Vivaan stood at the edge of the courtyard, jaw tight, fists clenched.
The letter in his pocket felt heavier than a sword.
This wasn't a matter of diplomacy. Not a question of loyalty or rebellion.
This was blood.
And blood never asked permission before it claimed you.
"Some truths aren't uncovered," he whispered under his breath. "They're unleashed."
He had sent for Sitara that morning — not with a royal summons, not with guards.
Just a single word.
Come.
And she had.
A Memory, Drenched in Sun
The past unfurled like silk in heat.
A younger Sitara, no older than ten, stood trembling at the gates of a white-stone manor. Her sandals were dust-covered, her braids loose from travel. She clutched a small pouch of herbs to her chest — her mother had told her not to let go of it.
"For protection," Padmavati had whispered. "Even if the world forgets who you are."
A woman approached from the shadows of the manor porch. Statuesque. Draped in ivory silk. Her eyes were dark as dusk — sharp, searching, almost sad.
Vivaan's mother.
The Maharani.
"Come, child," she had said, her voice low, calm — like water over glass.
"It is time."
Time for what? Sitara hadn't known. But still, she followed.
Even then, some part of her knew she wasn't stepping into a home.
She was stepping into a cage.
Present: The Chamber of Questions
Vivaan didn't rise when she entered.
He stood by the window, framed in golden light, the weight of the kingdom pressing against his shoulders. His gaze, when it turned to her, was not gentle.
"You knew," he said.
"Didn't you?"
Sitara didn't blink.
"About what?"
He stepped forward. No ceremony. No smile. Just the rustle of silk and the sharp crackle of truth between them.
He pulled the letter from his pocket and laid it between them like a blade.
"My mother's letter."
His voice was tight. Wounded.
"You knew."
She glanced at the parchment, but made no move toward it.
"I don't touch what isn't mine," she said softly. "Especially when it bleeds."
Vivaan flinched. Her words hit their mark.
He took another step. Closer now. Closer than politics should allow.
"Then tell me," he said, eyes searching hers,
"What are we?"
Her silence was not avoidance. It was inevitability.
And when she finally spoke, it was not with sorrow.
It was with certainty.
"You already know."
Unraveling
Something splintered in him.
Not love.
Not fury.
Something older.
Recognition.
"If we are both lies," he thought, "then what was the truth ever worth?"
But he said nothing.
Because by the time he found the words, Sitara was already walking away — her shadow stretching long across the marble floor.
And in her wake, she left behind more than silence.
She left absence — the kind that rang louder than any truth could.