His pov
By the time we returned to the palace, the night had settled fully, the corridors quieter than usual, the stillness pressing in after the relentless movement of the chase. The fatigue reached me only then, settling into my limbs with a weight I had ignored until now, yet even that did little to quiet the restlessness that had followed me back.
We walked in silence for a while, our steps echoing faintly against the stone, until the words slipped out almost without thought.
“I need to find her this time.”
Hriday glanced at me, and for once, he did not soften his response.
“You should,” he said plainly. “Otherwise, you might as well continue embracing sculptures in your chamber.”
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned to look at him.
For a brief second, offense rose first, sharp and immediate—
And then, just as quickly, it gave way to something far more inconvenient.
Embarrassment.
The memory surfaced without invitation, vivid and unkind in its timing—the quiet of my chamber, the illusion I had allowed myself to believe, and Hriday standing there, watching me with an expression that had been far too aware for comfort.
I looked away.
“It was not—” I began, then stopped, because there was little point denying something he had clearly seen.
He continued anyway, entirely unbothered by my discomfort. “It might have been acceptable when it was only a sculpture,” he said, his tone carrying just enough emphasis to make the meaning unmistakable.
I exhaled sharply.
The image shifted then—not the chamber, not the illusion, but the girl on the road, the one on the horse, the one who had stopped my hand before it reached her, who had struck with precision and certainty, leaving no space for doubt.
I shook my head slightly, more to myself than to him. “Fine,” I said at last. “That was my mistake.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of Hriday’s mouth, one he did not bother to hide.
But my thoughts had already moved elsewhere.
“That girl…” I said, slower now, the memory settling differently this time. “She was fierce.”
It was not something I said lightly.
I had seen skill before, discipline, even defiance—but there had been something else in her, something controlled and unyielding, something that had not faltered even when confronted.
Hriday nodded once. “She was.”
For a moment, that acknowledgment lingered between us.
And then, as if drawn from some deeper place, another memory surfaced—the attendant’s words in the market, half-dismissed in the urgency of the chase, now returning with quiet clarity.
A maid… from a nearby kingdom.
She serves their princess.
I stopped walking.
Hriday noticed immediately. “What is it?”
I turned to him, something sharper replacing the earlier fatigue, a thought aligning itself with sudden precision. “Ishwardesh,” I said, the name settling with certainty. “She works for the princess of Ishwardesh.”
Understanding flickered across his expression.
And with it, possibility.
A slow smile formed, unrestrained this time.
“Then we have been searching in the wrong direction,” he said.
“Not entirely,” I replied, already turning, the restlessness returning but now guided, focused. “We were simply late.”
I did not wait for further discussion.
The moment the thought took shape, it was enough.
I moved at once, my steps carrying me toward a specific part of the palace, toward a chamber that would hold answers if any did.
Instead of turning toward the administrative wing as I had moments ago, I changed direction without explanation, my steps carrying me toward a far more familiar part of the palace. Hriday noticed the shift immediately but did not question it, falling into step beside me as we moved through quieter corridors, the guarded stillness of the night wrapping around us.
We stopped before my sister’s chamber.
The attendant stationed outside straightened at once, announcing our arrival before stepping aside to allow us entry.
When we walked in, she was already there, seated with her usual composure, as though she had been expecting something—if not us, then something equally interesting. Her gaze lifted the moment we entered, and a calm, knowing smile curved at her lips.
“Brother,” she greeted lightly, her eyes flickering between the two of us. “Commander.”
We stepped inside, and before Hriday could begin, I spoke.
“I need your help.”
The smile on her lips deepened, not surprised, but amused. “Of course you do,” she said, leaning back slightly. “What else would bring you here at this hour?”
She knew.
Not the details, perhaps—but enough to recognize that I did not come to her without reason.
Ordinarily, that would have been enough to make me more cautious.
Tonight, I did not have the patience for caution.
I took a seat on the couch opposite her, my movements controlled despite the thoughts still unsettled beneath the surface, while Hriday remained standing, his presence steady, watchful.
She studied us both, her amusement growing, as though the very fact that we stood there together was reason enough to be entertained.
I hesitated for a fraction longer than I intended.
Because how, exactly, was I meant to explain this?
That I had once encountered a girl in the jungle, that she had written to me without revealing herself, that I had been chasing glimpses and shadows ever since, only to lose her again within reach?
No.
That would not serve.
So I chose something that would.
“There is an attendant,” I began, my tone measured, each word placed with care, “in the Ishwardesh kingdom. She serves closely within the princess’s household and has visited our palace before.”
Her expression shifted, subtly but noticeably, the amusement giving way to attention as she absorbed the information, turning it over in her mind before allowing it to settle.
She gave a small nod, as though marking the detail.
“And?” she prompted.
“We have reason to believe,” I continued, keeping my voice steady, “that she may be carrying information between palaces.”
It was plausible.
Grounded.
Enough to justify what came next.
Hriday stepped in seamlessly, his tone even, reinforcing the structure of the claim without drawing attention to its gaps. “We cannot accuse her directly without proof,” he said. “And because she remains veiled among the women’s retinue, we have not been able to identify her clearly.”
Now, she was fully engaged.
The shift was unmistakable.
Her gaze sharpened, curiosity replacing amusement entirely as she leaned forward just slightly, her attention fixed on us with quiet intensity.
“So,” she said slowly, her voice thoughtful, “you want me to identify one maid among another princess’s attendants.”
There was a brief pause.
Then Hriday nodded once.
I held her gaze.
“Quietly,” I added.
The word settled between us with more weight than the rest.
Because she understood what it implied—not just discretion, but intent, and the fact that whatever we were asking, it was not something to be spoken of beyond this room.
For a moment, she said nothing.
She simply looked at us—at me, more than him—as though measuring not just the request, but the reason behind it, the parts we had chosen not to say.
And in that silence, I had the distinct sense that she knew there was more.
Not what.
But enough to know that we were not telling her everything.
The faintest hint of a smile returned to her lips.
“Then you will tell me everything you can tell me,” she said at last, her tone calm, but leaving very little room for evasion. “And I will decide whether this is worth the risk.”
Her gaze did not leave mine. “And how exactly,” she asked, her tone laced with dramatic disbelief, “am I supposed to find her? Do you expect me to walk into another princess’s retinue and simply know which attendant you mean?”
For a moment, I had no answer.
Because she was right.
There was nothing I had given her—nothing that could truly distinguish one veiled attendant from another. I felt the weight of that realization settle in, my thoughts turning quickly, searching for anything—anything at all—that could anchor this into something real, something usable.
And then, almost without warning, my mind returned to that moment.
The jungle. The daldal. The way she had stood there, close enough that I had noticed what I should not have noticed—her eyes, dark and unyielding even through anger, the faint trace of mud against her skin, the defiance in the way she had looked at me even as she needed help.
And then— Her hand.
I saw it again, as clearly as if it were in front of me now, the brief moment when I had pulled her free, when her wrist had been in my grasp, when detail had replaced urgency for just a second longer than it should have.
A small mark. Precise. Unmistakable.
The answer left me before I could measure it.
“She has a mole on her left hand,” I said, my voice steady despite the sudden clarity. “Just below the ring finger.”
Silence followed.
Not the uncertain kind—but the kind that arrives when something has landed too exactly. My sister turned back slowly.
Hriday looked at me. And in that single breath of stillness, I realized—I had said too much. Her gaze sharpened immediately, not with suspicion alone, but with something far more dangerous—interest.
“And how,” she asked, her voice turning almost too sweet, “do you know that?”
The question settled directly between us, leaving very little room to step around it. For the briefest moment, I found myself without an answer.
Hriday recovered before I could.
“We crossed paths with her a few days ago,” he said smoothly, his tone unshaken. “At one point, she adjusted her shawl, and we noticed the mark on her hand.”
It was believable.
Carefully so.
My sister’s eyes moved between us, weighing not just the words, but the spaces between them, the parts we had chosen to smooth over.
She did not interrupt. She did not challenge it outright. But she did not believe it either. That much was clear.
Still, she let it pass—for now.
Turning away, she began to pace slowly across the room, her expression shifting as thought replaced curiosity, each step measured, each turn deliberate as she arranged the pieces in her mind.
When she stopped, it was with a different look entirely.
Strategic.
“There is an easier way,” she said at last.
Both of us looked at her as the meaning of her words settled, the plan unfolding with a precision that felt almost effortless in her hands.
She held our attention with ease, her smile slow, assured, as though she had already seen the outcome long before we had caught up to it.
“We are already working toward strengthening ties with their kingdom,” she said.
Understanding came to me first.
“A royal visit.”
Her smile deepened just slightly as she inclined her head. “We invite their princess to stay here for a few days. Garden tours, temple offerings, hospitality within the women’s wing—nothing that would raise suspicion.”
Hriday’s posture shifted, interest sharpening. “And her attendants will accompany her.”
“Of course,” she replied smoothly.
Now she was entirely in command of the room, her thoughts moving several steps ahead, arranging each piece with quiet certainty.
“On the day of their departure,” she continued, “I will personally present farewell gifts to each of her close attendants.”
The elegance of it became clear.
“Silk pouches, bangles, perfume boxes—something that must be received directly,” she added, her voice carrying a note of quiet satisfaction. “And in doing so, I will naturally see their hands.”
Hriday let out a slow breath, the approval evident.
It was flawless.
No reason for the attendants to remain hidden behind strict formality.
I held her gaze, a rare, genuine approval settling in. “That could work.”
She turned toward me then, her expression shifting into something far more playful, almost dangerous in its knowing.
“Oh, it will work.”
Then she paused—just long enough to ensure the next words would land exactly where she intended.
“And when I do find this mysterious girl with the mole,” she added lightly, “I expect a full explanation as to why my brother remembers the precise placement of marks on unfamiliar women.”
Hriday looked away, failing to conceal the hint of amusement that crossed his face. I exhaled quietly.
This, it seemed, was the cost of involving her. Still, the plan was too precise, too effective to dismiss. A royal invitation would be sent by morning.
Soon, the princess of Ishwardesh would arrive, her attendants entering our palace under the guise of diplomacy and hospitality, and somewhere among them—
Her.
Or perhaps something far more complicated.
The thought had barely settled when another memory surfaced—sharp, immediate, impossible to ignore.
The attendant in the market. The one who had spoken to her.
I straightened slightly, the realization aligning into something useful. “There is someone else,” I said at once.
Both of them looked at me.
“One of our palace attendants,” I continued, my voice more focused now. “She recognized the girl. Spoke to her in the market. She may not know her name, but she has seen her closely.”
My sister’s expression shifted again, interest returning, this time more intent.
“She can help narrow it down,” I added. “Keep her close during the visit.”
For a brief moment, she said nothing, considering it, fitting this new detail into the plan already forming in her mind.
Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she said, decisive now. “That will make it easier.”
Her gaze lingered on me for just a fraction longer than necessary, as though noting how quickly I had reached for that memory, how readily I had added another layer to the search.
But she did not comment. Not yet.
Instead, she turned slightly, already thinking ahead, already refining what had now become something far more deliberate than a simple request.
And as the plan settled into place, I felt it again—
That quiet tightening beneath my ribs. Because this time, it would not be a glimpse. Not a shadow. Not a chase that ended too soon.
This time—
I would finally find her.
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