The entrance to the Rathore Political Headquarters loomed ahead-an unyielding fortress of power, its very foundation laid with the weight of dynasties, whispered alliances, and unsparing ambition.

This was no mere structure of stone and steel; it was carved from the echoes of battles fought in backrooms and assembly halls, built upon the names that history dared not forget.

Every pillar bore the weight of whispered betrayals, every corridor pulsed with an unyielding force-the kind of power that did not bend. It endured. It consumed.

Today , the halls buzzed with voices, the undercurrent of something unspoken running thick in the air.

The party workers moved like restless waves, their loyalties shifting, their ambitions brewing.

The elections were nearing, and every corner of this place whispered of power plays, of hands shaken in shadows, of decisions that would shape the future of the state.

Raunaksh stepped past the grand doors, his presence cutting through the morning hush like a blade through silk.

He had never cared for the theatrics of politics, never sought the limelight that his brother commanded with ease.

His power was quieter, wielded in the unseen corridors where real battles were fought-not in speeches, but in strategy, not in promises, but in actions.

He was forged in silence, where shadows dictated fates and wars were won long before the world even knew they had begun He preferred the shadows , where decisions were made before the world even knew they existed.

And yet, as he crossed the threshold of the Rathore Political Headquarters, the air felt different-charged, uneasy, as if the walls themselves braced for what was to come.

The corridor leading to Yashwardhan Rathore's office was unnervingly silent.

It should have been bustling-party workers moving in and out, aides discussing strategies, the undercurrent of power thrumming through every corner.

But this morning, there was only stillness. A silence too thick, too unnatural.

At the far end, just outside Yashwardhan's office, two men stood waiting.

Their tension was palpable, their expressions etched with barely concealed worry.

Aaditya Sharma, Yashwardhan's secretary-sharp, efficient, and a man who had mastered the art of keeping his employer's affairs in order. Yet today, his usually composed demeanor was fraying at the edges, his fingers twitching against the file he held too tightly.

Beside him stood Captain Raghav Suri, head of security-an ex-army man with the stance of someone who had spent years guarding powerful men.

His eyes, always vigilant, now carried something rare. Concern.

At the sight of Raunaksh, a flicker of relief passed between them, but it was brief-swallowed almost immediately by the weight of the moment.

"Sir," Aaditya started, his voice low, urgent. "He's still not answering."

Raunaksh's gaze swept over them, unreadable, but the sharp edge in his voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"How long?"

Aaditya straightened, his fingers tightening around the file. "Since last night. He dismissed everyone after a late meeting and hasn't responded since."

Raunaksh's jaw tensed. "Did anyone go in before that? Anyone unusual?"

Raghav shook his head. "No one out of the ordinary. Just his usual aides and party members. But..." He hesitated, as if weighing his words. "There was a call. Around midnight. I wasn't there, but the night guard said he seemed...off afterward."

Raunaksh's gaze darkened. "Off how?"

Aaditya exhaled sharply. "Quiet. Unsettled. He didn't say a word when he left the main hall. Just walked in and locked the door."

Raghav added, his voice lower, "He was carrying a parcel. Small, but heavy enough that he held it with both hands. We thought it was just documents, but..." He shook his head. "Something about the way he looked-it wasn't normal."

The unease in Raunaksh's chest thickened. Yashwardhan was a man of control, a strategist who never let emotions dictate his movements.

If something had rattled him enough to lock himself away without a word, it wasn't just another political move.

He stepped forward, knocking once. Twice.

"Bade Sahib."

Silence.

His jaw tightened, the weight of unspoken questions pressing against his ribs.

"Yashwardhan."

The name left him like a command, sharp and edged with something dangerously close to urgency.

Still nothing. Not even the shuffle of movement from inside.

The silence thickened, pressing against his ribs, stretching into something unnatural. One breath. Two.

Then, without warning-impact. The door trembled, wood splintering under the sheer force of his will, a sharp crack slicing through the suffocating hush.

The wood shuddered, splintering at the impact. A sharp crack echoed through the hall as the lock gave way, the door swinging open under the sheer weight of his will.

The weight in his chest deepened the moment his gaze fell upon-

Far from the corridors of power, where every word was a weapon.

The temple bells rang-soft, steady, timeless.

The scent of sandalwood and marigolds filled the air as Meher folded her hands before the deity, eyes closed, lips moving in a quiet prayer.

The morning sun spilled gold over the temple courtyard, weaving through the ancient chinar trees like whispered hymns, draping the world in a light so tender, it felt like a blessing that lined the ancient stone path.

The scent of sandalwood and marigolds lingered in the crisp air, mingling with the distant hum of temple bells.

Meher Bhat stood at the temple's threshold, her hands pressed together in quiet devotion.

She was draped in a simple yet graceful Kashmiri shawl, the soft fabric moving gently with the early breeze. Her long hair, still adorned with a few stray petals from her walk by the river, cascaded down her back, dark as the night before a snowfall. A delicate nose stud gleamed in the soft light, a quiet adornment that spoke of tradition, of belonging, of a past she refused to let go of.

Her lips moved in a silent prayer, the words meant for no one but the divine.

For peace. For strength. For the past she could not change and the future she was terrified to face.

The world had taken so much from her. Yet here, in the temple's quiet embrace, she wasn't the woman holding the weight of loss or responsibility. She was just Meher. A daughter. A sister.

A woman searching for something she wasn't sure she would ever find.

She exhaled, slow and steady, before turning to leave.

And that was when she felt it.

A presence.

Not near, not close enough to touch, but there. Like the weight of an unsaid word lingering in the air.

The morning air was crisp as Meher stepped toward the riverbank, the cool stone beneath her feet grounding her in a way nothing else could.

The scent of damp earth and temple incense clung to the breeze, wrapping around her like a quiet embrace.

Just then, a sudden shift-a presence moving past her, the air thickening as if the world had tilted for just a breath of a moment.

A few stray droplets, cold and sharp, landed on her skin, a reminder of something that had just passed. Startled by the unexpected touch, she exhaled, instinctively ruffling her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands to shake away the cool sensation

As she did, delicate petals-withered remnants of the temple's offerings-slipped free from where they had nestled in her hair.

They drifted in the air for a fleeting second before coming to rest on dark, coarse wool stretched over broad shoulders.

Something pulled her gaze-an unseen force, a whisper in the air, the kind of instinct that makes the soul turn before the mind understands why.

There stood Raunaksh Rajwar, his back to her, the wet shawl clinging to his powerful frame, droplets cascading down like remnants of a storm.

She caught a glimpse of his muscled back, scars of chaos peeking from beneath the fabric-a silent testament to battles fought and wounds endured.

For a moment-just a breath of time-

she was caught in the gravity of him. A force forged in war and silence, standing at the edge of her world of prayers and river songs

It was only when he turned away that he paused for a fraction of a second, oblivious to the petals resting against his shawl.

Just like the presence that had moved past him.

As Raunaksh vanished into the morning mist, a strange calm settled over her-a quiet ache of something unfound, something already slipping through her fingers before she even knew to reach for it.

The water droplets had awakened something deep within her-a reminder that peace could exist even in the chaos, that moments of connection, however fleeting, held the power to soothe the soul.

With a deep breath, she turned back to the river.

The water shimmered like liquid silver, the ripples echoing the quiet shift in her heart.

The world felt lighter, softer-as if the stillness itself had taken her sorrow and wrapped it in something gentler, something almost sacred.

___________________________

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