The warehouse was silent.
Too silent.
Shiv felt it first—the kind of stillness that doesn't just pause a heartbeat but dares it to stop altogether. He exchanged a glance with Ranvijay, who stood a few steps ahead, scanning the rusted metal doors that lined the inner corridor.
"It's too clean," Shiv muttered, hand inching toward the gun at his waist. "No guards. No movement. It doesn't feel right."
Ranvijay nodded once, jaw tightening. "It's a trap."
Just as he said it—
CRACK!
The first shot rang through the hollow space like a thunderclap.
"Down!" Shiv yelled.
Both men dove behind the nearest stack of crates as bullets ricocheted off the metal scaffolding. Shouts echoed from the far end—at least five, maybe more. Shadowy figures moved through the rust and dust, armed and fast.
Ranvijay didn't hesitate.
Gun drawn, he fired back with precision, hitting one of the masked men in the leg, sending him crashing into a pile of broken pallets.
Shiv took cover beside him, reloading. "They were waiting for us. Vikrant tried to warn us."
Ranvijay's eyes narrowed. "Where the hell is Aditya?"
Another gunshot.
This one—too close.
Ranvijay stood just as another figure emerged behind a broken pillar—and a sharp pain tore through his side.
He stumbled.
Blood soaked through his black shirt instantly.
"Bhaiya!" Shiv shouted, grabbing him and pulling him back behind cover.
But Ranvijay didn't fall. He refused to.
Even with his hand pressed against the wound, his eyes were blazing with something far more dangerous than pain.
Rage.
"I'm not dying here," he hissed. "Not until I destroy that bastard with my own hands."
Shiv ripped off a piece of his shirt and pressed it to the wound. "We need to get out. You're bleeding too fast."
"Call for backup," Ranvijay ordered, voice steady despite the agony. "We finish this later."
They moved as one—covering each other, taking down two more men before pushing toward the exit.
More bullets. More shadows.
But neither of them turned back.
Blood trailed behind them like a scar across concrete.
As they stumbled out of the warehouse and into the dim morning haze, Ranvijay collapsed against the car door, clutching his side.
Shiv was on the phone, barking orders to Vikrant. "He's been hit. We need medics. Get the route cleared—now!"
Ranvijay, teeth gritted, looked back at the warehouse.
At the smoke.
At the betrayal.
His voice came low, a growl laced with fire.
"Aditya started a war."
He looked up, pain splintering through his ribs.
"Now I'll show him what it means to finish one."
-------------
The palace was warm with sunlight. Birds danced near the fountains. A breeze carried the scent of mogra blossoms through the corridors.
But Myra felt none of it.
She stood near the grand window of the main corridor, arms wrapped tightly around herself, eyes fixed on the iron gates. Her foot tapped unconsciously against the marble floor. Her lips pressed into a tight line. The uneasy stillness in her chest had only grown heavier since morning.
And then…
She saw it.
The black SUV.
Its silhouette appeared like a ghost through the dust of the drive. Speeding. Skidding slightly at the curve. Something in her stilled. Something deep inside her chest turned cold.
Her hands slipped away from her body.
"Ranvijay…"
She didn't wait.
She ran.
Down the corridor.
Past the servants.
Past Dadi Sa who called her name.
Barefoot. Breathless.
Down the white marble stairs until she pushed open the front doors with both hands, hair flying behind her.
The car screeched to a halt at the palace steps.
The door flung open—
And Shiv jumped out.
Blood smeared across his arms. Panic in his eyes.
"Bhabi sa, don't—!" he shouted.
And there he was.
Ranvijay.
But not standing tall like he always did.
Bleeding.
His body leaned heavily on Shiv, his black shirt soaked in deep maroon. His skin pale beneath the harsh sunlight. His breath… barely there.
"Myra…"
The word left his lips—barely a whisper.
And then—
His eyes rolled back.
His body crumpled.
"Bhaiya!" Shiv caught him just in time, arms wrapping around his heavy frame.
Myra screamed.
She raced down the steps, her bridal anklets forgotten, her bare feet thudding against stone. "No, no, no—Ranvijay!"
She dropped to her knees as Shiv gently laid him down on the marble floor of the palace foyer.
"Don't just lie there!" Anika cried, rushing in. "He's—!"
"Get the doctor! Now!" Shiv roared. "Tell the medical wing to prepare!"
Rajeshwari, breathless and stunned, clutched Dadi Sa's arm for balance. Her lips trembled. "No… not again… not him…"
"Why not the hospital?" Myra cried, holding onto Ranvijay's hand, gripping it with all her strength.
Shiv's eyes were hard. "We can't. News of a royal being shot will bring the media… and police. This wasn't just an attack—it was a message. We can't let this go public. Not yet."
The palace doctor sprinted in, a small medical team following with stretchers and emergency kits. "Clear the way!"
"No sedatives yet," the doctor muttered after a glance. "His pulse is unstable—we need to stop the bleeding first."
Myra wouldn't let go of his hand even as they carefully lifted him onto the stretcher.
His blood smeared her palm.
She followed them up the grand staircase, her dupatta trailing behind like a forgotten promise.
They moved him to their bedroom, turning it into a silent battlefield—syringes, surgical scissors, sterile tools, oxygen tanks. The curtains were drawn. The lights dimmed. The scent of sandalwood was replaced by iodine and blood.
"BP dropping," one assistant whispered.
"Clamp that vessel!" the doctor barked. "He's losing too much too fast!"
Shiv stood at the corner, fists clenched, shirt blood-stained, face unreadable.
Anika stood beside Rajeshwari, arms around her mother, whose tears fell silently—her eyes locked on her son.
Myra stood frozen at the edge of the bed.
The room had never been so quiet.
Not when it rained, not even during stormy nights. But now, it felt like even the air was holding its breath.
Ranvijay lay on the bed—unmoving.
His breathing was shallow, but steady. His upper body was bare, the deep wound on his side freshly dressed in crisp white gauze. Bandages cut across his shoulder, wrapping tightly around his chest. Bruises marred his ribcage, but even now, that body—sculpted and powerful—felt like it had taken on the wrath of gods and lived.
Only barely.
And Myra saw it.
Saw all of it.
Her breath caught.
It wasn't the bruises, or the dried blood, or the way his jaw was clenched even in unconsciousness.
It was her name—etched just above his heart.
Small. Bold. Permanent.
Myra.
Not decorative. Not inked for the world. But inked for pain. For truth. For love.
She stumbled forward. Knees hitting the floor beside the bed as if the weight of it was too much to bear.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
And the tears came hard.
Because she didn't know. She never knew.
He had never shown her.
Never used it to win her.
Never even whispered about it in those possessive declarations of his.
But now, there it was.
Branded. On his body.
As if to say—I belong to you. Even if you never belong to me.
"Ranvijay…" she whispered brokenly, reaching forward with trembling fingers. She didn't touch the name. She couldn't. It felt too sacred.
Her tears fell on the sheets as she bent forward, resting her forehead beside his.
"You... idiot," she sobbed. "Why would you do this… Why didn't you ever tell me…"
Her voice broke into a cry—soft but sharp. It split through the silence of the room.
She wanted to scream.
But she didn't. Because he needed peace.
And because he needed her.
She pulled herself up gently, sat beside him on the bed, holding the sheets over him like she was shielding him from the world—even though he was the one who had always stood between her and destruction.
Her fingers brushed the back of his hand. She could feel the pulse there. Alive.
"I hated you so much," she whispered. "And you still…" She looked at the mark on his chest again, voice trembling, "You still gave me this."
She wiped her face. Sat straighter.
And then—she placed her fingers and pressed them gently over the tattoo.
"I don't know when or how... but this—" her voice cracked, "—this broke me."
She sat there.
In silence.
Watching every breath he took like it was a gift.
And just outside the door, the palace stood still—as if afraid to make a sound, afraid to disturb the only two people who had ever loved like this:
Violently. Quietly. Fully.