The river murmured at her feet, a restless tide of silver and shadow, weaving echoes of forgotten prayers into its endless song.

Meher stood still, the cold earth pressing against her soles, the temple bells swaying like echoes of the past.

And then—she saw herself.

Her reflection wavered in the river’s embrace, a ghost of herself caught in the water’s pulse—shifting, dissolving, reforming. Just like her.

The morning light kissed her skin, but her eyes found only one thing: the small glint of silver at her nose.

The nose stud.

A fragment of her mother, silver and soft, pressed into her hands with the weight of unspoken promises and the quiet ferocity of love that never demanded words.

"This will always be a part of you, Meher," her mother had whispered, fastening it in place with tender fingers. "No matter where you go. No matter what you become."

She lifted trembling fingers to it now, brushing the cool metal, as if touching the past itself.

A past where love was simple, where she was just a daughter, where her world had not yet split at the seams.

A gust of wind curled around her, lifting her dupatta, sending temple bells into song. Petals tangled in her hair, as if even the wind hesitated to let go.

And in that moment, standing before the sacred river, she felt something settle inside her -a piece that did not soothe but made the weight easier to bear

The kind that did not heal wounds but made carrying them a little easier

It had been six months since her father’s death.

Six months of silence, of a house that no longer held footsteps heavier than her own.

She had spent years pushing against him—his rules, his sharp words, his unshaken beliefs. And yet, now that he was gone, there was nothing left to fight.

No restrictions to rebel against. No lectures to endure. Just an emptiness that stretched within her like an unanswered prayer.

She had never truly hated him. Not fully.

How could she, when he was the man who had once lifted her onto his shoulders, who had taught her the meaning of discipline and strength? But loving him had felt just as wrong—because he had abandoned Aayat, had turned his back on his own blood.

How could a man who preached duty have forsaken his own daughter?

The weight of it all had settled inside her, a storm with no outlet, an ache too tangled to be named.

She glanced at the letter in her hand, the paper slightly crinkled from being held too long. This letter—like all the others—was a lifeline.

The last time she had seen Aayat was at their father’s funeral.

They hadn’t known how to grieve him together, how to mourn a man who had given them both love and wounds.

Neither of them had spoken much that day, unsure if words would bring comfort or reopen old scars. But for three hours, they had sat side by side, away from the noise of mourners. Not as estranged sisters. Not as daughters of a man who had divided them. Just two women who had once been little girls, grieving their father in the only way they knew—by holding each other and letting the moment be enough.

A gust of wind fluttered the edges of the letter.

She had received it yesterday morning but hadn’t found the time to read it.

Life had pulled her away—students, lesson plans, the routine of responsibility.

But here, in the quiet of the temple, with the river murmuring beside her, she finally allowed herself to slow down.

Unfolding the letter, she let her sister’s words wash over her.

"Mehru,

It’s Aaryan’s birthday next week. His first one. His massi should be here, don’t you think?"

A small smile tugged at her lips.

"He is getting so naughty, you won’t believe it! He throws half his food on the floor and claps as if he’s won a battle. Veer says he gets it from me, but I know it’s you he takes after. I tell him stories about you, you know? About how his massi is the strongest, most patient, most beautiful woman I know."

A breath hitched in her throat.

"Meher, I know you. You take care of everyone—Baba, your students, even me, when I was the one who left. But it’s time you break that habit. It’s time you put yourself first. I won’t let you grieve forever. Not when you still have so much life left to live."

Aayat’s words blurred for a moment before she blinked them clear.

"Come, Mehru. Come laugh with me. Come hold my son, kiss his chubby cheeks, and scold him when he tugs too hard at my hair. Come remind me that the road between us was never lost—only waiting to be walked again. I need my sister. And you—"

"You need to come home."

A lump rose in Meher’s throat.

The river before her rippled, the morning light shimmering against its surface, but inside her, everything was still.

Aayat’s words settled deep, touching something she hadn’t realized she had buried.

For so long, she had been lost in the roles she had to play. Dutiful daughter. Responsible teacher. Silent mourner. But Aayat was right. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten how to be just Meher.

And maybe… maybe it was time to remember.

As Meher stepped out of the temple and made her way to the car, she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air.

The scent of wet earth and temple incense clung to her senses, grounding her in the present.

The distant mountains stood tall against the sky, their snowy peaks kissed by the first rays of sunlight.

The river, now behind her, continued its endless journey, much like time itself—flowing forward, never looking back.

She drove through the streets of Srinagar, the city awakening to another day.

The morning bazaar was already alive with chatter, vendors arranging saffron, dry fruits, and handwoven pashmina shawls under the golden light.

A group of schoolchildren walked by, their laughter ringing through the air, their innocence untouched by the weight this land carried.

People called Kashmir Jannat—heaven on earth. And, in moments like this, it did seem like paradise, with its breathtaking valleys, crystal-clear lakes, and tulip gardens that burst into color each spring.

But for those who lived here, paradise had long been shaped by something else—fire.

Wars had carved their names into the soil, leaving behind scars deeper than the valleys themselves.

Every family had a story of loss, of waiting, of longing.

Meher had lived long enough to know that beauty and grief were woven together here, inseparable like the intricate patterns of a Kashmiri shawl.

Her car rolled into the familiar gates of St. Joseph’s Academy, the same school where she had spent her childhood, and the same one where her father had once been the principal.

A weight settled in her chest as she stepped out, her gaze sweeping across the well-maintained gardens, the old brick walls, the corridors where his voice had once echoed with authority.

Even now, his presence lingered—etched in the discipline of the students, in the legacy he had left behind.

For years, she had walked these halls as his daughter, shaped by his presence, bound by his legacy.

But today, as she crossed the threshold, the echoes of his voice did not command her steps.

Today, for the first time, she walked these halls as herself—this was not his school anymore. It was hers.

With that thought, she stepped forward, her heart carrying the weight of both love and defiance.

The chalk danced between Meher’s fingers as she turned to the blackboard, her voice steady as she spoke of civilizations lost to time. The students listened—most of them, at least.

“History isn’t just about dates and wars,” she said, underlining a key point on the board. “It’s about people, about choices that shaped the world we live in today. Can anyone tell me—”

A small hand shot up before she could even finish.

“Meher Ma’am, your nose stud is really pretty today,” declared Ayaan, an eight-year-old with mischief in his eyes.

The class broke into a wave of giggles, and Meher turned to find him grinning up at her, utterly unrepentant.

She folded her arms, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Ayaan, I was asking about the Mauryan Empire, not my jewelry.”

“But ma’am,” he argued, completely serious, “if Chandragupta Maurya had met you, he would have forgotten about uniting India and just written love letters instead.”

The class erupted in laughter, while Ayaan sat back, satisfied with his performance.

Meher sighed, shaking her head, but before she could respond, a loud huff came from the other side of the room.

Zoya, a sharp-eyed girl with an ever-present frown for Ayaan, slammed her notebook shut. “Meher Ma’am doesn’t have time for bakwaas,” she snapped. “Unlike some people, she actually cares about history.”

Ayaan gasped, wounded. “I care about history too! But I also care about appreciating beauty.” He turned dramatically back to Meher. “Right, Ma’am?”

Meher pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. These two were at it again. “Both of you,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “should care about passing the class first.”

Zoya looked pleased. Ayaan looked betrayed.

The rest of the students giggled

Raunaksh’s grip on the doorframe tightened.

He had seen Yashwardhan angry, ruthless, and calculating—but never like this. Never silent.

A thick tension filled the office, pressing against the air like a gathering storm.

The kind that came before a landslide. Before everything changed.

Raunaksh stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the polished floor. His gaze flickered to the parcel—torn open in haste, its edges crushed beneath Yashwardhan’s rigid hands.

“What happened?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. A warning.

Yashwardhan didn’t respond immediately. He exhaled, slow and controlled, yet his shoulders remained stiff, as if bracing against an unseen force.

Then, without looking up, he finally spoke.

“You should see for yourself.”

Raunaksh’s jaw clenched. He reached for the parcel, his fingers brushing against the paper, and then—

He saw it.

The blood drained from his face.

Inside lay a photograph, creased with time, smudged by hands that had held it too often.

Aayat and Veer, smiling as if the world had never touched them.

As if fate had not already written them into tragedy.

Their faces frozen in time—before. Before the murder. Before their love became collateral in a war they never asked to fight.

And beneath it, a note. Handwritten. Stark in its simplicity.

"You always used to say power is never given—it is taken, molded, and sacrificed for. Then think of these two as a sacrifice you had to make for power."

Raunaksh’s breath came slow and measured, but something dark unfurled inside him. A dangerous stillness.

His fingers curled over the paper, tightening until the edges crumpled. The words bled into his skin, searing themselves into his mind.

A challenge. A taunt. A reminder.

Veins of rage coursed through him, cold and lethal. Not for the first time, he felt the weight of the world he had chosen to stay in—the filth of politics, the stench of betrayal.

He lifted his gaze to Yashwardhan, whose expression remained unreadable. But in his eyes, Raunaksh saw it—the fury. The grief. And beneath it all, something far worse.

Recognition.

It's true , ghosts don’t always haunt in the dark; some wear masks and walk among us—shaking hands, making promises, carving their legacies in the blood of the forgotten.

Raunaksh had never seen Yashwardhan like this—not even in the most brutal of political storms. For a man who wielded control like a second skin, this unraveling was unfamiliar, unsettling.

Yashwardhan's breathing was uneven, his fingers digging into the desk as if holding onto something slipping beyond his grasp.

Raunaksh didn’t speak at first. He understood grief. Understood that it was not something to be reasoned with—it had to be weathered, endured.

And yet, there was no time to fall apart.

Raunaksh stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was the first time in years that they had been this close, but Yashwardhan didn’t push him away.

Instead, his grip on the desk tightened before his shoulders finally sagged under the weight of something only he knew.

“You always used to say power is never given—it is taken, molded, and sacrificed for,” Raunaksh murmured. His voice was steady, measured. “Then think of these two as a sacrifice you have to make for power.”

Yashwardhan let out a sharp breath, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t rage. He simply closed his eyes, the lines on his face deepening.

Raunaksh knew he needed to leave him alone, but as he turned, something in the air shifted. A memory surfaced, unbidden, unwelcome—the face of a boy who had once looked at him without judgment, without expectation.

Veer.

He had been the first person to accept Raunaksh without conditions. Without fear. They say children have the purest hearts, and Veer had proven it.

Flashback

A younger Raunaksh stood at the far end of the training grounds, his hands bloodied from relentless practice.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but he had refused to stop.

"You know, you're not a machine, Raunaksh chachu ," Veer’s voice had called out, full of easy warmth.

Raunaksh had turned, his usual cold mask in place. “Go inside, Veer.”

But Veer had grinned, unfazed. "Not until you do. If you break, who will I look up to?"

For a moment, Raunaksh had felt something crack inside him—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of being seen, truly seen, by someone who expected nothing from him except to exist.

And now, Veer was gone.

Raunaksh clenched his jaw, pushing the memory back into the shadows where it belonged. He straightened, casting one last glance at Yashwardhan before stepping out of the room.

The world outside was still spinning, uncaring of what had just transpired.

But something had changed.

And this was only the beginning.

Raunaksh had just reached the door when Yashwardhan's voice, hoarse yet controlled, stopped him.

“Aaryan.”

Raunaksh turned back, his sharp gaze meeting Yashwardhan’s.

The older man was no longer slumped over, though the grief still sat heavy in his eyes. But now, there was something else beneath it—worry. Calculation.

“He’s alone now,” Yashwardhan said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a decision forming in his mind.

Raunaksh’s fingers curled into a fist. Aaryan. Veer and Aayat’s son. The child who had lost everything before he could even understand the meaning of loss.

“I know,” Raunaksh replied, his tone unreadable.

Yashwardhan sat in his chair like a man who carried the weight of entire kingdoms on his shoulders.

The dim light of his study cast long shadows, flickering against the carved walls, the smell of old paper and burnt tobacco settling in the air. His voice, when it came, was measured—calm, but absolute.

"You will take him in."

“I’m not fit to raise a child,” Raunaksh said after a beat, his voice clipped, like he was unwilling to admit the truth. “And neither are you.”

Raunaksh didn’t respond immediately.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the nails pressing into his palm. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

He had expected this conversation, had braced himself for it, but still, the words landed like a command branded into his skin.

"Not because you ask me to." His voice was low, rough. "Not because it serves your political vision, or because it cleans up the mess that was made when Veer walked away from your world. I will take him in—because he is my blood. Because he is all that remains of the only person who ever believed I was worth saving."

He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You speak of duty, of responsibility, as if this is a burden I must bear. But you don’t understand, Yashwardhan. You never have."

His gaze lifted, piercing, burning with something raw and unspoken. "I don’t owe you this. I don’t even owe Veer this. I owe it to him."

His voice softened just slightly, but the weight of his words did not. "

The river murmured at her feet, a restless tide of silver and shadow, weaving echoes of forgotten prayers into its endless song.

Meher stood still, the cold earth pressing against her soles, the temple bells swaying like echoes of the past.

And then—she saw herself.

Her reflection wavered in the river’s embrace, a ghost of herself caught in the water’s pulse—shifting, dissolving, reforming. Just like her.
The morning light kissed her skin, but her eyes found only one thing: the small glint of silver at her nose.

The nose stud.

A fragment of her mother, silver and soft, pressed into her hands with the weight of unspoken promises and the quiet ferocity of love that never demanded words.

"This will always be a part of you, Meher," her mother had whispered, fastening it in place with tender fingers. "No matter where you go. No matter what you become."

She lifted trembling fingers to it now, brushing the cool metal, as if touching the past itself.

A past where love was simple, where she was just a daughter, where her world had not yet split at the seams.

A gust of wind curled around her, lifting her dupatta, sending temple bells into song. Petals tangled in her hair, as if even the wind hesitated to let go.
And in that moment, standing before the sacred river, she felt something settle inside her—a peace that did not soothe but made the weight easier to bear.

The kind that did not heal wounds but made carrying them a little easier.

It had been six months since her father’s death.
Six months of silence, of a house that no longer held footsteps heavier than her own.

She had spent years pushing against him—his rules, his sharp words, his unshaken beliefs. And yet, now that he was gone, there was nothing left to fight.

No restrictions to rebel against. No lectures to endure. Just an emptiness that stretched within her like an unanswered prayer.

She had never truly hated him. Not fully.

How could she, when he was the man who had once lifted her onto his shoulders, who had taught her the meaning of discipline and strength? But loving him had felt just as wrong—because he had abandoned Aayat, had turned his back on his own blood.

How could a man who preached duty have forsaken his own daughter?

The weight of it all had settled inside her, a storm with no outlet, an ache too tangled to be named.

She glanced at the letter in her hand, the paper slightly crinkled from being held too long. This letter—like all the others—was a lifeline.

The last time she had seen Aayat was at their father’s funeral.

They hadn’t known how to grieve him together, how to mourn a man who had given them both love and wounds.

Neither of them had spoken much that day, unsure if words would bring comfort or reopen old scars. But for three hours, they had sat side by side, away from the noise of mourners. Not as estranged sisters. Not as daughters of a man who had divided them. Just two women who had once been little girls, grieving their father in the only way they knew—by holding each other and letting the moment be enough.
A gust of wind fluttered the edges of the letter.

She had received it yesterday morning but hadn’t found the time to read it.

Life had pulled her away—students, lesson plans, the routine of responsibility.

But here, in the quiet of the temple, with the river murmuring beside her, she finally allowed herself to slow down.
Unfolding the letter, she let her sister’s words wash over her.

"Mehru,
It’s Aaryan’s birthday next week. His first one. His massi should be here, don’t you think?"

A small smile tugged at her lips.

"He is getting so naughty, you won’t believe it! He throws half his food on the floor and claps as if he’s won a battle. Veer says he gets it from me, but I know it’s you he takes after. I tell him stories about you, you know? About how his massi is the strongest, most patient, most beautiful woman I know."
A breath hitched in her throat.

"Meher, I know you. You take care of everyone—Baba, your students, even me, when I was the one who left. But it’s time you break that habit. It’s time you put yourself first. I won’t let you grieve forever. Not when you still have so much life left to live."
Aayat’s words blurred for a moment before she blinked them clear.

"Come, Mehru. Come laugh with me. Come hold my son, kiss his chubby cheeks, and scold him when he tugs too hard at my hair. Come remind me that the road between us was never lost—only waiting to be walked again. I need my sister. And you—"

"You need to come home."

A lump rose in Meher’s throat.
The river before her rippled, the morning light shimmering against its surface, but inside her, everything was still.
Aayat’s words settled deep, touching something she hadn’t realized she had buried.

For so long, she had been lost in the roles she had to play. Dutiful daughter. Responsible teacher. Silent mourner. But Aayat was right. Somewhere along the way, she had forgotten how to be just Meher.

And maybe… maybe it was time to remember.

As Meher stepped out of the temple and made her way to the car, she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air.
The scent of wet earth and temple incense clung to her senses, grounding her in the present.
The distant mountains stood tall against the sky, their snowy peaks kissed by the first rays of sunlight.
The river, now behind her, continued its endless journey, much like time itself—flowing forward, never looking back.

She drove through the streets of Srinagar, the city awakening to another day.
The morning bazaar was already alive with chatter, vendors arranging saffron, dry fruits, and handwoven pashmina shawls under the golden light.
A group of schoolchildren walked by, their laughter ringing through the air, their innocence untouched by the weight this land carried.

People called Kashmir Jannat—heaven on earth. And, in moments like this, it did seem like paradise, with its breathtaking valleys, crystal-clear lakes, and tulip gardens that burst into color each spring.
But for those who lived here, paradise had long been shaped by something else—fire.
Wars had carved their names into the soil, leaving behind scars deeper than the valleys themselves.
Every family had a story of loss, of waiting, of longing.

Meher had lived long enough to know that beauty and grief were woven together here, inseparable like the intricate patterns of a Kashmiri shawl.

Her car rolled into the familiar gates of St. Joseph’s Academy, the same school where she had spent her childhood, and the same one where her father had once been the principal.

A weight settled in her chest as she stepped out, her gaze sweeping across the well-maintained gardens, the old brick walls, the corridors where his voice had once echoed with authority.

Even now, his presence lingered—etched in the discipline of the students, in the legacy he had left behind.

For years, she had walked these halls as his daughter, shaped by his presence, bound by his legacy.

But today, as she crossed the threshold, the echoes of his voice did not command her steps.
Today, for the first time, she walked these halls as herself—this was not his school anymore. It was hers.

With that thought, she stepped forward, her heart carrying the weight of both love and defiance.

The chalk danced between Meher’s fingers as she turned to the blackboard, her voice steady as she spoke of civilizations lost to time. The students listened—most of them, at least.

“History isn’t just about dates and wars,” she said, underlining a key point on the board. “It’s about people, about choices that shaped the world we live in today. Can anyone tell me—”
A small hand shot up before she could even finish.

“Meher Ma’am, your nose stud is really pretty today,” declared Ayaan, an eight-year-old with mischief in his eyes.

The class broke into a wave of giggles, and Meher turned to find him grinning up at her, utterly unrepentant.

She folded her arms, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Ayaan, I was asking about the Mauryan Empire, not my jewelry.”

“But ma’am,” he argued, completely serious, “if Chandragupta Maurya had met you, he would have forgotten about uniting India and just written love letters instead.”

The class erupted in laughter, while Ayaan sat back, satisfied with his performance.

Meher sighed, shaking her head, but before she could respond, a loud huff came from the other side of the room.

Zoya, a sharp-eyed girl with an ever-present frown for Ayaan, slammed her notebook shut. “Meher Ma’am doesn’t have time for bakwaas,” she snapped. “Unlike some people, she actually cares about history.”

Ayaan gasped, wounded. “I care about history too! But I also care about appreciating beauty.” He turned dramatically back to Meher. “Right, Ma’am?”

Meher pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. These two were at it again. “Both of you,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “should care about passing the class first.”

Zoya looked pleased. Ayaan looked betrayed.

The rest of the students giggled

Raunaksh’s grip on the doorframe tightened.
He had seen Yashwardhan angry, ruthless, and calculating—but never like this. Never silent.

A thick tension filled the office, pressing against the air like a gathering storm.
The kind that came before a landslide. Before everything changed.

Raunaksh stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the polished floor. His gaze flickered to the parcel—torn open in haste, its edges crushed beneath Yashwardhan’s rigid hands.

“What happened?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. A warning.

Yashwardhan didn’t respond immediately. He exhaled, slow and controlled, yet his shoulders remained stiff, as if bracing against an unseen force.

Then, without looking up, he finally spoke.

“You should see for yourself.”

Raunaksh’s jaw clenched. He reached for the parcel, his fingers brushing against the paper, and then—

He saw it.

The blood drained from his face.

Inside lay a photograph, creased with time, smudged by hands that had held it too often.

Aayat and Veer, smiling as if the world had never touched them.
As if fate had not already written them into tragedy.
Their faces frozen in time—before. Before the murder. Before their love became collateral in a war they never asked to fight.

And beneath it, a note. Handwritten. Stark in its simplicity.

"You always used to say power is never given—it is taken, molded, and sacrificed for. Then think of these two as a sacrifice you had to make for power."

Raunaksh’s breath came slow and measured, but something dark unfurled inside him. A dangerous stillness.

His fingers curled over the paper, tightening until the edges crumpled. The words bled into his skin, searing themselves into his mind.

A challenge. A taunt. A reminder.

Veins of rage coursed through him, cold and lethal. Not for the first time, he felt the weight of the world he had chosen to stay in—the filth of politics, the stench of betrayal.

He lifted his gaze to Yashwardhan, whose expression remained unreadable. But in his eyes, Raunaksh saw it—the fury. The grief. And beneath it all, something far worse.

Recognition.

It's true that ghosts don’t always haunt in the dark; some wear masks and walk among us—shaking hands, making promises, carving their legacies in the blood of the forgotten.

Raunaksh had never seen Yashwardhan like this—not even in the most brutal of political storms. For a man who wielded control like a second skin, this unraveling was unfamiliar, unsettling.

Yashwardhan's breathing was uneven, his fingers digging into the desk as if holding onto something slipping beyond his grasp.

Raunaksh didn’t speak at first. He understood grief. Understood that it was not something to be reasoned with—it had to be weathered, endured.

And yet, there was no time to fall apart.

Raunaksh stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. It was the first time in years that they had been this close, but Yashwardhan didn’t push him away.

Instead, his grip on the desk tightened before his shoulders finally sagged under the weight of something only he knew.

“You always used to say power is never given—it is taken, molded, and sacrificed for,” Raunaksh murmured. His voice was steady, measured. “Then think of these two as a sacrifice you have to make for power.”

Yashwardhan let out a sharp breath, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t rage. He simply closed his eyes, the lines on his face deepening.

Raunaksh knew he needed to leave him alone, but as he turned, something in the air shifted. A memory surfaced, unbidden, unwelcome—the face of a boy who had once looked at him without judgment, without expectation.

Veer.

He had been the first person to accept Raunaksh without conditions. Without fear. They say children have the purest hearts, and Veer had proven it.

Flashback

A younger Raunaksh stood at the far end of the training grounds, his hands bloodied from relentless practice.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, but he had refused to stop.

"You know, you're not a machine, Raunaksh chachu ," Veer’s voice had called out, full of easy warmth.

Raunaksh had turned, his usual cold mask in place. “Go inside, Veer.”

But Veer had grinned, unfazed. "Not until you do. If you break, who will I look up to?"

For a moment, Raunaksh had felt something crack inside him—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of being seen, truly seen, by someone who expected nothing from him except to exist.

And now, Veer was gone.

Raunaksh clenched his jaw, pushing the memory back into the shadows where it belonged. He straightened, casting one last glance at Yashwardhan before stepping out of the room.

The world outside was still spinning, uncaring of what had just transpired.

But something had changed.

And this was only the beginning.

Raunaksh had just reached the door when Yashwardhan's voice, hoarse yet controlled, stopped him.

“Aaryan.”

Raunaksh turned back, his sharp gaze meeting Yashwardhan’s.

The older man was no longer slumped over, though the grief still sat heavy in his eyes. But now, there was something else beneath it—worry. Calculation.

“He’s alone now,” Yashwardhan said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a decision forming in his mind.

Raunaksh’s fingers curled into a fist. Aaryan. Veer and Aayat’s son. The child who had lost everything before he could even understand the meaning of loss.

“I know,” Raunaksh replied, his tone unreadable.

Yashwardhan sat in his chair like a man who carried the weight of entire kingdoms on his shoulders.

The dim light of his study cast long shadows, flickering against the carved walls, the smell of old paper and burnt tobacco settling in the air. His voice, when it came, was measured—calm, but absolute.

"You will take him in."

“I’m not fit to raise a child,” Raunaksh said after a beat, his voice clipped, like he was unwilling to admit the truth. “And neither are you.”

Raunaksh didn’t respond immediately.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the nails pressing into his palm. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

He had expected this conversation, had braced himself for it, but still, the words landed like a command branded into his skin.

"Not because you ask me to." His voice was low, rough. "Not because it serves your political vision, or because it cleans up the mess that was made when Veer walked away from your world. I will take him in—because he is my blood. Because he is all that remains of the only person who ever believed I was worth saving."

He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping He exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You speak of duty, of responsibility, as if this is a burden I must bear. But you don’t understand, Yashwardhan. You never have."

His gaze lifted, piercing, burning with something raw and unspoken. "I don’t owe you this. I don’t even owe Veer this. I owe it to him."

His voice softened just slightly, but the weight of his words did not. "A child who has lost everything. A child who will grow up with questions that will never have answers. A child who will look into my eyes one day and demand to know why the world stole his parents from him. And when that moment comes, I want to be able to tell him one thing—that when the world took everything, I was still there."

Yashwardhan studied him in silence. For a man who always held the upper hand, who played every move with cold calculation, there was something unreadable in his expression now. A flicker of something Raunaksh had never dared to look for.

Pity? Regret? Perhaps just understanding, too late to change anything.

But Raunaksh did not wait for his approval. He turned away, his decision already made.

For the first time in his life, he was choosing something not out of obligation, not out of expectation—

But out of love.

As he moved, his gaze flickered downward, catching on something delicate resting against the dark fabric of his shawl—a lone flower petal. Pale, fragile, untouched by the storm raging around him.

His breath stilled.

It was the same petal he had seen earlier, nestled in the hair of the girl from the temple. Soft, pure, unshaken even in the chaos.

A whisper of something gentle, something he had no right to reach for.

Then, just as quickly, he snapped out of it.

Softness had no place in his world.

Not now. Not ever.

With a sharp exhale, he brushed the petal away and stepped forward, leaving it behind.
__________________________

Hey everyone,
This was my Meher for you—her pain, her strength, and her love.

What are your thoughts on Meher and Raunaksh so far? How do you feel about the other characters?

I’d love to hear your opinions, so don’t forget to like and leave a comment!

Your support and feedback mean the world to me.
- Anyasen_

Seriously what would you write ✍️