Her pov
I woke with a dull ache running along my back, my neck stiff from having slept in an awkward position. I was still curled against the cushioned stool beside my bed, one arm folded beneath my cheek, the other draped over its edge as though I had closed my eyes for a moment and never moved again.
For a heartbeat, I remained still.
Then, instinctively, I looked around.
The room was quiet. Pale morning light spilled through the window, dust motes drifting lazily within its path. The bed lay untouched behind me, the oil lamp had long gone cold, and the silence answered the question I hadn't even allowed myself to ask.
He wasn't there.
Of course, he wasn't.
Again.
It had become a habit now—a foolish, embarrassing little routine. Waking from dreams so vivid they clung to me for a few breaths too long, only to find myself searching the room as if some part of me still expected him to be standing there.
I exhaled softly, shaking my head at myself.
My gaze drifted downward.
The anklet still lay where it had fallen the previous night, its tiny bells catching the morning light. I had never picked it up.
And beside it rested my hand, still stained dark with henna.
I turned it over slowly.
The design remained unfinished.
A vine abruptly ended near my wrist, one side of my palm intricately patterned while the other was left bare, abandoned halfway through.
Heat crept into my cheeks as memory returned.
I had been imagining him.
Imagining him kneeling before me, fastening my fallen anklet around my ankle with absurd patience, his fingers brushing against my skin, his expression unreadable in that infuriating way of his.
And somewhere between the imagining and the smiling like an utter fool at nothing at all, I had forgotten to finish the henna.
I stared at the half-drawn patterns for a moment longer before a quiet laugh escaped me.
I was still caught in that thought when the soft sound of footsteps approached, and Gauri entered the chamber. I turned slightly, about to ask her something—anything that might pull me away from the direction my mind had taken—
But before she could speak, the announcement echoed through the corridor.
“The King and Queen have arrived.”
I straightened instinctively. And then, almost immediately—
My parents.
Followed by Vimokasha.
And Bhabhi.
I rose from my place at once, the shift from private thought to formal composure settling over me as easily as it always had. Gauri bowed beside me, her posture precise, her greeting soft and respectful.
Before I could step forward, Bhabhi spoke, her tone calm but purposeful. “Gauri, go and see where Rudra is.”
Gauri responded without hesitation. “Ji.” She bowed again and left at once.
I moved toward them then.
My father reached me first, his hand coming to rest gently on my head in a gesture so familiar that it softened something within me almost immediately. I bowed slightly in return, allowing the moment to settle, grounding me back into where I stood.
My father’s hand lingered for a brief moment before he withdrew it, his expression softening as he looked at me. “You seem well,” he said, studying my face as though searching for something beneath the surface.
“I am,” I replied, steady enough, though I knew he would hear more than the words.
My mother stepped closer, her gaze warmer, more observant. “Your journey was not too tiring, I hope? We heard you shortened your stay.”
“It was… sufficient,” I said carefully. “There was no need to stay longer.”
A faint smile passed between them, the kind that carried more understanding than was spoken aloud.
Vimokasha remained slightly behind, his presence quiet yet attentive. At the same time, Bhabhi settled beside my mother, her eyes moving between us with a knowing calm that made me uneasy for no reason.
For a while, the conversation remained simple—questions about the visit, the palace, the arrangements made for me there. I answered as expected, measured, composed, giving them nothing that would invite further curiosity.
And then—
“You have grown,” my father said, almost absently, though there was a deliberate weight beneath the words. “More than we have allowed ourselves to notice.”
I did not respond.
“You understand what that means,” he continued. I did. But I chose not to say it. My mother glanced briefly toward him before her gaze returned to me, her voice softer but carrying no less certainty. “It is time we begin thinking about your marriage.”
The words did not strike me with surprise.
They should have.
Instead, they settled within me with a quiet heaviness, as though they had been waiting for this moment as patiently as the silence that had preceded them.
“You will choose the one you want,” my father added, his tone calm, almost reassuring, as though that alone made the matter simple.
The answer left me before I could hold it back. I looked away slightly, my thoughts shifting faster now, trying to find footing.
Moments ago, I had not even been certain of what I felt.
And yet— The mere thought of standing before others, of choosing someone, of being bound to a life that did not include…
Him.
Something in my chest tightened, sharper than anything I had felt before. And in that moment— Clarity came.
Uninvited.
Unavoidable.
I forced myself to remain composed.
“I do not know how to choose.”
For a brief moment, the room stilled, the weight of the admission settling between us.
Then my father laughed, lightly and without harshness, yet not without consequence. “Then we will make it simple,” he said, as though the solution had always been within reach. “We will place a challenge. Whoever wins—”
“And if I do not like him?” I interrupted, the sharpness in my voice slipping through before I could temper it, though I did not attempt to take the words back.
My mother’s expression changed at once, her gaze shifting toward my father before returning to me, her tone still composed but firmer now. “That is not how this works,” she said. “Either you choose from among those invited, or we will have to decide for you.”
Something within me resisted.
Not outwardly.
Not in a way that could be named or argued.
But enough.
My gaze moved instinctively, finding Vimokasha.
He had remained silent until now, standing slightly apart, observing more than speaking, as he often did. For a moment, he held my gaze, as though weighing something beyond what had been said—my hesitation, perhaps, or the things I had not allowed myself to voice.
Then he spoke.
“Meet the one who wins the challenge,” he said, his voice even, steady, carrying a quiet authority of its own. “And if you do not like him, then say no.”
The words settled into the room with unexpected force.
Everyone turned toward him.
My mother was taken aback.
Bhabhi, thoughtful.
Even my father paused, his expression shifting slightly as though considering something he had not anticipated.
My mother drew in a breath, ready to respond—
But my father spoke before she could.
“We will arrange a swayamwar,” he said, his tone no longer suggestive but decided, leaving little room for further discussion. “One week from now.”
The finality in his voice settled over the room with quiet authority.
“On the seventh day. On Purnima.”
There was no hesitation.
No reconsideration.
Not a possibility placed before me— but a decision already made.
I felt it settle around me, unyielding, even though no voice had been raised, even though no command had been spoken harshly. It had not been forced in the way I might have resisted.
And yet, it was no less binding. My gaze lowered slightly, not in submission, but in acknowledgment of what could not be undone within this moment.
A week.
Seven days.
That was all that remained between what I was and what I was now expected to become.
And just like that, it was decided.
My father rose first, my mother following beside him, their expressions composed, as though nothing irreversible had just been set into motion. A few final words were exchanged—light, almost ordinary—and then they left the chamber, their presence fading into the corridor beyond until even the echo of their steps disappeared.
The door closed.
Silence settled in its place.
For a brief moment, I remained where I stood, unmoving, as though the space around me had shifted without warning, leaving me slightly unsteady within it. The room felt the same, unchanged in every visible way, and yet something within me had been altered so quietly that I had not realized it until now.
Bhabhi and Vimokasha remained. I had held myself together until then.
Carefully. Deliberately.
But before I could gather that composure again, before I could steady the thoughts that had begun to press too closely—
A tear slipped free. Then another.
I turned slightly, as though I could hide it, though I knew even as I did that it would not be enough.
Bhabhi reached me first, as she always did.
Her hands came to rest on my shoulders, firm yet gentle, grounding me in a way that felt almost instinctive. “Hey…” she said softly, her voice losing all its earlier sharpness. “Relax. It happens.”
I did not answer. Because I could not. Because if I spoke, something else might follow.
Vimokasha stepped closer then, and even through the blur of my vision, I could see the concern in his eyes, unguarded in a way he rarely allowed himself. “If you do not like any of them,” he said at once, his voice steady but carrying a quiet urgency, “just say no. I will handle the rest.”
For a brief moment, I almost believed him.
Almost.
Bhabhi turned toward him sharply, disbelief crossing her expression. “Moksha, stop,” she said. “That is not how this works.”
I looked at her then, my breath uneven, my thoughts far less steady than my silence suggested.
“She is just overwhelmed,” Bhabhi continued, her tone softening again as she turned back to me. “That is all. This is not a small thing. Leaving everything behind, stepping into something new—it takes time to understand.”
Vimokasha hesitated, clearly unwilling to agree, his gaze still fixed on me as though he could see what I was not saying. “But—”
“Enough,” she cut in, firmer now. “Let me speak to her.”
He did not move immediately.
For a moment, he looked at me, as though trying to say something without words, something that would reach past everything else. Then, with visible reluctance, he stepped back and turned away.
He left.
And the chamber felt quieter for it.
Bhabhi guided me gently to sit, her presence steady beside me, her hand resting lightly against my arm as though to remind me that I was not alone, even if I felt it.
She spoke. Carefully. Patiently.
About how such moments always felt heavier before they settled, about how uncertainty did not mean wrongness, about how I still had a choice—even within what had already been decided.
Her words were kind. Measured and thoughtfully placed. And I heard none of them. Because my mind had already gone elsewhere.
Back to a different place.
A different moment.
Back to him.
The way he had stood before me, unshaken, unyielding in a way that had unsettled me more than it should have. The way his gaze had held mine, not asking, not demanding, and yet leaving no space for indifference. The way something had shifted between us without either of us giving it a name.
And now— Now I was expected to stand before others. To look at them.
To choose. To accept.
The thought settled into me slowly, but when it did, it brought with it a clarity I could no longer avoid.
I could choose.
Anyone.
That was what they had said. That was what they had promised. But not him. Only kings and princes. Why not a soldier?
The one choice that mattered—
Was not mine to make.
My fingers tightened slightly in my lap, though I did not realize it until the tension had already settled there.
This was what I had not understood before. This was what I had not allowed myself to see. It was not the idea of marriage that unsettled me.
It was the absence within it.
The certainty that whoever stood before me—
Would not be him.
I sat there, silent, unmoving, my tears drying without my noticing, while Bhabhi continued speaking beside me, her voice steady, her presence unwavering.
But my thoughts had already moved beyond the room.
And my heart—
It had followed them.
And it did not return.
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