The warehouse swallowed the light, rusted metal groaning under the weight of secrets. Shiv and Ranvijay stepped through the corridor like shadows—guns drawn, silence pressing into their lungs.
They followed the signs—the smudged blood, the open crates, the faint hum of an old generator.
And then—
A room. A flickering projector. And a voice.
"Did you think I'd let her go that easily?"
Aditya stepped into view.
He looked different. Gaunt. Eyes red-rimmed but sharp. His white shirt stained with dried blood—like war had settled into his skin.
Ranvijay didn't flinch.
Shiv aimed. "Don't try anything—"
Aditya raised both hands, mock-innocent. "Relax. I'm not here to shoot. Not yet."
Ranvijay lowered his weapon but stepped forward.
And that was all it took.
Words erupted like flames licking old wounds.
"You always had everything, Bhaiya," Aditya spat, voice trembling with decades of bitterness. "The name. The throne. The palace. Her. Always you."
Ranvijay's jaw clenched. "You had a family too."
Aditya laughed bitterly. "Family? You mean your family. Not mine. I was just the afterthought. The illegitimate shadow they tried to mold into a prince. The spare."
Shiv glanced between them, heart sinking.
Aditya's voice cracked with venom. "They trained me like a soldier. But never looked at me like a son."
"And whose fault is that?" Ranvijay said, stepping closer, voice low but shaking. "You chose this rage. You chose hate."
"No!" Aditya roared. "I chose survival."
He moved closer, his face inches from Ranvijay's now.
"I was five when I saw Dadi Sa brush past me like I didn't exist. I was nine when the guards bowed only to you. I was twelve when I realized… I would never be you."
Ranvijay's silence was steel.
Aditya's smile returned—twisted. "So, I did the next best thing."
He tilted his head.
"I took what you loved."
Ranvijay's eyes darkened.
"You think Myra is a trophy? A symbol of revenge?"
"She's more than that now," Aditya whispered. "She's the one thing you fear losing. The only one who could make the untouchable prince kneel."
Ranvijay lunged.
His arm slammed across Aditya's throat, pinning him to the metal wall.
"I kneel to protect her. Not possess her."
Aditya laughed through the choke. "Says the man who tied her in marriage without asking her."
Ranvijay's fingers pressed harder.
"You want to carry her pain—fine." Aditya's voice rasped, eyes glinting. "But I own her past. You didn't even know she met me first"
Ranvijay's face went pale.
"She was ten," Aditya said, slowly. "Lost. Crying. You were too busy learning how to rule. And I? I picked her up from that temple courtyard. I gave her sweets. I tied the red thread on her wrist."
He smirked. "She forgot. But I didn't."
Ranvijay let go—not because he lost—but because something inside him snapped.
"You're right," he said, voice dangerously calm. "You gave her sweets. I gave her a home. You tied a thread. I tied my life to hers."
Aditya staggered, coughing.
"You think this is about Myra?" Ranvijay continued, stepping back. "This is about you. Always needing to destroy what you can't become."
Aditya wiped the blood from his lip, eyes wild. "You took everything, Bhaiya! Myra. The kingdom. Our mother's pride!"
"I never took anything," Ranvijay thundered. "They gave it to me because I protected it. While you... burned everything that loved you."
Aditya lunged this time—knife drawn from under his sleeve—but Shiv shot a warning bullet that struck the wall near his foot.
"Enough!" Shiv shouted.
Ranvijay caught Aditya mid-lunge and threw him across the crates.
"Why won't you kill me?" Aditya screamed. "Just do it! Isn't that what princes do? Silence the mistake of the dynasty?"
Ranvijay stood tall, shadows flickering across his face.
"I won't kill you," he said. "Because that's what you'd do."
---------------------
ON THE OTHER SIDE
The sun spilled lazily through the open terrace window, casting golden patterns on the marbled floor. Birds chirped softly beyond the courtyard, and in that moment, the world felt still. Quiet. Safe.
Myra sat curled on the divan by the window in their bedroom, draped in a soft pastel peach kurta and cream shawl. Her bruises had begun to fade. The bandage on her wrist was no longer heavy. And for the first time in days—her lips curled into a smile.
A small, involuntary one.
She stared down at her own fingers, clasped in her lap, feeling the ghost of his touch still lingering there.
Not the terrifying kind.
The safe kind.
The kind that whispered: I won't let go unless you tell me to.
Her cheeks flushed.
She tried to shake it off, to scoff at herself, but it didn't work this time.
He hadn't said much before leaving. Only looked at her—as if memorizing her entire face again. And then his fingers had brushed her forehead gently, tucking that one strand of hair she always forgot behind her ear.
"Rest. You'll need strength to scold me later," he had said with that rare, almost teasing glint in his eyes.
She had smiled then too—after he'd gone.
And now, here she was, smiling again.
Why?
She touched her cheek, flustered. "What is this…?"
She wasn't foolish. She knew what this feeling was called in all the books she secretly read, in the poetry Rajeshwari maa kept hidden in her chest drawer.
But she had never known what it felt like.
Until now.
Until him.
She remembered the thunder. How she had turned toward him like instinct. How he hadn't moved—had simply held her tighter as if he had known she needed it even before she did.
She thought of his voice in the dark, quiet and shaken:
"I've done terrible things in my life… but if I ever become the reason you stop smiling—I'll never forgive myself."
Her hand pressed against her chest, where her heart was being a complete traitor.
A giddy, strange heat danced up her spine.
"I'm being ridiculous," she muttered.
But the blush wouldn't stop blooming.
She leaned her head against the window pane and whispered to herself, eyes distant
"What are you doing to me, Ranvijay..."
And for once, she didn't say it in anger.
The late morning sun warmed the courtyard, filtering in through latticed windows and bathing the palace corridors in honey-gold light.
Myra sat in the small reading corner just outside the temple chamber, pretending to flip through a book. But her eyes hadn't moved past the same sentence in ten minutes.
She wasn't reading.
She was remembering.
His voice. His touch. The way his eyes had lingered on hers before he left. That soft smile he'd given when she hadn't pushed him away this time.
The strange warmth in her chest hadn't faded. If anything, it pulsed stronger now that he wasn't here.
"You've changed," a voice said gently.
Myra blinked, startled.
Anika was standing nearby, barefoot and graceful, holding a tray of marigold petals. Her smile was playful, but her eyes were piercing.
"What?" Myra asked, trying to sound unaffected.
Anika sat beside her, setting the tray aside. "You blush now."
"I don't!" Myra snapped, looking away immediately.
Anika chuckled. "You're easier to read than you think, Myra. Especially to someone who's felt the same things once."
Myra's brows furrowed. "You're imagining things."
"No," Anika said, voice softening. "I'm watching someone fall in love, and she's too scared to admit it even to herself."
Myra froze. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Anika didn't push further. She reached into the tray, picking up a petal and twirling it between her fingers.
"You know," she said slowly, "feelings are like these petals. If you keep them clenched in your fist too long, they wither. But if you let them bloom, even just a little… sometimes they turn into the best part of your story."
Myra looked down at her lap, at the forgotten book, her hands trembling slightly.
"Ranvijay Bhaiya… he'd die to hear what you fell for him," Anika added, her tone playful but her meaning sincere. "Maybe you should tell him when you miss him."
Myra's breath caught.
Tell him?
Her mind spun.
Should I?
Should I tell him I missed him?
That the moment he left, something in me ached quietly, and I didn't know why?
Anika stood to leave, tossing a marigold petal onto Myra's lap. "Just think about it."
As she walked away, Myra held that tiny petal between her fingers, her heart thudding in rhythm with a name she never thought she'd whisper in longing.
Ranvijay.
------------------------------
The warehouse was eerily quiet now. Dust hung thick in the air, curling through rays of sunlight breaking in from broken skylights. Footsteps echoed off cement floors and metal beams, but Aditya… was nowhere to be found.
Ranvijay exhaled slowly, his hands still clenched at his sides. His black shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, blood from earlier staining the cuffs. Shiv was beside him, checking behind crates, kicking open rusted doors.
"Gone," Shiv said at last, frustrated. "Like a damn shadow."
Ranvijay didn't answer. His eyes swept the empty hallway again, jaw tight, storm brewing behind his stillness.
"He planned this," Shiv continued, pacing. "He lured us here to distract us. What if—"
"He wanted time," Ranvijay muttered. "Time to make his next move."
They stood in tense silence.
Suddenly, a faint static crackled from Shiv's back pocket.
"Comm?" he asked, pulling out the receiver.
The line hissed.
"—Sir—"
It was Vikrant's voice, fragmented and broken.
"Repeat," Shiv said, stepping closer to the window to catch a signal. "Vikrant, we can't hear you."
"Ranvijay—danger—don't—"
Static exploded again.
"Vikrant!" Shiv shouted into the device. "Say it again!"
But the line was dead.
Ranvijay turned toward him sharply, his voice low. "Did he say danger?"
"I think so." Shiv frowned. "But for who? For us? For the palace?"
Ranvijay's fists clenched. His instincts screamed. Something wasn't right. The silence in the warehouse, Aditya's vanishing, Vikrant's desperate tone…
He turned to Shiv. "We leave. Now."
"But what if he's—"
"I don't care," Ranvijay growled. "I don't care if he slipped through fire itself—something's wrong. I feel it."
They rushed out, boots hitting the concrete fast. The guards followed, vehicles revving to life. The city around them seemed too quiet for a world that was still spinning.
And behind them—left behind in the silence of the warehouse—was something Vikrant had found.
Something he was trying to warn them about.
Something neither Ranvijay nor Shiv had noticed…
A red thread, nailed into the wall.
And beneath it, a photograph of Myra.
Burned at the edges.
Pinned with the words written in blood-red ink:
"Next time, she won't be yours to save."
-------------------
The sky had begun to bleed into hues of soft amber and violet, painting golden streaks across the marbled floor of the palace corridor.
Myra sat quietly on the divan near her room's balcony, her dupatta draped loosely over her shoulder, fingers gently tracing the rim of a teacup that had long gone cold. She hadn't taken a single sip.
She didn't know how long she'd been waiting.
But the ache in her chest told her it had been too long.
Ranvijay hadn't returned.
Not a message. Not a call. Not a single word.
She knew he was with Shiv, handling something important—urgent even. But for some reason, her heart refused to rest.
She looked down at her hands. The bandages had been removed, leaving only faint marks behind, yet her palms trembled slightly, as if holding a weight she couldn't name.
Why is it so hard to breathe when he's not here?
She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the carved pillar, letting the cool breeze touch her face. In the hush of the moment, her thoughts were anything but quiet.
What is this feeling?
A few steps away, Anika had been watching quietly. She stepped forward, soft smile curving her lips as she sat beside her.
"Thinking about him again?" Anika teased gently, bumping Myra's shoulder.
Myra looked away instantly, flustered. "Wha—No! I was just… I mean, he's been gone long…"
"Hmm," Anika hummed knowingly. "You know, it's okay to miss someone. Even the strong and stubborn need someone sometimes."
Myra hesitated.
Anika nudged her again. "You're not afraid of him anymore, are you?"
"No," Myra said honestly.
"Then?"
"I don't know…" she murmured. "I just… when I don't see him, it feels like something is… out of place. Like I'm waiting for something I don't even understand."
Anika smiled a little wider. "Then maybe it's time to stop waiting. And start admitting."
Myra blinked at her.
Anika added with a mischievous smirk, "If you miss him, tell him. If your heart flutters, show him. Men like Ranvijay might carry the world on their shoulders, but they still crave the warmth of one truth whispered softly in the right moment."
Myra didn't answer.
But that night, as she lay alone in her bed, her eyes fixed on the empty space beside her, she let the truth whisper inside her chest:
I'll tell him that
I miss him.
I miss you, Ranvijay.