Scene: Raza arrives at Arav's palace in Sitapur,
The air smells faintly of burning camphor and marigolds. Servants shuffle about with trays of water and wine. A horse whinnies in the distance. The evening lamps have been lit, casting soft amber light across the stone corridors.
Raza enters through the main arch, his turban slightly loose from the journey, his boots dust-covered. He's not as tired as he is… irritated.
He strides into the inner courtyard where Arav is already seated — back straight, eyes fixed into nothingness, like a man looking through time.
"You took long," Arav says without turning his face. The evening light halos the edges of his sharp jawline.
Raza grunts as he throws his sword belt onto a wooden bench and lowers himself lazily beside him. "Four hours. I scoured half the town. Still no sign of her."
"She was there," Arav says firmly. Not a question. A declaration. "I can feel it."
Raza raises a brow. "Maybe you should ask the wind about her address, then."
Arav shoots him a glance. "You forget that it's the same wind that carried her scent to me. That face... that voice. She's no ghost, Raza."
Raza sighs and stretches out his legs. " All we know is that some girl exchanged few words with you in vexation and reminded you of the fact that not every girl falls for you like a thunderstorm, and you—" he smirks, "you fell."
"I did not fall," Arav snaps.
"You did."
Arav doesn't deny it this time. He leans back and folds his hands behind his head, staring into the fading sky. "She didn't look like the others. She moved like... she had fire in her bones."
"And you were the moth," Raza mutters.
A long pause settles between them.
Then Arav turns, more serious. "We're going to the bazaar again tomorrow."
Raza scoffs. "Again?"
"Yes. At dawn."
"She might not even return."
"She will."
Raza groans. "You think she'll appear just because you will it so?"
"I'll stand in that bazaar for a hundred days if I have to. One foot. One eye. One breath. I will wait."
Raza rubs his temple. "You're a madman."
Arav's jaw tightens. "Perhaps. But I've fought wars with less clarity than this."
Raza chuckles dryly and lifts a glass of water from the side tray. "You really want me standing with you for hours in that sweaty marketplace watching every dupatta fly by?"
Arav grins slightly. "You're not needed for the watching. Just keep your sword ready if someone else tries to charm her before I do."
Raza narrows his eyes but lets the remark slide. He sets the glass down and leans forward, elbows on knees.
There's a flicker in his expression. Something unspoken. Something unfinished.
Arav notices. "You're hiding something."
Raza shrugs. "I'm not."
"You're twitching your left brow. You always do that when you lie."
Another pause.
Raza sighs, then looks down at his dusty boots.
"There was a girl," he admits carefully, "but I didn't see her face fully."
Arav sits up. "When?"
"Today. Just after the mosque bells. Outside a spice vendor."
"You didn't mention it."
Raza's tone stiffens. "Because it wasn't anything."
"Describe her."
"I said I didn't see her face."
"Then describe what you saw."
Raza exhales deeply and stares into the courtyard tiles. The flash comes back like a wave:
A narrow alley. Spices floating in the air. His shoulder bumps into someone—delicate but swift. A low curse. The brush of a veil against his arm. The girl doesn't stop. She walks off, head held high, without apologising. No fear. No shame. Just... presence.
He shivers slightly, then covers it with a cough.
"She was clumsy," he says. "Walked on the ground with too innocence."
Arav tilts his head. "That doesn't sound like your usual type."
"She wasn't my type."
"But you remember her."
Raza doesn't respond.
Then something flickers in his eyes. That walk… too bold. Too loud. Too innocently. Not like the girls raised behind brocade curtains. Not like the noble daughters taught to whisper when they speak.
He murmurs, mostly to himself, "The girl wouldn't have walked like that."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing."
But in his mind, he's turning the thought over like a stone in his palm.
What if it was her?
What if she was pretending? Wearing boldness like a disguise? — the girl Arav spoke about — was the sort to slip into libraries unannounced, wasn't she? The sort who could bump into a stranger just to test the limits of her invisibility.
Still, Raza keeps his face unreadable.
He picks up his sword belt again and gets to his feet.
"I'll go to the bazaar with you," he says quietly.
Arav looks up, surprised. "That was sudden."
Raza shrugs. "If you're going to stand on one foot like a fool, someone needs to keep the flies off you."
Arav grins, wide and boyish. "So, we wait."
Raza nods and walks toward his chambers. "Let's hope we're not waiting forever."
But behind his casual stride, something itches at him — a girl with an unapologetic walk, a flash of a dupatta, and a question he refuses to ask himself yet.
Scene: Arav and Raza, getting ready for dinner
The flicker of a dying candle cast shadows along the rough-hewn edges of the room. Arav stood by the arched window of the guest chambers in the Rathore palace, his tunic half-buttoned, fingers running absently through his damp hair. Raza, meanwhile, sat on the edge of the wooden cot, boots scuffed with the dust of the day's ride still hanging loosely from his feet. His brows were furrowed, his chest slightly heaving from the hurried change of clothes, but his thoughts clearly adrift.
"Still thinking about her?" Arav's voice was amused, low but sharp like the edge of his scabbard.
Raza blinked. "Who?"
"The girl who collided into you."
Raza's eyes narrowed. "I told you it was nothing."
Arav chuckled. "Nothing? Raza , who hasn't blinked through volleys of arrows, looked dazed for a good ten minutes after that 'nothing'."
Raza grunted, pulling on his boot. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Ridiculous is you trying to convince me it was just some market girl, when I haven't seen your icy heart flinch since the Battle of Qandahar."
That brought a small smirk to Raza's lips. He leaned back slightly. "We're warriors, Arav. We've never had time for... this."
"True," Arav mused. "Never fallen for women. Never wrote poetry in our tents. We dreamt of blood, of glory, of war."
"And our mothers still lament that," Raza added dryly.
The room echoed with laughter.
"But she was—" Raza paused. A faint flash crossed his face. That moment in the bazaar—her audacity, her eyes, the slight tremble of her.her innocene . Something about it still gnawed at him, though he kept it buried.
Before he could say more, a soft knock landed on the wooden door. A servant peeked in. "Sahibs, dinner has been laid. Mr. and Mrs. Rathore are waiting."
Arav straightened, sliding on his sword belt more out of habit than need. "Time to charm the noble hosts."
Raza stood as well, adjusting the collar of his navy tunic. "And perhaps hear more about the illustrious Noor and her cousin Yasmeen."
The dinner hall, bathed in warm golden light from chandeliers, was opulence born of tradition. The smell of saffron, rose, and spiced meats curled through the air like ghostly dancers.
Mr. Rathore, in a sherwani embroidered with gold thread, stood to greet them with Mrs. Rathore by his side. Both bore proud smiles, a regal charm that hinted at their lineage and the power that echoed in their name.
As plates clinked and conversation rose, it was inevitable—the subject of Noor and Yasmeen found its way to the center of attention.
"....Our Noor," said Mrs. Rathore, her eyes gleaming, ".... swordsmanship again. You wouldn't believe how she handles a blade."She's always been fierce.Even when she was a child, she Preferred wooden daggers and spying on the guards."
Arav exchanged a brief glance with Raza. The idea of a lady raised among silks preferring blades amused him—and intrigued him more.
"She must be very brave," Raza said, voice calm but firm. "Not many in her position would choose a life of discipline over luxury."
Mr. Rathore nodded proudly. "She fights better than many of my own men."
Arav felt the air tighten a little. Noor again. She was always in the air, in whispers, in praises. He could almost see the outline of her now—not just as the girl from the bazaar—but as the one carved by stories.
"And Yasmeen?" Arav asked, more to steer the topic.
Mrs. Rathore smiled softly, her voice gentling. "Yasmeen is quite the opposite. Gentle, delicate. Not a fighter, but her strength lies in her kindness. Her hands grow gardens. She sits by the lotus pond for hours, writing, sketching. She knows the name of every bird in Sitapur."
Raza suddenly leaned forward slightly, resting his chin lightly on his knuckle, completely unintentional—yet so natural—that Arav turned his head sharply.
Was he... interested?
Raza, the ever-composed soldier, the one who'd stared down beasts and blades, was now resting as though caught in a trance by the mere mention of Yasmeen's softness?
Arav nearly choked on his sherbet.
He wiped his lips slowly, then muttered under his breath with a smirk, "Careful, Raza. If my parents are thinking of marrying me to Noor, they might be planning you for Yasmeen."
Raza rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Spare me, Arav."
But his fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table.
Dinner carried on with more mentions—of Noor's horse riding competitions, of her speaking against unjust village laws, of Yasmeen's musical gatherings where she played the sitar at twilight.
Arav leaned back. He felt something brewing. It wasn't just the political alliance their families might be dreaming of. No—this was something heavier.
Raza glanced at him sideways. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking," Arav said slowly, as the thought took hold, "if the girl from the bazaar was Noor."
Raza raised a brow, feigning mock horror. "Then you might already be in love with the girl your parents want you to marry."
Arav looked away, eyes darkening. "I fear I already am."
For once, the sounds around them—the clinks, the laughter, the stories—blurred. Something hung between them, unspoken but rising. Their lives, once devoted to the path of war, were veering off course.
Into something dangerous. Something delicate.
And both knew this was only the beginning.