The scent of jasmine still lingered in the corridors of the palace, clinging to silks and tapestries, a fragrant echo of the grand wedding between Sharath and Elina. Courtiers still toasted, minstrels still sang, and petals still drifted in the courtyards like the last remnants of a dream.
But Sharath could not sleep.
In the hour before dawn, when even the owls had grown tired, he stood alone in his chambers, eyes fixed on the horizon. He unpinned the royal brooch from his collar, slipped into a plain cloak, and left by the servant's gate. His horse, a quiet gray mare, waited patiently. He mounted and rode without guards, without titles.
Because a kingdom could not be ruled by looking at it from balconies.
It had to be walked.