The air was heavy with the scent of incense and wilting marigolds. Myra's footsteps slowed as she approached the old temple, its stone steps washed in the golden hue of the setting sun. She hadn't planned to come here—her heart had simply needed silence. Space. A moment to breathe without his shadow wrapped around her thoughts.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Her eyes caught a familiar silhouette ahead, near the worn steps that led to the inner sanctum.
Ranvijay.
Not in royal armor. Not the intimidating storm she knew.
This version of him knelt in the dust, one knee on the ground before a little boy—barefoot, face streaked with tears and dirt, one knee scraped and bleeding. An elderly woman stood helplessly beside the child, clearly distressed.
Myra ducked behind a pillar, holding her breath.
She watched as Ranvijay tore a strip from his own white handkerchief and gently cleaned the boy's wound. His movements were careful, almost reverent. He whispered something to the boy, who gave a wobbly smile through the tears. Then, with a chuckle that Myra barely heard, Ranvijay wiped the boy's face with the edge of his sleeve, not even caring about the dust staining his clothes.
The old woman reached for his hand, trembling, but he pressed something into her palm. A wad of folded notes. She gasped, but before she could speak, he shook his head gently.
"Use it for him," he said softly. "He deserves better."
The boy suddenly flung his arms around Ranvijay's leg, clutching him like he was a god in human form. Ranvijay froze for a moment—then placed a large, steady hand over the boy's head and held him close.
And Myra?
She couldn't breathe.
This was the man who had claimed her, touched her like fire—but looked at her with a storm he refused to explain. The man who she thought only knew how to burn, not heal.
Yet here he was.
Cradling a stranger's pain as if it were his own.
Myra blinked, and tears she didn't expect touched her lashes. A sob clawed at her throat but never made it out. Something inside her cracked.
Not for the prince. Not for the danger.
But for the kindness he never let anyone see.
She turned and walked away, heart pounding harder than it had the night he whispered, "You're mine."
Because now, a terrifying question echoed in her chest:
What if she was already his… without even knowing it?
The old woman took a step back, ready to leave, when her frail knees buckled.
"Dadi ji!" Myra rushed forward instinctively, her voice trembling as she caught the woman mid-fall. The bangles on Myra's wrists jingled as she gently lowered her to a nearby bench shaded by an old peepal tree.
"You should take care of yourself," Myra whispered, brushing dust from the woman's shoulder. "Dadi ji, zara sambhal ke." (Grandma please be careful).
The old woman gave her a tired, toothless smile, eyes glistening with unshed pain.
"Thank you, beta. Now I'm just old bones and weak breath. This little one," she nodded toward the boy, "is all I have. Don't know how long I'll last, but I pray to live long enough to see him fed and safe."
Myra swallowed hard, a knot forming in her throat. The lines on the woman's face told a story of years spent surviving, not living.
Just then, the little boy came running up to them, clutching the crumpled notes Ranvijay had given. His cheeks glowed with hope.
"Amma!" he cried, "We have money now, right? We can eat now? I'm really hungry, Amma."
The old woman pulled him into her lap, nodding, her voice breaking, "Yes, beta... we will eat today."
Myra looked at them—just two souls, clinging to each other in a world too cruel—and something inside her shifted.
She knelt before the boy and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. "What do you want to eat?"
"Anything," he whispered. "Even just one warm roti."
Myra's heart shattered quietly.
Behind her, she sensed Ranvijay watching. But for once, she didn't feel like running.
She felt like staying.
Myra's smile faltered.
The boy's words—"Even just one warm roti"—clawed at something buried deep inside her.
Something she had carefully locked away.
But grief has a scent, and hunger… hunger never forgets.
Her throat tightened as a memory slammed into her—vivid, brutal.
She was maybe Fourteen. Rain had poured that day, cold and merciless. Her stomach had groaned with emptiness, but her stepmother had ignored her tears, locking the kitchen door and telling her, "Starving will teach you obedience."
That night, she'd wandered out silently, barefoot, trembling. Behind the house, near the bins, she had clawed through old containers, searching for scraps—anything. Her small fingers had closed around a piece of stale, mold-covered bread. She hadn't even hesitated.
A sob threatened to escape her now.
She blinked hard, forcing the tears back. She wasn't that little girl anymore. But looking at the boy and his grandmother… it all came rushing back.
"Dadi ji…" she whispered, voice softer now. "Will you both wait here for me a moment?"
The old woman nodded.
Myra stood up, her steps shaky, her chest tight. She turned toward Ranvijay, who had been watching—silently, solemnly—from under the neem tree. Their eyes met, and for the first time in days, her walls cracked enough to show him… the pain behind her defiance.
"Can we feed them properly? please" she asked, not with pride, but with something purer. Raw with tears pouring from her eyes.
Ranvijay didn't reply immediately. He simply stepped closer, brushed her hair back gently, and said, "As much as they want. And more."
Within minutes, the palace staff—alerted with a simple nod from Ranvijay—set out a small mat beneath the shade of the tree. A brass plate was laid gently, filled with fresh rotis, sabzi, rice, and warm halwa that steamed softly in the fading afternoon light.
Myra guided the old woman to sit, helping her adjust the edge of her tattered dupatta. The boy's eyes lit up as he stared at the food, but he didn't move—not until Myra smiled and held the plate out.
"Come," she said softly. "It's all yours."
The boy looked to his grandmother. She gave him a gentle nod, and he rushed to the plate, his tiny hands trembling as he tore the roti and began eating with a hunger Myra recognized too well.
"Slowly, beta," the grandmother whispered, tears gathering in her eyes. "No one's going to take it away."
Ranvijay stood quietly at a distance, watching Myra.
She knelt beside the boy, wiping his cheek with her dupatta as he messily ate, unaware of the tears streaming silently down her face. Her heart ached—memories of cold nights and cruel silences pressing into her chest.
As the child licked the halwa from his fingers, Myra stood quietly. She didn't look at Ranvijay. Without a single word to him, she turned and walked toward the waiting car.
She slid into the back seat and, once he joined her, said in a low voice, "Take me back to the palace."
Not another word passed between them during the ride. But in the glass reflection, she saw his jaw clench—like a man holding back the urge to reach for a wound he couldn't see but could feel.