The room smelled of sandalwood and old secrets. A single lamp glowed over the desk, illuminating paper clippings, photographs, maps, and—at the center of it all—a portrait.
Myra.
Captured in a stolen moment, blurry yet unmistakably her.
The man sat in the shadows, his long fingers tapping against the armrest of the leather chair. His face wasn't fully visible—half swallowed by darkness—but his eyes gleamed. Sharp. Calculating. Haunted.
He watched the photo like one studies a long-lost poem. A bruise-shaped scar cut through the edge of his jaw. The rest of him was wrapped in black, every movement quiet, every breath controlled.
A phone buzzed once on the table beside him.
Encrypted.
He picked it up, scanned the message, then whispered under his breath, "So… she still doesn't know."
His thumb trailed over an old bracelet string—nothing fancy, just worn red thread. It matched the one Myra used to wear as a child.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"She's not ready. Not yet."
He rose, picking up a sealed envelope with a symbol pressed in wax. A peacock feather carved faintly in the seal.
He set it aside.
Then walked toward a map pinned to the wall—Jaipur marked, then Udaipur, then a location circled in blood-red ink: Raakhgarh.
The man picked up a photograph from the desk—an old family photo. Torn at the edge. Myra's mother stood in it, young and beautiful, holding hand of young Myra. But someone had been torn out beside her.
He stared at the empty space.
"I'm coming," he whispered, voice laced with intent. "Before he ruins everything."
The screen behind him flashed to life—security footage from the palace… paused on the frame where Ranvijay knelt before Myra.
He turned to it slowly, eyes darkening.
"I warned you once, Your Highness," he muttered. "She's not yours to break."
A side door creaked open behind him. Two men were dragged in—bound, bruised, trembling. Their eyes darted to the wall of Myra's pictures, then to the man who now stood silently before them, still holding the bracelet thread like a sacred charm.
"You said you had news," he said quietly.
One of them swallowed. "W-we only followed the girl once. Like you asked. No harm—"
Before he could finish, a knife flashed. Fast. Clean. Merciless.
A wet gurgle filled the room as the first man collapsed, blood pouring in a hot river across the marble floor.
The second man screamed, but the man in black simply wiped the blade on his coat.
"You followed her?" His voice didn't rise. If anything, it softened—dangerously calm. "Without my permission?"
The second man sobbed, nodding furiously. "We didn't touch her! We swear! She didn't even notice—"
"That's the problem," he muttered, crouching down to eye level. "You breathed near her."
A second later, the room was painted red.
Blood slicked across old documents. It splattered on the edge of Myra's photograph, staining her cheek.
But he didn't flinch.
Instead, he gently wiped the blood off her face with the edge of his shirt—like apologizing to her image.
"You don't deserve to see filth like this, Myra," he whispered. "You deserve me."
The bodies were dragged out, the trail of blood left behind like a ritual.
He returned to his chair, picked up the envelope sealed with a peacock feather, and stared at the screen showing Ranvijay again.
"You think you can protect her, prince?" he murmured, eyes dark with madness. "You won't even see it coming."
Then, almost sweetly, almost lovingly—
"She'll watch you fall first."
---------------------------
The sun filtered through delicate jaali windows, casting golden lace across the marble floors. Bougainvillea petals floated down from the trellises above, and the sound of the palace fountain murmured in the background.
Rajeshwari sat on a cushioned swing, her sari pleated to perfection, a tray of jasmine oil and combs beside her. She looked like a portrait of regality—composed, graceful, yet somehow... concerned.
"Myra," she said softly, as the girl approached. "Come. Sit with me."
Myra obeyed, her steps quiet. Her eyes carried the weight of a night with no sleep, but her lips formed a gentle smile.
Rajeshwari ran her fingers through Myra's long hair with motherly care. "You're not eating well," she murmured. "Your eyes give you away."
Myra looked away, hiding the folded piece of paper still tucked inside her dupatta. "I'm fine, Maa."
A pause. The comb stilled.
"You know," Rajeshwari said, voice low, "I used to watch your mother sit right there. Just like this. Her hair smelled of sandalwood and wild roses. And she would hum the most heartbreaking songs when she thought no one was listening."
Myra's throat tightened. "You were close to her?"
Rajeshwari nodded slowly. "She was sunshine in this palace of stone. And she trusted too easily…"
The words hung in the air. Deliberate. Heavy.
Myra turned, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
Rajeshwari smiled gently, brushing a strand behind Myra's ear. "Some truths are like thorns, Myra. Pick them too early, and they'll bleed you. Let them bloom, and they reveal everything."
Silence. The only sound was the fountain and the soft creak of the swing.
Then Rajeshwari leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper.
"When you're ready to ask the right questions, start with why your mother never left this palace, even when she should have."
Myra froze.
Rajeshwari kissed her forehead tenderly, then rose from the swing.
"Finish your tea, dear," she said, returning to her poise. "And don't be afraid of the dark. Sometimes, what you're looking for is hidden inside it."
Myra stared after her, heart pounding.
She hadn't mentioned anything about the envelope. Or Raakhgarh.
And yet… somehow, Rajeshwari knew.