The palace of the Rathores had never looked more alive.
From the first light of morning, the halls echoed with footsteps, commands, and music. Silken drapes of red and gold fell from the high arches, chandeliers burned brighter than the desert sun, and the fragrance of roses and jasmine clung to every corner.
Ishika moved like a woman on fire, orchestrating chaos into beauty. "The rangoli there—no, brighter colors. Double the candles by the pool. Shift the dais toward the courtyard fountain so the light falls just right." Her voice was crisp, confident, but Aayat could feel the weight pressing beneath it. This was not just another event — this was the wedding of Rajasthan's royal bloodline.
Aayat followed quietly, sketchbook in hand, her artist's eyes catching what others missed: the way light fractured through crystal, how rose petals floated like whispers on the water, the nervous tremor in the bride-to-be's laughter.
By nightfall, the palace glowed.
The engagement ceremony began under the open courtyard sky, where pools of water reflected a thousand floating candles. Guests in shimmering attire gathered, their laughter mingling with the soft rhythm of sitars and tablas.
Rajveer, the younger prince, stood radiant in ivory sherwani, his charm effortless. His bride's shy smile glowed brighter than her jewels. As they exchanged rings, applause erupted, drums rolled, and the air thickened with festivity.
But Aayat's heart felt restless.
The celebration dazzled her, yes — the colors, the music, the joy. Yet beneath it all, there was a silence only she seemed to hear. A shadow that pressed against her skin, unseen but undeniable. She caught herself glancing toward the grand staircase, the darkened balconies, the corners lit only by candlelight… searching. For what, she didn't know.
When the rituals ended and the guests drifted to feasts and dancing, Aayat slipped away. She told herself she needed air, that the noise was too much, but deep inside she knew it was something else — a pull she could neither resist nor explain.
Her steps carried her into a quieter corridor of the palace. The laughter faded behind her, replaced by the gentle crackle of wicks.
Rows of candles lined the marble walls, their golden glow trembling across her face. Shadows flickered and danced, painting the silence with firelight. The air was warm, scented faintly of roses and sandalwood.
And then she stopped.
At the far end of the corridor, beyond the shimmering veil of candles, a figure stood.
Tall. Still. Watching.
Her breath caught, her pulse stuttering. The world narrowed until there was nothing but the space between them. Slowly, hesitantly, her eyes rose to meet his.
It was him.
Anirudh Rathore.
The elder prince. The shadow that had followed her without name, without form. Now he was real, sculpted in firelight, his gaze as sharp and heavy as a blade.
Neither of them spoke. Neither moved.
The silence burned louder than the drums still echoing in the courtyard. Her heartbeat was deafening in her ears, but she could not look away.
Candles flickered between them, as though even the flames bowed to the tension that bound them in that instant.
And though no words were exchanged, something was said. A claim, a warning, a beginning.
Their eyes locked.
And their ruin began.