The great marble hall of Veergadh shimmered with the golden sheen of the midday sun pouring through lattice windows. Silken banners embroidered with phoenixes swayed softly in the breeze, and rows of nobles, generals, and dignitaries stood lined up in ceremonial silence.
This was no ordinary visit.
The warriors and royals of Ishvakra had arrived—invited after much discussion between the two empires—for a political alliance masked beneath courtesies and shared offerings. But beneath the polished etiquette and flower-scattered paths, old wounds still burned, and secrets brewed like storms behind closed doors.
At the center of it all stood Devira—clad in the royal crimson armor that she had forged herself. She was every inch the princess her people revered: spine straight, gaze unflinching, lips pressed into an unreadable line. The legendary curse mark pulsed faintly on her collarbone, hidden beneath layers of silk and metal, unseen but not unfelt. The kingdom whispered about it—wondered when the destined one would arrive. No one had answers.
Devira wasn't looking for answers.
She was looking for truth.
Then the heavy iron doors swung open.
And he walked in.
Ekaksh.
Draped in warrior black and the sigil of Ishvakra, the famed protector of his people stepped into the hall like he was carved from obsidian and shadow. His reputation had preceded him—undefeated in battle, feared by kings, and untethered to politics. He wasn't a prince. He had refused the crown three times. But he was still the one his king trusted with everything.
Devira's eyes found him immediately.
As if drawn to each other by invisible pull, her gaze locked with his—and the hall, with all its courtiers, gold, and polished swords, faded away for a heartbeat.
Hazel eyes. Unreadable. Cold fire.
And yet… something about the air around them crackled.
Ekaksh noticed the subtle red thread looped around her wrist—the same one that had tangled with his bracer during that brief moment in the marketplace. He said nothing. But a flicker passed through his expression. Recognition? No. Just... awareness.
The generals bowed.
The kings exchanged practiced greetings.
But Devira and Ekaksh didn't. They didn't speak. Didn't nod. They simply stood—like two storms calculating one another.
Until—
"My lord," Devira's voice rang out like steel wrapped in honey. "You wear your armor well. Does Ishvakra always send swords to speak for them?"
Ekaksh stepped forward. His voice, low and composed: "Only when words risk being false."
Gasps echoed quietly through the gathering.
The king of Veergadh shifted uneasily on his throne.
Devira tilted her head slightly. "Then I hope your sword is sharper than your tongue."
His lips curved—barely.
"It usually is."
The exchange was brief, civil by appearance, but the heat of it silenced the room. Everyone watched, some curious, others terrified. No one dared interrupt.
They were both fire, and the hall was full of kindling.
But what no one knew—what not even they realized—was that the mark on Devira's skin had burned faintly the moment he entered.
Not pain.
Not power.
But a pull.
As if it had waited lifetimes for that meeting.
As the diplomatic proceedings continued, Ekaksh and Devira were forced to stand beside each other, ride together in a chariot during the temple visit, and sit across during the shared feast.
Their conversations remained brief.
Their glances, sharp.
But something had begun—neither of them could deny it.
It wasn't affection.
It was tension. Like a drawn bowstring.
And somewhere deep within the shadowed corridors of Veergadh, whispers began to rise—
"Could it be him?"
"Is he the one destined to lift her curse?"
But Devira's fists clenched beneath the table.
He could never be the one.
Because the way his eyes met hers… it wasn't softness.
It was war.
-------------------
The royal courtyard was alive with drums and chants. Nobles filled the balconies above, eager to witness the famed warriors of Veergadh and Ishvakra display their skills in a friendly demonstration of strength and unity. But no one was truly here for diplomacy.
They were here to see fire meet fire.
And that fire burned in the form of two people.
Princess Devira of Veergadh.
Warrior Ekaksh of Ishvakra.
Below the banners and beside the sacred arena, Devira adjusted the grip on her sword. She wore dark steel armor this time, her hair tied high like a war goddess. No frills. No silks. Just the sharp silence of concentration.
Across from her, Ekaksh stood shirtless beneath a shoulder guard and chest armor, only the thick black cloth wrapped around his waist bearing Ishvakra's sigil. His spear rested against his back, but his gaze never left her.
The crowd cheered.
But the silence between them deepened.
"You don't have to fight me," Devira said as they stood a few feet apart, her voice low, private.
"I'm not here to fight," Ekaksh replied evenly. "Just to show your court what strength means."
"Is that a warning?"
"No. A promise."
The judge raised a hand. The crowd hushed.
Then—he dropped the red flag.
Steel sang.
Devira moved first, her blade sweeping low and fast, meant to test. Ekaksh blocked it with the blunt side of his spear, his footwork fluid, steady. He didn't attack—he observed. Calculated.
But she didn't wait for him to strike.
Another swing. A pivot. A kick aimed at his ribs.
He caught her ankle mid-air. Held it. Locked eyes.
Electric.
"I'm not one of your ceremonial dolls, Warrior."
"And I'm not one of your simpering suitors, Princess."
She jerked free and launched again, faster, fiercer. Her sword kissed his arm—just a scratch. But it drew blood.
Gasps echoed from the nobles.
Devira blinked. She hadn't meant to go that far.
Ekaksh touched the blood trailing down his skin and gave the smallest nod. "Finally. I thought you might disappoint me."
And then he struck.
This time it was his turn to move like fire. His spear clashed against her sword in a series of strikes so fast that sparks lit the air. Devira blocked them all, her muscles straining, breath coming sharp.
They moved like they were made for this.
A step. A block. A twist of blades.
It was a dance. Brutal. Beautiful.
And nothing like a demonstration anymore.
This wasn't war. But it wasn't peace either.
This was something older.
Something deeper.
When Ekaksh disarmed her with a sudden flick of his spear and caught her sword with one hand, pinning it to her throat—not enough to draw blood, but close—everything stilled.
Their chests heaved. Their eyes locked.
No one dared breathe.
And then… he stepped back.
Slow. Controlled. He dropped her sword at her feet with deliberate grace.
The crowd erupted into applause.
The match was over.
But no one clapped for diplomacy.
They clapped for chaos.
---
That night, whispers filled the palace.
"Did you see the way they looked at each other?"
"He drew blood—and smiled."
"Was it hatred… or something else?"
But in the shadows of the corridor, where torchlight flickered, Devira leaned against a pillar, breathing hard.
She hadn't lost.
But something had shifted.
And she hated it.
Because for the first time in years, the cursed mark on her skin didn't ache with fear or loneliness.
It burned with awareness.
And far on the other side of the palace, Ekaksh stared at the night sky, jaw clenched, pulse loud in his ears.
She was unlike anyone he'd ever known.
But that made her dangerous.
To his mission.
To his kingdom.
To himself.