His pov
The moment we stepped out of the office, whatever restraint I had been holding onto gave way, and I headed straight for the nearest exit without waiting for acknowledgment. Hriday followed without question, his presence steady behind me, and as soon as we crossed beyond the threshold of the building, I stopped just long enough to scan the open grounds ahead.
There was no sign of her.
The fading light of evening stretched across the courtyard, shadows lengthening, people moving in and out with the usual rhythm of the hour, and yet none of them matched what I was looking for.
I did not wait.
Turning sharply, I broke into a run toward the market road—the shortest route leading out toward the Ishwardesh side—my pace no longer measured by decorum but by urgency. Behind me, I could hear Hriday keeping up, his steps controlled but quick enough not to fall behind.
By the time we reached the market, the place had already begun to fill. Evening had drawn people out in numbers, merchants calling out, fabrics shifting in the breeze, movement layered upon movement until the space felt almost alive with distraction.
I slowed only slightly, my gaze sweeping across the crowd, searching, narrowing, matching faces and figures against the description given.
Grey.
Maroon.
There were too many.
Women moved past in groups and alone, draped in similar shades, each glance raising and dismissing hope in the same breath, until the search began to blur at the edges.
“Prince.”
Hriday’s voice cut through the noise.
I turned instantly, and he gestured toward the far end of the market, his focus already fixed.
And then I saw her.
At the farthest corner, just beyond a cluster of stalls, a figure in grey stood out for a fleeting second, the deep maroon shawl drawn close around her shoulders.
Without a word, we moved.
The distance between us began to close as we pushed through the crowd, our pace quickening with each step, the rhythm of the market breaking around us as people turned, startled, to make way.
And then she turned left.
We ran faster.
“I will not let you go today,” the thought came sharp and certain, leaving no room for hesitation as we followed the path she had taken, turning at the same corner only seconds later.
But the moment we did, she was gone.
The narrow lane ahead had opened into another stream of people, denser than before, voices overlapping, movement chaotic enough to swallow a single figure without effort. I slowed, scanning quickly, refusing to accept what was obvious—that we had lost her.
And just then, I caught sight of her again, this time not running but paused near a row of stalls, speaking to another girl as though nothing were amiss. For a fleeting second, it almost seemed as if we had imagined the chase entirely, as though she had never fled at all—but the illusion did not hold.
Before we could reach her, a family moved abruptly into our path, their voices loud, their movement uncoordinated as they crossed between us and the far side of the lane. We were forced to slow, our pace breaking just enough to let the moment slip, and by the time they gathered themselves and entered a nearby shop, clearing the way once more, that single hesitation had already cost us.
I looked ahead again.
She was gone.
Only the other girl remained, standing where they had been moments ago, her gaze shifting uncertainly as if she, too, had realized the suddenness of the disappearance.
We closed the remaining distance quickly.
Hriday reached her first, recognition passing across his face almost immediately. “You serve in the palace,” he said, not as a question but as a statement.
The girl stiffened, clearly startled, her hands coming together instinctively in a respectful gesture. “Commander…”
“You were just speaking to her,” I added, my voice steadier than the urgency beneath it. “Who was she?”
For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes flickering between us, uncertainty and caution warring in her expression as though she were deciding how much she was permitted to say.
“I… she is not from here,” she began slowly. “She serves the princess of a nearby kingdom.”
“Which kingdom?” Hriday asked, his tone controlled but direct.
The girl shifted slightly, still unsure. “Ishwardesh. Their princess visited our palace once, some time ago. I had spoken to her attendants then… and today, I recognized her. That is why I greeted her.”
“You recognized her, but you do not know her name?” I pressed.
She lowered her gaze, almost apologetic now. “No, Prince. I did not speak with her long enough for that. I only knew that she was one of the attendants who had come with the princess during that visit.”
There was a pause, heavy with the weight of what had just been missed.
I absorbed it in silence, my gaze drifting briefly back toward the lane where the girl had vanished, the image of grey and maroon still clear in my mind despite the crowd that had swallowed her.
“So you spoke to her… and she left just now?” I said.
“Yes, Prince,” she replied softly. “She left only a moment before you arrived.”
A moment.
That was all it had taken. We did not waste another moment.
The direction had been given, the possibility enough, and without needing to say it aloud, we both moved toward the road that led out of the market and into the stretch that connected to her kingdom—the narrow route that cut through the jungle, quicker than the main path but far less forgiving.
If she had fled, she would have taken that way.
By the time we crossed beyond the last of the stalls, the noise of the market faded behind us, replaced by the hush of open land and the faint rustle of trees stirred by the evening wind. The sky had already begun its slow descent into dusk, the light thinning, shadows stretching longer across the path ahead.
We pressed forward at a bend in the road, and movement caught my eye.
A rider.
A girl on horseback, her figure partially obscured by distance, but the deep maroon shawl wrapped around her shoulders was unmistakable even in the fading light.
“There,” I said, already moving faster.
There was no confirmation needed.
It had to be her.
We followed the trail she had taken, our pace quickening as the path narrowed and curved, the trees growing denser on either side, but the advantage of distance was hers, and at some point along the winding stretch, she vanished from sight as though the forest itself had swallowed her whole.
We slowed only for a moment.
“She cannot have gone far,” Hriday said, already scanning the surroundings.
“We split,” I replied.
He nodded once, and without further exchange, we moved in opposite directions, each taking a side of the trail, searching, listening, following whatever trace might remain.
The light dimmed further.
By the time I caught sight of the rider again, the fading light had turned everything uncertain at the edges, the path ahead blurred between shadow and motion, yet the deep maroon of her shawl stood out with a clarity that made my breath steady in a way it had not for some time.
This was it.
Seven days of waiting, of reading and rereading words that had refused to leave me, of questions that had lingered without answer—all of it seemed to narrow into this single moment.
If it was her, then I would finally know.
I slowed as I approached, not wanting to startle her into flight again, forcing my voice into something measured despite the anticipation rising beneath it. “Wait,” I called, not loudly, but enough to carry.
The horse shifted, and she drew it to a halt.
For a brief second, she did not turn.
Then, slowly, she did.
The shawl was wrapped high, concealing everything but her eyes, and even in the dim light, I could not see enough to be certain.
But something in the stillness of her posture, in the way she held herself, I did not feel familiar in a way I could not quite explain. I could have stopped.
Instead, I stepped closer, careful now, as though the moment might break if handled too abruptly. “You have come from the market,” I said, keeping my tone even, almost polite. “There was some confusion there. I wished only to ask—”
“You have the wrong person,” she replied, cutting in before I could finish, her voice calm and composed, entirely untroubled.
For a moment, I paused.
It was a reasonable answer.
It should have been enough.
And yet, it wasn’t.
“I may be mistaken,” I said, though even to my own ears, the words lacked conviction. “But if that is the case, you would not object to clarifying it.”
“There is nothing to clarify,” she answered, the same steadiness holding firm. “I am only passing through.”
Something in me resisted that answer, not because of what she said, but because of how easily she said it, as though she had anticipated the question long before I had asked it.
I took another step forward, the distance between us narrowing, my gaze fixed on the sliver of her face that remained visible. “It would take only a moment,” I continued, my voice softening slightly, though the insistence beneath it had begun to show. “Remove the shawl, and I will not trouble you further.”
Her grip on the reins tightened, subtle but noticeable. “You are troubling me already.”
There was no fear in it.
Only refusal.
I exhaled slowly; the patience I had held beginning to thin under the weight of certainty that refused to quiet. “You were in the market,” I said, less a question now, more a statement. “You spoke to one of the attendants.”
“I speak to many people,” she replied.
“That does not make you all of them,” I returned, the faintest edge entering my tone despite my effort to contain it.
She did not answer.
The silence stretched, and with it, my restraint began to slip—not abruptly, but steadily, replaced by something more urgent, more determined.
Seven days.
Seven days of waiting, of wondering whether she had written again, whether she had been hurt more than she had said, whether the silence had meant something or nothing at all.
And now she stood in front of me, close enough to reach, and still refused to show her face.
“I have no intention of causing offense,” I said, though my voice no longer carried the same ease. “But I am certain you are the one I am looking for.”
“And I am certain you are mistaken,” she replied.
The calm in her voice did not waver.
That, more than anything, unsettled me.
Without quite deciding to, I lifted my hand, intending only to gesture, to emphasize the point I was making—but in that small movement, my fingers brushed the edge of her shawl.
The contact was brief.
Accidental.
And yet, it changed something.
Her reaction was immediate.
“I did not mean—” I started, though the explanation felt insufficient even as I spoke it.
She moved faster.
Her hand caught my wrist, her grip firm, precise, and stronger than I had expected. In the same motion, she pulled me slightly off balance, turning my movement away from her instead of toward her.
And then—
The sound cracked through the quiet.
Her hand struck my face with enough force to snap my head to the side, the impact sharp and immediate, leaving a brief, disorienting silence in its wake. For a moment, I did not move, my jaw tightening, something in it feeling distinctly wrong as I tried to steady myself.
I turned back toward her.
She had already stepped forward again, her stance shifted, ready—not startled, not afraid, but prepared to strike once more.
I opened my mouth to speak, though I was not entirely certain what I intended to say.
I did not get the chance.
“Hey—stop, stop!”
Hriday’s voice broke through the moment just as the air between us tightened further, his steps quick as he placed himself between us with a calm that felt deliberate, almost practiced. The girl did not lower her guard, nor did she step back, her face still concealed beneath the maroon shawl, her posture steady in a way that suggested she had not acted on impulse but with complete awareness of what she was doing.
“Sorry?” she repeated, her voice controlled yet edged with unmistakable anger. “For what, exactly? How could he touch me like that?”
I barely heard the words as they reached me, because my attention had shifted inward, caught in the lingering shock of the strike. It had not been just a slap, not merely the sting across my face that still burned beneath the cooling air, but something more precise, more deliberate—something in the way my jaw had taken the force, in the way it now felt slightly misaligned when I tried to move it. The realization settled slowly, almost reluctantly.
She had not struck blindly.
She had known exactly how to hit.
And in that moment, whatever certainty I had carried dissolved without resistance.
This was not her.
I did not need to see her face to know that now.
Hriday, meanwhile, had already inclined his head slightly, his tone shifting into one of immediate apology, measured and sincere. “There has been a misunderstanding,” he said. “He meant no offence.”
The girl did not respond at once, her gaze moving briefly from him to me, as though assessing whether the explanation held any weight at all. “It did not seem like a misunderstanding,” she said, though her voice had steadied.
“He is searching for someone,” Hriday continued, choosing his words with care. “His wife.”
There was the faintest pause.
“Wife?” she echoed, the word carrying a trace of surprise that she did not quite conceal.
“Yes,” he replied evenly. “She is… displeased with him and has returned to her maternal home. We were trying to find her before she went too far, and he mistook you for her in the dim light.”
Silence lingered for a moment after that, stretched thin between explanation and judgment.
The girl looked at me again, longer this time, her eyes unreadable behind the veil of the shawl, as though weighing the truth of what had just been said against what she had experienced herself. There was no softness in her gaze, but neither was there the same sharp readiness to strike again.
At last, she exhaled lightly.
“You seem sensible,” she said to Hriday, her tone shifting, not entirely forgiving but no longer confrontational. “Then perhaps you should tell him not to chase random women on the road as though they owe him answers.”
The words were directed at him, but meant for me.
I said nothing.
There was little to say.
She held Hriday’s gaze for a brief second longer, then gave a small, dismissive shake of her head before turning her horse slightly, preparing to leave, the maroon shawl still drawn close, her identity remaining exactly where she had chosen to keep it—hidden.
Then she said to the Hriday — “You seem smart.”
Her gaze flicked sharply toward me. “Tell him not to chase random girls like this.”
Hriday bowed slightly. “I will.”
Before riding off, she gave me one final glare.
“If your wife truly exists,” she said coolly, “I hope she keeps you waiting.”
Then she rode away into the darkening road, shawl flying behind her like a banner of righteous anger.
Silence followed.
The Hriday slowly turned.
For a few moments after she turned away, neither of us moved, the quiet of the road settling back in as though nothing had happened at all. The fading light carried the last trace of her presence with it, the deep maroon of her shawl disappearing into the distance until even that was gone.
Hriday let out a low breath beside me, his gaze still fixed in the direction she had taken. “That,” he said at last, a hint of admiration slipping into his tone, “was not an ordinary strike.”
I did not respond.
He shifted slightly, glancing at me now, his expression sharpening with interest. “The control, the speed… she did not just react. She measured the distance, the angle.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I would say she held back, too.”
Still, I said nothing.
That, more than anything, caught his attention.
His amusement faded, replaced by a more careful look as he studied my face. “What happened?” he asked, stepping closer. “Say something.”
I tried.
The moment I moved my jaw, a sharp strain ran through it, enough to make me stop midway, the words breaking before they could form properly. I exhaled slowly, then attempted again, forcing the sound out despite the discomfort.
“That girl…” I managed, the words uneven. “She did something.”
His brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“My jaw,” I said, the effort evident now. “It hurts when I speak.”
That was enough.
Hriday reached out without hesitation, his hand steady as he tilted my chin slightly, examining the alignment with practiced precision. “Hold still,” he murmured, his focus narrowing.
Before I could ask what he intended, his fingers shifted, firm and exact—
There was a brief, sharp adjustment.
A flicker of discomfort—
And then, just as suddenly, the strain released.
I inhaled, testing it cautiously, moving my jaw again. The stiffness had eased, the sharp edge of pain gone, replaced only by a dull echo of what had been.
Hriday stepped back, satisfied.
“She locked your jaw with a single strike,” he said, and this time, the amusement returned fully. “That was deliberate.”
I let out a slow breath, the tension leaving me in stages. “That girl…” I repeated, quieter now, the words carrying a weight that had little to do with the pain. “She was something.”
He nodded in agreement. “She was.”
For a moment, the acknowledgment lingered between us, almost shared. That girl was really something. And a praise coming from Hriday already a big incident in general.
And then the thought returned.
“The girl we were following…” I said, my voice steadier now, though something beneath it had shifted. “I think we lost her again.”
Hriday did not argue.
There was no need.
The path ahead was empty, the silence too complete to deny it. I exhaled, slower this time, the earlier urgency settling into something quieter, something heavier. “Next time,” I said, more to myself than to him, “I will find her.”
The words were certain.
But the certainty did little to ease what followed.
Because beneath it, something else had taken root.
Seven days of waiting had led me here, to a moment that had slipped through my hands with nothing to show for it but a fading trail and a mistake I could not undo. I had been close—closer than before—and yet, it had not been enough.
The sting in my jaw had already begun to fade, the discomfort reduced to something manageable after Hriday’s adjustment.
But in its place, something far more persistent settled within me.
A quiet, unfamiliar weight.
Not sharp enough to name, not loud enough to confront, but present in a way that refused to be ignored.
Because for all the certainty I had claimed, for all the urgency that had driven me forward—
I had still failed to reach her.
And that absence lingered longer than the pain ever could.
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