Long before destiny played its hand, their lives unfolded in two vastly different corners of ancient Pataliputra.
Devika lived within the stone embrace of the Moon's Cradle — a grand temple dedicated to Chandrika Devi. The temple was her world, her prison, and her stage. Orphaned at five and raised by priestesses, her life followed the rhythm of bells and chants, her days a sequence of rituals, dance rehearsals, and the unwavering gaze of tradition. The temple elders called her blessed — "chosen by the goddess" — for her beauty and ethereal talent in Bharatanatyam.
But behind Devika's serene smile was a girl who barely knew what lay beyond the temple walls. Her best friend, Meera, another temple dancer, often found her staring longingly through the lattice windows at the bustling markets beyond.
"Still dreaming of a world outside?" Meera would tease.
"Every night," Devika whispered. "I want to dance not just for gods, but under the sky. For myself."
Meera would shake her head. "You speak like someone who has never been punished. Be careful. The gods hear everything."
Devika didn't reply. But every night, she danced alone in the temple's hidden garden — for the moon, for herself.
Meanwhile, across the city, Aarav trained in the military compound under the watchful eye of his father, General Veer Singh. The son of a legendary warrior, Aarav was expected to be the embodiment of valor. By sixteen, he could outfight most men twice his age. But he lacked the taste for blood.
"What's the point of war?" he once asked his friend Surya, the cheerful son of a palace cook. "All I see are pyres and tears."
Surya laughed. "That's why you fight well — your heart still beats for peace."
Aarav often snuck away from drills to sketch landscapes, read poetry, or walk the Ganges bank alone. His father disapproved.
"Strength without duty is weakness," Veer Singh warned.
"I'm not weak," Aarav replied quietly. "I'm just not blind."
Their worlds might never have collided — a caged bird and a reluctant hawk — until one day, fate intervened.
It was the Festival of Chandrika, a sacred night when citizens of all castes and professions flooded the temple to witness the moonrise rituals. Aarav, reluctantly attending in ceremonial armor, accompanied his father and other court officials. The temple grounds brimmed with lanterns, flower garlands, and smoke from frankincense.
Devika was to perform the moon-dedication dance. Draped in silver and white, her forehead marked with the crescent tilak, she stepped onto the marble stage under thousands of watching eyes. But her gaze, her spirit, sought only the moon.
Hidden in the crowd, Aarav watched as if struck by lightning. The dance began — a story of longing, devotion, and cosmic reunion. Each movement of hers echoed through him like a forgotten memory.
And then, it happened.
During one sweeping motion, Devika's eyes locked with his. Only for a heartbeat. But it jolted both of them.
She faltered — just slightly. No one else noticed. But Aarav did. And so did she.
After the ritual, as Devika returned through the darkened garden, a branch cracked behind her. She turned, startled. A figure emerged from the shadows — not a priest or temple servant, but a man. The same man. The one with stormy eyes.
"You," she whispered.
"I needed to see you again," Aarav said. "Not as a dancer. As you."
"You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you be a prisoner of devotion," he said. "You dance like someone begging the moon to take her away."
Her breath caught. "You don't know me."
"Not yet," he said. "But I think… I've known your soul longer than my own."
In that sacred garden, moonlight wrapped around them. Neither knew how, or why, but both felt it — as if they had met long ago in some other life.
And so, what should have been a fleeting encounter became the twist of fate that tied two hearts across centuries.