The banners flew high, golden lions embroidered on crimson silk, snapping in the humid breeze as the gates of Kaanthalur creaked open.

Veeran didn’t flinch.

He sat tall on his stallion, armor dulled by travel dust and dried blood, his face unreadable beneath the bronze helm pushed halfway back on his head. Behind him, rows of soldiers—some limping, others bandaged—entered the city with bowed heads and sunburnt skin.

To the crowd, this was a procession of victory.

To Veeran, it was a funeral without a corpse.

He said nothing as flowers rained from rooftops and children cheered his name. His black horse trotted forward with discipline, hooves striking the cobblestones in perfect rhythm. The animal needed no guidance—it had memorized this route long ago.

Beside him, a pale figure stalked silently: Sura, the white tiger, paws silent despite his size. The crowd gasped, some drawing back in fear, others throwing garlands.

Veeran barely noticed.

His gaze swept over the same houses, the same temples, the same scent of wet earth and sandalwood rising from incense stalls. But something in him stayed far away.

He was still in the last battlefield, where screams echoed louder than drums, where he had held a dying soldier whose name he never learned. Where he had plunged a spear into a prince’s chest—and whispered an apology after.

His mind hadn't returned to Kaanthalur.

Only his body had.

---

The palace gates opened to fanfare.

Veeran dismounted without a word, removing his helmet and handing it off to a servant. His shoulder-length hair clung to his neck, damp with sweat. Soora followed behind him with the calm grace of a creature who had seen too many wars to fear gold or silk.

Inside, nothing had changed.

The pillars still bore the same carvings—lions devouring serpents, gods with six arms in mid-blessing, battles immortalized in stone. The air smelled of rose water and stone polish.

Waiting at the far end of the hall stood the King, Veeran’s father. Crowned, still, with eyes like flint and a back that had never once bowed—not even to grief.

You’ve returned, the King said.

Veeran bowed slightly. With half the men we left with.

A pause.

The King nodded once, as if numbers were expected casualties, not names. You will speak to the council at dawn. There is to be a marriage before the rains.

Veeran looked up, something cold flickering behind his dark eyes.

“Already?”

“You have been gone two years. The princess has waited long enough.”

A servant stepped forward to announce, “Princess Mithili has arrived in the capital and awaits your audience.”

Veeran dismissed him with a hand wave. He said nothing.

The King narrowed his gaze. Duty is not optional, Veeran. You may be my son, but the throne will not wait forever.

“No\,” Veeran said\, stepping back. “But *I* might.”

Before the King could answer, he turned and walked away.

Veeran’s chambers were untouched. Not a pillow moved. Not a scroll misplaced.

He pulled off his armor piece by piece, placing each plate on the polished marble with practiced ease. The room was silent except for Soora’s breathing and the distant sound of _bells from the temple across the river.

He poured water into a bronze bowl and splashed his face, the cold biting through exhaustion. He stared at himself in the mirror—sharp cheekbones, thin scar across his lower lip, eyes hollow and rimmed red.

He hated this reflection. This is not how he want to live.

And yet, when he stepped to the balcony, something caught his attention.

Across the city, where the temple roofs shimmered in moonlight, a small flame flickered.

A figure moved behind the screen of Thamara Kovil—fluid, slow, and precise.

Veeran narrowed his eyes.

Dancer.

He’d seen many. None ever made his breath still.

But this one… danced like water mourning the fire it could not touch.

Even from this distance, something in the curve of the arms, the sway of the body, the poise in silence pulled at him. Not desire. Not yet.

Curiosity.

A voice behind him murmured:

For the Summer Blessing, the temple sends their most gifted scholar to perform the divine rites.

Veeran didn’t turn. "His name?"

Arjunan, my lord. "A boy raised in silence and scripture".

“...Boy?”

The servant hesitated. "Of age. Gentle. Untouched".

Veeran turned his head slightly. The flame of a torch licked his gaze.

Then perhaps the gods do favor Kaanthalur this year.

Hours passed. The city fell quiet. Yet Veeran didn’t sleep.

He stood again at the balcony’s edge, Soora curled at his feet.

The figure no longer danced. But the afterimage remained burned into his vision—like a scar he didn’t know he’d earned.

He clenched the railing with one hand, veins taut, thoughts louder than battle drums.

Why did that boy’s presence feel… dangerous?

He didn’t believe in fate.

But he believed in signs.

And that boy, Arjunan—just a glimpse—felt like a storm wrapped in silk.

The palace gates rose like a mouth carved from stone.

Arjunan’s sandals barely made a sound as he stepped from the temple chariot, head bowed beneath a hood of ivory linen. Gold anklets glinted softly around his bare feet, and the scent of jasmine oil clung to his skin like breath.

He was not used to stone halls. The temple was made of air and light. The palace... was a cage dressed in gold.

Thamizhi stepped down beside him, her brown eyes sweeping across every pillar, every guard.

“You don’t have to look so calm,” she whispered, tightening the silver sash at her waist. “No one here is your friend.”

“I know,” Arjunan murmured. “But I’ve danced for gods who never smiled at me either.”

That earned a small snort from her. “Careful. These gods here bleed.”

He didn't reply.

They were escorted through a wide corridor draped with silks the color of fresh blood. Arjunan kept his hands folded at his waist, palms pressed together, his every step measured.

You are not a person here. You are a symbol. A prayer dressed in skin.

And symbols, he knew, must not tremble.

The evening sun dipped below the hills, and the Grand Courtyard was lit by a hundred oil lamps. The royal family sat on a raised dais. Priests, generals, court scholars, and merchants stood along the edges, their faces unreadable behind jewels and kohl.

Arjunan stood alone in the center.

He inhaled once. Deeply.

And began to dance.

Not for the king. Not for the court.

Not even for the gods.

But for the ache he could not name.

His movements flowed like river water—arms arching, feet sliding against stone, eyes low, breath in rhythm with the drums. His bells chimed softly with each turn.

He didn’t look at them.

But he felt it—a presence.

Heavy. Watching. Burning.

Somewhere beyond the flame-lit ring of courtiers.

A prince.

He looked up.

And locked eyes with him.

He’d heard stories of Veeran—the warrior prince, the butcher of the border wars, the general who refused a crown and bathed in enemy blood.

He expected steel. Cold. Distance.

But what he saw was… tired. Controlled. Caged.

The prince’s eyes were dark and sharp, watching like a beast leashed too tightly. Not moving. Not blinking. Just burning.

Their eyes held.

And the air thickened.

Arjunan’s body moved on its own, but his soul was elsewhere. That gaze was not one of worship or reverence. It was... searching.

No man had ever looked at him like that.

No one had dared.

And Arjunan—scholar, sacred, sworn—didn’t look away.

Later, he sat in a side chamber, cooling his feet in a shallow bowl of rosewater. Thamizhi stood by the window, arms crossed.

“You saw him.”

“I did.”

“You held his eyes for too long.”

“I know.”

Thamizhi turned slowly. “What did you feel?”

Arjunan traced the edge of the water with one finger. “Like I was made of wax. And someone lit a match.”

She didn’t scold him. She didn’t have to.

They both knew what this meant.

He was sacred.

Untouched.

Unreachable.

And yet...

That night, Arjunan slipped from his chamber.

He didn’t know why.

He wandered into the outer garden, past torch-lit halls and silent columns, until he reached a small lotus pond.

The water shimmered. Wind rustled the vines.

He felt… watched. Again.

“Don’t sneak into the gardens alone,” a voice said, low and firm.

He turned.

And there he was.

Veeran. Half-shadowed beneath a neem tree, Sura resting beside him like a ghost in white fur.

Arjunan froze.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” he whispered.

Veeran stepped forward. “I did.”

Silence stretched between them.

A war and a prayer.

A crown and a vow.

And something neither could name, already taking root in the spaces between their words.

The words hung between them like moonlight trembling on still water.

> “I didn’t expect to see you,”

> “I did.”

Arjunan’s fingers curled into the soft folds of his robe. The hem of it was damp from brushing against the dewy grass, but he didn’t dare move. Not with **Veeran** standing so close. Not with those eyes—dark as the night and just as wide—watching him like they could hear his thoughts.

“I only needed a moment alone,” Arjunan said softly.

Veeran didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just… *was*. Heavy with presence. Tension. Patience. A lion resting beneath a tree but never truly asleep.

“You chose the garden,” Veeran murmured. “You could’ve gone anywhere in this palace, but you came here.”

“I didn’t know it was yours.”

“It isn’t,” Veeran said, taking a step forward. “But no one else dares walk it after dusk.”

Arjunan felt his throat tighten. “Then I’ll go.”

“No.” The word was immediate, firm. “Stay.”

He didn’t mean to speak so quickly.

But he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

Seeing Arjunan alone beneath the neem tree, moonlight silvering his skin, that delicate robe moving like soft water—it stirred something *violent* and *quiet* inside Veeran.

He didn’t want the boy to run. Not yet. Not tonight.

“I didn’t follow you,” Veeran said more softly. “I was here first.”

Arjunan gave a slight nod. “So you watched me walk into your silence.”

Veeran smirked faintly. “You break it better than I do.”

Sura stirred behind him but didn’t growl.

“I thought you might be angry,” Arjunan said after a beat. “About the way I looked at you… during the dance.”

“I’m not,” Veeran said. “I only wonder why it felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

Arjunan’s lips parted—soft, startled, unsure.

Veeran looked away for a moment, giving him space to breathe again.

They stood together beneath the neem tree, the night wind weaving between them. The garden smelled of wet earth, old roots, and falling flowers.

Arjunan broke the silence this time.

“You fight wars,” he said. “Why does a dancer unsettle you?”

Veeran gave a quiet laugh—short, but not cruel.

“Because I’m trained to face swords, not softness. I don’t know what to do with gentleness that looks back at me.”

“That’s not what most men say about dancers.”

“You’re not most dancers,” Veeran replied, eyes meeting his again.

Arjunan took a half-step back, unsure whether it was from fear or something more dangerous.

But he stayed.

“I shouldn’t talk to you like this,” Arjunan whispered.

“But you are.”

“I’m supposed to be holy.”

“Then maybe I’m the one being tested.”

Another pause. The kind that steals all sound from the world.

And then—Veeran took off his wrist bangle, turning it slowly in his hand.

“Would you wear this?”

Arjunan blinked. “Why?”

“No reason,” Veeran lied. “A gift. I owe you for the performance.”

Arjunan hesitated.

Then reached out… and let Veeran slide it over his fingers.

It was far too big, loose on his wrist—but it stayed.

Veeran’s fingers brushed his skin for a second longer than necessary.

Neither of them moved.

Not even Sura.

“I should go,” Arjunan said suddenly, voice thin and unsteady. “If they find me here…”

“They’ll say what they already believe,” Veeran said. “That I’m poison. That you’re too pure.”

“I’m not pure,” Arjunan whispered. “Just afraid.”

Veeran didn’t try to stop him.

Arjunan stepped away, robe rustling in the grass. He reached the edge of the garden path before turning once more.

“You’ll be expected to marry soon,” he said.

“I know.”

“Will you?”

Veeran's gaze met his again, and for a moment—he looked **lost**.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t want to?”

Arjunan looked away.

“I believe that’s dangerous.”

And then he was gone.

Veeran stood in the garden long after Arjunan left.

Sura rose and walked a slow circle around him, brushing her tail against his leg.

The prince stared at the moonlight on the stone, then at his own hand—the one that had touched Arjunan’s wrist.

He curled it into a fist.

*Softness is harder to kill than steel*, he thought.

And so much harder to resist.

---