Sitapur,1855
June
Chapter Title: "The Girl from Bazra"
The dream returned.
Just like it always did.
And just like always, it broke him.
Arav bolted upright, breath ragged, sweat clinging to his bare chest like dew on steel. His long hair clung to his forehead, and his massive bed — one that once felt like a throne — now felt like a cage. His calloused hand rubbed across his face, tracing the line of his sharp jaw as if that would scrub the girl out of his mind.
But she was still there.
Her eyes — terrified.
Her hands — pulled away from him.
Her voice — swallowed by the chaos of Bazra.
It wasn't just a dream. It couldn't be. It felt far too real. As if somewhere, in some cursed part of the world, she had once been his… and then wasn't.
He exhaled slowly, still caught in the fog of sleep.
Then came the voice.
"Let me guess," Raza drawled from the chaise near the window, where he sat with a cup of tea, looking like a war general on vacation. "She was being taken again, wasn't she? Swooped away dramatically into the arms of the void, while you stood there looking like a lost pigeon?"
Arav blinked. "How long have you been sitting there?"
Raza sipped. "Since your third 'nooo' in your sleep. A tad melodramatic, if you ask me. Do you practise that pitch, or is it instinctive?"
Arav gave him a long glare. "You could've woken me."
"And rob myself of the theatre? Perish the thought." He leaned forward, eyes twinkling with dry amusement. "Come on, tell me — was it the girl with the jasmine in her hair this time, or the one with the dagger behind her back?"
Arav pressed a palm to his face. "It's her, Raza. The one from bazar. Always her."
"Right, right," Raza nodded solemnly, placing his teacup down with exaggerated care. "The girl you met in a marketplace once, spoke to for — how long? Thirty seconds? And now you wake up sweating every fortnight like you lost your queen?"
Arav didn't respond. He stared at the marble tiles beneath his feet, his expression darkening. "I didn't meet her. I saw her. And I couldn't look away."
Raza raised a brow. "Ah, yes. The ever-powerful saw-her-once-and-dreamt-about-her-since syndrome. Highly contagious. Fatal, even."
Arav didn't laugh. He was still somewhere else — back in that dream, watching her vanish.
Raza's tone shifted, just a degree. "You truly feel like she was real, don't you?"
"I don't feel it," Arav said quietly. "I know it. She's not a figment. I've never dreamed of the same face twice, let alone dozens of times. And when I wake up…" He trailed off, fists tightening. "It's like I failed. Again."
Silence.
Then:
"Well, in your defence, you're quite good at failing," Raza said brightly. "Remember when you tried to wrestle that bear in Assam and nearly got your shoulder eaten? You have the worst instincts."
That earned him a sharp pillow to the face.
Raza let it hit him dramatically, like a tragic hero collapsing. "Murder before breakfast? Typical prince behaviour."
Arav let a small grin slip, only to fall back into the pillows, eyes haunted. "Tell me I'm not insane, Raza."
"Ah, but where's the fun in that?"
"Raza."
A pause.
"You're not insane," Raza finally said. "You're just… deeply, romantically doomed. There's a difference."
Arav stared at the ceiling, the carved wood swirling above like her eyes. "I need to find her."
"And how, dear prince, do you plan to do that? 'Excuse me, have you seen this figment from my dreams — she's got honey skin, almond eyes, and a tendency to vanish under stress'?"
Arav didn't answer.
Raza sat up, face a little more serious now. "Alright. I'll bite. If this girl exists, and you're not just cursed by the poetry gods — what will you do when you find her?"
Arav's voice was low, steady. "I won't let her be taken again."
Raza leaned back, looking at him for a long moment. "Well then," he said, standing and stretching, "let's hope the fates are as invested in this mystery girl as you are. Or we're in for one hell of a journey."
He winked. "Now get dressed. You look like a sweaty ghost. And I refuse to be seen with a ghost."