I Was a Prince Bound By Duty, Until My Forbidden Cousin Became My Secret Obsession

Arjun released the arrow before dawn had fully decided what color the sky should be.
The bowstring snapped against his wrist guard, a clean sting that meant his elbow had stayed high, his shoulders square. Thirty paces away the reed shaft buried itself in the painted eye of a straw target, quivering once before stillness returned. He exhaled through his nose, nocked another, and repeated the motion exactly: lift, draw, anchor, release. By the time the sun cleared the eastern turret he had sent ninety arrows into the same palm-sized circle of paint and the ground at his feet was littered with the fletching ends of practice shafts, a pale bristling that looked almost like a crop he had grown overnight.

He liked the arithmetic of it: one shot, one result, no variables beyond wind and his own pulse. When he walked forward to collect the arrows he counted them aloud, a low chant that kept time with his footsteps. Ninety shots, ninety retrievals. The number felt solid in his mouth, a fact no one could dispute or reinterpret. His brothers still slept behind the sandstone walls; his mother would be lighting the first lamp in the shrine room, moving through her own sequence of mantras that never changed in order or cadence. He had heard her recite them since childhood and could predict the small pause she took before the name of Indra, the way she always cleared her throat before addressing the ancestors. Regularity was a form of reverence. He approved of that.

Back at the mark he restrung the bow, tighter this time, testing the tension with his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared and he watched it bead, fascinated by the perfect round drop that swelled and broke without complaint. Pain was information; information could be mastered. He wiped the thumb on the edge of his dhoti, leaving a rust-colored smear that would fade in the wash but never quite disappear. Everything in the palace carried such ghosts: the faint scar on the doorframe where Bhima had splintered the wood in childhood rage, the worn patch on the third stair where Nakula’s foot fell every morning. They were evidences of duty performed, of roles inhabited so completely they had begun to wear the stone itself.

A servant crossed the far courtyard with a copper pot of water, her steps quick and quiet, eyes lowered. Arjun nodded, the barest dip of his head, and she responded with the same measured gesture. No words, no unnecessary smile. He appreciated the economy. Later there would be lessons for the younger boys, accounts to review with Yudhishthir, an audience with a grain merchant seeking favorable tariffs. Each hour had its allotted shape; the day would click forward like beads on an abacus, predictable, accountable. He flexed his fingers around the bow grip and felt the familiar ache settle between his shoulder blades, a companion that never quite left anymore. It was comforting, proof that the previous day had existed, that he had not failed in any visible way. He raised the bow, drew, and sent the first arrow of the new count exactly where the others had gone.

He had loosed another forty shafts when the gatekeeper’s staff rang twice against the bell-metal plate. Arjun did not turn; the sound meant a visitor of sufficient rank to be announced, nothing that concerned his shooting. He nocked, drew, felt the familiar burn along his right scapula, and released. The arrow hissed away.

Then he heard her laugh.

It was not the restrained titter the palace women produced behind their veils, nor the obedient chuckle courtiers offered when a prince attempted wit. It spilled, bright and ungoverned, ricocheting off the vaulted arcade until even the pigeons on the cornice flapped in protest. Arjun’s next arrow struck the target’s outer ring, the first miss in two hundred shots. He lowered the bow.

She came through the archway in a swirl of yellow silk the color of fresh turmeric, one hand lifted to shade her eyes against the low sun, the other resting lightly on Sahadeva’s shoulder. Sahadeva—who blushed if a maidservant addressed him—was grinning like a boy given a whole sweet cake. Behind them Nakula carried a painted palanquin pole though no chair was attached; he too was laughing, as if carrying nothing heavier than air.

Arjun remained where he was, thirty paces distant, shaft still between gloved fingers. Subhadra’s braid had come half-undone and the loose ends flicked against her hips when she moved. She surveyed the courtyard as if it belonged to her, head tilted, mouth open in delighted assessment. Then her gaze found him. She did not bow, did not lower her eyes. Instead she smiled—a wide, candid stretching of lips that showed the slight gap between her front teeth—and lifted her hand in a gesture that was half wave, half summons.

He felt it in his knees, an involuntary softening, and locked his legs. Cousin, he told himself. Daughter of Vasudeva. Guest. Nothing more. He walked forward with measured steps, bow still in hand, aware that his dhoti clung to his thighs with dried sweat, that a streak of dust marked his forearm. She waited, thumbs hooked in her girdle, as if inspection were her right.

“Arjun,” Sahadeva said, breathless, “Subhadra-bhagini has never seen a composite bow of horn and sinew. I told her you would explain.”

Arjun opened his mouth to refuse—there were still sixty arrows to shoot, accounts later, order to maintain—but Subhadra stepped closer, eyes fixed on the weapon. A thin gold chain at her throat caught the sun, throwing a fleck of light against his collarbone like a tiny hot coin.

“Will you show me how you bend it?” she asked. Her voice was lower than her laugh, almost husky, the vowels rounded in the Dwarka fashion. She did not wait for permission but extended one finger and traced the curve of the limb, nail grazing the lacquered surface. Arjun’s pulse thudded against the inside of his wrist. He could smell sandalwood and something sharper, like crushed marigold.

“It requires discipline,” he said, the words stiff. “Strength without haste.”

She met his eyes. “I have never been good at haste,” she answered, and smiled again, the gap between her teeth a small, infuriating invitation. Then she turned away, already asking Sahadeva about the fountain, the carvings, the birds. Her yellow sari snapped like a sail as she spun, and Arjun watched the fabric retreat along the corridor, carrying its disorder with it.

He looked down: the glove on his left hand was mislaced, knot pulled crooked. He could not remember doing it. On the target the errant arrow quivered, a dark blemish in the outer ring. He told himself the disturbance was temporary, a ripple soon absorbed. Yet when he tried to resume his stance the courtyard felt narrower, the air warmer, as if someone had adjusted the angles of the walls while he wasn’t looking.

The dining hall smelled of ghee and roasted cumin, the lamps turned low enough that the gold edging on the brass plates caught fire. Arjun took his assigned cushion at the left of Yudhishthir’s low seat, spine already straight, eyes forward. He had bathed away the dust of the yard, scraped his cheeks free of stubble, braided his hair while it was still damp so that not a strand would rebel. Order restored.

Then she was beside him, the yellow sari replaced by indigo silk so dark it drank the lamplight. The attendant pulled out the cushion for her; she folded her legs in one fluid motion, the hem sliding up to expose a narrow band of ankle before she tugged it shut. Arjun stared at the carved mango on the table edge.

“Cousin,” she greeted, soft enough that only he could hear. The word sat in his ear like a fingertip.

He inclined his head. “Subhadra.”

Servants moved along the row, ladling lentils, arranging wheat cakes glossy with butter. He reached for the water jug. She asked, “How many arrows today?”

“Two hundred thirty.”

“And how many found the eye?”

“Two hundred twenty-nine.”

She laughed, the same ungoverned spill from the courtyard, but pitched now for the space between them. “So one escaped. Did it frighten you, that single rebellion?”

He lifted a wheat cake, broke it precisely in half. “A bowman accounts for wind.”

“And for pulse.” She leaned closer, jasmine drifting from the warm skin beneath her ear. “I watched you from the balcony. Your last shot trembled before release. Why?”

He pictured the arrow shuddering in his grip, the moment the courtyard had narrowed. “You were laughing.”

“Was I the wind, or the pulse?” Her knee touched his beneath the table, silk-covered bone settling against his bare leg. The pressure lingered, deliberate, while she reached for the pickle dish, giving the contact the innocent excuse of motion. Heat traveled the length of his thigh, pooled low in his belly. He felt the muscle in his calf twitch and forced it still.

She withdrew the knee, but not all the way; their legs remained bracketed, skin separated by a breath of cloth. Arjun set his cup down. The sound rang too loud.

Yudhishthir spoke across the table about monsoon forecasts. Arjun answered when required, voice clipped, each syllable counted like arrows. Subhadra ate slowly, fingers brushing his each time they dipped toward the shared dish. When she licked ghee from her thumb he caught the small sound her tongue made, wet and deliberate, and his spine stiffened until the vertebrae protested.

Eventually the plates were removed, the final grains of rice collected by servants for the cows. He rose first, offering the obligatory bow to his mother, to the guest. Subhadra stood beside him, indigo silk rustling like a night creature shaking out wings. The knee was gone; the imprint burned.

He walked the corridor alone, hearing her laughter resume behind him, bright and unrepentant against the stone. The ghost of her touch stayed, an ember he could not brush away, glowing hotter each time he told himself to forget it.