything I was trying so hard to conceal?
I opened my mouth to speak, forcing myself to form even a single word, but—
A younger man at the back let out a low, mocking scoff.
“Or perhaps she’s here with someone.”
Another voice followed, careless and crude, “These hidden temples are always where such things happen.”
The implication struck like a slap.
Heat rushed to my face, rising too fast to control—humiliation, anger, panic all colliding at once. My fingers tightened instinctively around the robe, clutching it closer as if I could shield myself from their eyes, from their assumptions.
Every instinct screamed at me to leave, to disappear, to run before this became something I could not escape.
I managed, barely, to shake my head in denial.
“No.”
The word didn’t even make it past my lips, but the motion was there.
Still, it wasn’t enough.
Someone pressed again, relentless. “Tell us—who are you even here with?”
And then—
Footsteps. From the side corridor. The sound cut through the rising tension like something inevitable.
He emerged from the shadows.
The moment his gaze took in the scene—the circle of people closing around me, my silence, the sharpness in their expressions—something in him shifted.
It wasn’t loud anger. It was something colder. Controlled. He stepped forward, just once.
“With me.”
The words were calm, but they cut cleanly through every other voice in the room.
All heads turned toward him.
He didn’t look at anyone else first.
He looked at me.
And only when he saw the slightest easing in my shoulders—something I hadn’t even realized I had allowed—then his attention move to the others.
One of the men frowned, looking him up and down. “With you?”
Before he could answer, the same careless voice spoke again, louder this time, emboldened.
“Looks more like the two of them were using the temple for something shameless—”
He moved before the sentence could finish.
Not in anger. Not in chaos.
But with a precision that made it more unsettling than either.
In a single step, he closed the distance, his hand coming up to grip the speaker’s jaw—firm, unyielding, forcing his head up just enough that their eyes met. The suddenness of it silenced the space more effectively than any shout could have.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and steady, carrying a quiet threat that settled into the bones of everyone present.
“Finish that sentence,” he said, his grip tightening just enough to make the warning unmistakable, “and you will regret having a mouth to speak.”
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The sanctum went dead silent.
A lone young woman. In a hidden temple. Drenched. Wearing a man’s robe. No companion in sight.
And yet, in a single moment, the air had shifted entirely.
An older aunt stepped forward then, suspicion sharpening her features further, as if she had personally taken responsibility for uncovering whatever scandal she had already decided I was part of.
“Leave him,” she said sharply, her gaze cutting toward me. “And who are you?”
For a brief second, everything held—the tension, the silence, the entire room waiting like it had front-row seats to a drama I had no script for.
Then he let the man’s jaw go.
The release was slow, almost casual, as if he had just been holding something mildly inconvenient rather than a fully grown man. The man stumbled back, clutching his face and dignity at the same time, while everyone else very suddenly developed a deep interest in not getting involved.
And then he spoke.
“I am Aditya.”
Of course he was calm.
Of course, he sounded like a man who had never once been caught in a lie in his entire life.
He stepped fully to my side, like this was where he had always been standing and the rest of us had simply been mistaken.
The aunt squinted at him, unimpressed. “And her?”
I felt him before I properly processed it—his presence shifting closer, solid and unbothered, like he had walked into a mildly inconvenient situation rather than the complete disaster I was currently living in. His hand came to rest on my shoulder, steady and grounding, which would have been comforting if I weren’t seconds away from either fainting or committing a crime.
And then—
“She is my wife.”
“Barkha.”
My brain stopped completely. Not slowed down. Not hesitated.
Stopped.
I turned toward him so fast I was fairly certain I heard something in my neck protest.
Wife?
Barkha??
Excuse me?
He said it so easily. So smoothly. Like this wasn’t a lie he had just invented under pressure but a well-rehearsed fact he had been waiting his whole life to announce to a room full of strangers.
I stared at him, waiting for the slightest crack—some hint of I am absolutely making this up right now—but no.
Nothing.
Not even the decency to look guilty. He didn’t even look at me. Not once.
Which, frankly, was rude. A lady most probably the groom’s mother looked between us, clearly trying to decide whether she had missed an entire wedding.
“I have never seen either of you.”
“We are from a neighbouring kingdom,” he said, as if that explained everything and more. “We came for darshan after our journey.”
Of course.
A neighbouring kingdom.
Why not?
At this point, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he claimed we owned several palaces and a small army.
The groom nodded slightly, looking oddly sympathetic, probably because he was standing there with his actual bride and assumed this was normal married behaviour.
The old lady, however, was not convinced.
She looked straight at me.
“Then why does she say nothing?”
Ah.
Yes.
A valid question.
One I would have loved to answer, had my brain not still been stuck on Barkha. I opened my mouth—
“She cannot speak.”
I froze.
Slowly, very slowly, I turned my head toward him. Mute. He had decided I was mute. Of all the options available to him—lost, tired, overwhelmed—he had chosen silent for life.
If I could speak in that moment, I would have used it exclusively to argue.
But the worst part? He still did not look at me. Not even a glance.
Nothing.
Just calm, composed, entirely committed to the narrative of me apparently having no voice. And then it clicked. He knew. He knew exactly how offended I was. And he was avoiding eye contact like his life depended on it.
Coward.
“She slipped on the rocks outside and was shaken badly,” he continued smoothly, as if he hadn’t just erased my ability to speak from existence.
I stared at the side of his face, deeply reconsidering all my life choices that had led me here.
There was a pause.
And then—
Someone laughed.
Not loudly, not mockingly—just awkwardly, like they didn’t know what else to do with the situation and laughter seemed safer than questioning it further. The tension cracked. Just like that.
“Poor thing,” the aunt sighed, now fully committed to a completely different version of me.
Another woman shook her head. “And you brought her here in this condition?”
He inclined his head slightly, looking every bit like the devoted husband I had apparently acquired without consent.
“She wanted Lord Shiva’s blessings before we returned.”
At this point, I almost admired the dedication. The consistency. The absolute refusal to break character. It was impressive. Infuriatingly impressive.
And before I could decide whether to glare at him, step on his foot, or simply walk away—
He took my hand. Not lightly. Not for show. Fully.
His fingers threaded through mine like this was the most natural thing in the world, like we had done this a thousand times before and not, in fact, just met in a situation that was rapidly spiralling out of control.
The warmth of his hand was annoyingly steady.
Annoyingly real.
“Come,” he said quietly.
No explanation.
Just a decision I clearly had no say in. And I— Still offended. Still confused. Still burning with humiliation and something else I could not name. Still stuck on the fact that I had been renamed and rendered mute within the span of thirty seconds—Let him lead me. I looked at our hands interjoined as if this was meant to happen. Mine was little small compared to him I can see the scratches on his forearm which must have been from earlier incident of daldal. Still fresh.
Past the wedding party, who now looked at me with sympathy instead of suspicion, which honestly felt like a downgrade.
Past the aunt, who gave me a pitying look I absolutely did not deserve.
Through the broken archway. And I could finally, finally, glare at him properly. And before I could say something, anything, someone from the crowd says “wait”. My heart dropped to my stomach. Both of us froze.
For one terrible heartbeat, we looked at each other—the same sharp thought flashing through both minds.
Did she figure it out?
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