Aryagarh was built on opulence — gold-domed towers, mirrored halls, and courtyards where the scent of roses lingered like a promise. But beyond the eastern wing, past the fountains and painted ceilings, there bloomed a hidden garden.
No music played here. No courtiers strolled. This was not a place for poetry — it was a place for poisons, for secrets whispered into the petals of dhatura, for ghosts to pace beneath the moonlight.
This was the place where truth didn't bloom — it bled.
And tonight, Sitara waited among its shadows.
She had slipped away before the palace drums called morning to rise. No attendants. No trail. She'd left behind only silence — and silence, as always, spoke louder than words. Her chambers were reassigned. Her meals now tasted by strangers. Even the palace musicians looked through her as though she were already gone.
But Sitara had not come from comfort. She had been carved by suspicion, raised in shadows, fed on fear until it no longer tasted bitter. She knew what it meant to be hunted.
"To survive the court," she whispered to herself, "you must become the blade they fear — not the flower they pluck."
Vivaan arrived without warning. No guards. No silver crest. Just dark robes that seemed to bleed into the night around him. He said nothing at first.
Sitara didn't turn.
She was tracing the serrated edge of a moon-colored blossom — toxic, delicate, like her.
"You think I wrote it," she said softly.
His voice followed like a blade slipping free of its sheath.
"The cipher was yours."
She smiled faintly. Still, she didn't look at him.
"And who told you that?" she asked, arching a brow.
"Your spies?"
"Never trust the eyes of a prince," her mother once warned. "They were taught to look through you, not at you."
Vivaan didn't answer. His gaze dropped to her hands. Empty. And still — dangerous.
"You're here to decide if I'm a spy," she murmured, stepping closer, the edge of her voice curved like a dagger. "Or a traitor. Or just a pretty distraction who got too close to your throne."
He didn't respond.
"So tell me, Yuvraj," she continued, circling him like a predator studying a soldier, "which version of me are you hunting tonight?"
His jaw flexed. "I'm not hunting."
A beat. His voice dropped lower. "I'm watching."
She laughed — low, melodic, with something dangerous curled beneath it.
"Careful," she said. "That sounds almost jealous."
He didn't rise to the bait. But something flickered in his eyes — regret, or perhaps recognition.
"You vanished without a trace," he said. "You used a royal cipher. You move like someone who's been trained to disappear."
His voice tightened. "No one does that unless they have something to hide."
She stopped in front of him, head tilted, expression unreadable.
"And you," she said, her voice now a whisper, "look at me like you're trying to remember something you were never supposed to forget."
Vivaan stilled.
It was the thing he hadn't been able to name — why she stirred something in him that was neither fear nor lust, but something older.
Something like déjà vu, cloaked in heat and memory.
"Do you know what I think, Vivaan?"
He said nothing.
"I think you're not afraid of me being a traitor." She stepped closer, until only breath separated them. "I think you're afraid you already know who I am — and what that means for you."
"Some people don't enter your life," she thought. "They return to it."
Vivaan's hand twitched at his side. Not toward his weapon — but as if he might reach for her.
"I found a letter," he said quietly. "From the Maharani. To your mother."
There it was — the shift. Her eyes didn't widen, didn't tremble. But something inside them darkened. Not fear. Not surprise. Just pain — old and sealed shut.
"You don't understand what that letter means," she said.
"Then explain it."
"No." – she said firmly.
His voice sharpened as he said, "Why not?, because it's a lie? Or because it's the truth?"
She stared at him for a long, brittle moment.
"Because if you knew the truth right now…"
A breath. A crack in the mask.
"…you wouldn't survive it."
Vivaan exhaled — a sound between a curse and a prayer. The ground beneath him was shifting. Everything he believed — the bloodlines, the loyalty, the crown itself — felt like sand pressed between his fingers.
He reached out suddenly, catching her wrist.
"Are you using me?"
Her eyes snapped to his.
"Are you using me?" she echoed.
The question echoed louder than steel drawn in court.
She leaned in then, her voice a breath at his throat.
"Earn my trust, Yuvraj," she said, softer now. "Then I'll show you what you're afraid to find."
He didn't let go.
But she slipped through his grasp like smoke.
When she vanished into the shadows, no door creaked. No leaves stirred. Only silence remained — thick, suffocating, absolute.
And in that silence, the prince of Aryagarh stood alone — not bleeding, but unraveling.
"Some women aren't storms," he thought, watching where she'd gone. "They're the eye — and if you step too close, everything you thought was still will begin to spin."