Her pov
I had been pretending to focus on the letter for far longer than it deserved.
The parchment lay steady beneath my hand, the ink drying in careful strokes, each word measured, deliberate—too deliberate for something that was never meant to feel personal. It was Rudra’s work, though one would not believe it at first glance. His arguments were sharp in a way children are not taught, his thoughts arranged with a clarity that even seasoned courtiers struggled to maintain. Every few lines, my lips would almost curve, not in amusement, but in a quiet, reluctant admiration. Somewhere between correcting his phrasing and softening his tone, I had begun to forget that I was supposed to be supervising him.
Which, of course, meant that I had to keep glancing up.
Rudra sat cross-legged across from me, his small fingers gripping the edge of his book as if holding it tighter might force the words into his memory. His brows were drawn together in fierce concentration, his lips moving silently as he tried to recall the lesson he had been avoiding for the past hour. Every now and then, his gaze would drift—to the window, to the door, to absolutely anything that was not the page—and I would clear my throat just softly enough to pull him back before he could escape entirely.
“Read,” I reminded without looking up this time.
My attention had already drifted.
The parchment before me held the draft Vimoksha had brought earlier—the plans for the shared boundary and the fort’s construction. I read through it once more, slower this time, allowing each line to settle instead of passing over it.
The clarity stood out immediately.
Every detail was precise, every decision deliberate, without unnecessary weight or hesitation. It was not written to impress, but to function, and that made it far more compelling.
My fingers traced a line absently.
Multiple outposts, a connected defensive range, a shared command—each element placed with intent, not just for strength, but for cohesion.
It was well thought out.
More than that, it felt considered—balanced in a way that did not rely on force alone, but on an awareness of what that force must protect.
I was midway through reading a paragraph again when the door opened.
I did not need to look up immediately to know it was her.
There was always a shift—subtle, almost imperceptible—in the air when she entered, as though the room itself acknowledged her presence before anyone else did. Still, I lifted my gaze, and for a moment, I forgot the sentence I had been shaping.
She looked… brighter.
Not in the obvious sense, not in jewels or attire, though both were as graceful as ever, but in a way that settled beneath the skin, something soft and luminous that made her seem almost untouched by the heaviness of the day. It was the kind of glow that did not ask to be noticed and yet made ignoring it impossible.
She moved toward us without hurry and lowered herself beside Rudra, her attention finding him instantly.
“Have you learnt that lesson?” she asked, her voice warm, unhurried.
Rudra’s reaction was immediate and entirely telling. He smiled at her—awkwardly, guiltily, the way one does when caught between effort and failure—and for a second I expected the usual correction, the firm insistence that he do better.
Instead, she smiled back.
It was small, but it held something gentle in it, something that eased the tension in his shoulders before she even spoke again. Her fingers moved to his hair, ruffling it lightly, not in reprimand but reassurance.
“It’s okay,” she said, as if it truly was. “Read again.”
And just like that, he did.
No resistance, no hesitation this time. His voice steadied, the words coming more easily, as though her faith in him had rearranged something inside his mind that my instructions never could.
I found myself watching her instead of him.
This was not how she handled things.
Not on any other day. She was precise, composed, unwavering in her expectations. She felt my gaze.
Her eyes lifted to meet mine, questioning but calm. “What?”
For a moment, I only looked at her, trying to place what had changed, why it felt so evident and yet so elusive. Then, as if something inside me shifted into place, I remembered.
The letter.
Of course.
It had been a week.
A full week since she had written to him—her husband—each word carefully chosen, each line carrying more than it openly revealed. I had watched her seal it, watched the quiet resolve in her expression as she handed it over, and though she had said nothing, there had been a weight to it that lingered long after.
I glanced at her again, more deliberately this time.
“I suppose,” I said, letting the corner of my mouth lift in a way that made my tone lighter than my curiosity, “you must have received a reply.”
She did not look at me immediately, and that was answer enough to stir my interest further.
“So,” I added, leaning just a little forward, unable to resist the tease that rose so naturally between us, “what did he write?”
“Priya Surekha.”
I said it softly, almost absently, as though the words had slipped out before I had the chance to measure them.
She straightened at once, the letter in my hand forgotten. “Bhabhi,” She echoed, the excitement in my voice entirely unhidden now, “oh, does he also call you Bhabhi?”
Her reaction was immediate.
Her hand came down lightly against my arm—not enough to hurt, but enough to silence—and I laughed, the sound escaping me before I could contain it, because the faint colour rising to her face was far more telling than any explanation she could have offered.
For a moment, it felt easy.
Light.
Like the room had been spared the weight it usually carried.
Then she spoke again.
“Yes, he had sent a letter. He clearly knows how to change my mood with his words,” she said, her tone shifting just slightly, the softness thinning into something sharper at the edges. “And I know, he must be flirting with someone there. He knows how to make women feel special.”
The words were simple, almost careless in their phrasing, but they did not fall lightly.
They landed.
I felt it before I understood it. My brother loves her deeply, but still, he, being diplomatic, knew how to change someone's heart and mind with words only.
Before I could respond, Rudra’s voice cut through, strained and irritated.
“Stop talking,” he said, his small brows pulled together, his patience worn thin. “It’s already very tough.”
The sharpness in his tone startled me more than it should have.
“Oh—sorry, sorry,” I said quickly, straightening, the moment breaking apart as easily as it had formed.
She rose then.
Not abruptly, not in anger that could be named, but in a way that carried decision in it, as though staying any longer would require more stillness than she possessed.
“I’m going,” she said, her voice composed again, controlled. “I just came to check if he is reading or not.”
And then she left.
I watched her go, the faint rustle of her steps fading into the corridor, leaving behind something unsettled that did not quite belong to the room anymore.
—
The thought lingered, sharp and persistent, even as I focused on the letter by the Aaryagarh kingdom, even as I told myself that it had meant nothing.
I could feel it now, pressing quietly against my chest, refusing to be dismissed.
“He knows how to make women feel special.”
And thoughts come without my permission. Aditya. Even he knows that. I had seen it in the way he speaks. Is he really like that, or is it just me thinking more than I should?
Now, it unsettled me.
Because what if it was not rare? What if it was simply who he was—with everyone. A thought formed, uninvited and unwelcome, yet impossible to push away once it had taken shape.
What if, somewhere, there was another moment unfolding just as mine had once unfolded. Another place, another woman.
Perhaps she stood uncertain, perhaps she was in trouble, perhaps she needed saving—and he, with that same quiet certainty, that same unwavering presence, stepped in.
What if he looked at her the way he had looked at me in that moment, as though the world had narrowed to her safety alone?
What if he said the same words?
What if he offered the same assurance? And what if—my breath caught, the thought tightening painfully within me—what if he claimed her as his as well. My fingers curling slightly against my palms, as though grounding myself would steady the storm rising inside me.
This was foolish.
It had to be.
And yet, the mind does not listen when it chooses to wander into places it was never meant to go.
Because the truth was not in what he might do.
The truth was in what I feared he could. I looked at Rudra, still reading the same lesson again and thought come again. This time with far more clarity than the time I wrote previous two letters.
Yes, I need to clear it now. And before I could think further, I took a page from Rudra and started writing. And words spilled one after another like never before.
Hey, soldier—
Or should I say, Aditya,
I hope I am not disturbing you, and that this letter does not find you in the middle of rescuing someone. You seem to have a talent for appearing exactly where you are needed, saying exactly what must be said, and leaving behind just enough impact to be remembered a little longer than necessary. It is quite admirable, truly. Not everyone can manage such precision without practice. I know, I know—it is your duty.
Which brings me, quite naturally, to a question I have been trying very hard not to ask.
How often?
How often have you done that? No, I am not asking about helping others—that, I understand, is a soldier’s duty. I mean the part where you claim a random girl as your wife.
Because you did not hesitate.
A situation unfolds, a crowd gathers, and before doubt can even settle, you have already decided what I am to you.
Your wife.
Just like that.
You said it as though the word had been waiting for you, as though it belonged there, as though it cost you nothing at all to place it so firmly in the air.
It was very convincing.
Annoyingly so.
Which makes me wonder—does it always come to you that easily, or was I the fortunate recipient of a particularly well-delivered moment?
You see, it would be rather unfortunate if this were something you repeated whenever the situation demanded a quick solution. One would hate to think that such a word is simply… convenient in your hands.
So, for your own sake, allow me to suggest something.
Do not make a habit of it.
And more importantly, do not go around offering that same robe and that same claim to another unsuspecting woman. One temple misunderstanding is quite enough for its reputation, and I would prefer not to hear that it has acquired a history.
Also, if you continue telling strangers that your wife has a tendency to fall into trouble, I assure you, fate may take that as an invitation to prove you right again.
And I have no intention of cooperating with such patterns.
So take care of that. And, since you seem to require occasional reminders—take care of yourself as well.
— your mute wife, who knows when to speak
Barkha
I fold the letter more carefully than necessary, pressing along the edges as if neatness might somehow settle what still lingers in my mind. The parchment holds its shape easily, obedient in a way my thoughts refuse to be, and for a moment, I simply look at it resting in my hands before I call out.
“Gauri.”
She arrives quickly, as she always does, her steps soft but certain. I do not say anything immediately, only extend the letter toward her. She takes it without question, though her eyes flicker over my face for a brief second, as if searching for something I have not offered.
Then she looks at the letter.
A small frown forms—barely there, but enough to notice. Her brows draw together just slightly, not in confusion, but in that familiar quiet disapproval she rarely bothers to hide when it comes to matters she thinks I should have handled differently.
Usually, she would say something. This time, she does not.
She only looked at it for a moment longer and just took the letter.
No argument. Just acceptance, still, I could see a slight annoyance on her face. And that, more than anything, makes me pause.
She says nothing.
No questions, no corrections, no subtle arguments woven into polite words. She just inclines her head slightly, turns, and walks away with the letter still in her hand.
I watch her go.
It should feel easier, this silence.
Instead, it lingers.
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