The Warrior's Surrender

Arjun leaned against the carved sandstone railing of the upper balcony, arms folded, the late-afternoon sun warm on his bare forearms. Below, the palace gates swung open with their usual ceremonial clang, but the sound that followed was different—lighter, looser. A woman’s laugh, bright as brass bells, carried up the marble stairways and settled under his skin like a splinter.

He had not meant to watch. He had come to count arrowheads in the armory, then to check that the stable boys had watered the horses before evening drill. Instead he found himself stationed here, gaze drawn downward as if pulled by an invisible string.

Subhadra entered on foot, refusing the palanquin that had been sent for her. Her escort of Dwarka guards peeled away, grinning, as she moved through the courtyard alone. She wore no veil. A single length of indigo cotton wrapped her hips and chest, leaving her arms bare, gold bracelets sliding to her elbows whenever she lifted a hand to greet someone. The courtyard staff—usually bent double under trays or brooms—straightened, smiling as if someone had loosened the ropes that kept their spines in order. Even the gatekeeper, an old man who never smiled, touched his forehead and laughed when she called him “uncle.”

Arjun’s youngest brother, Sahadev, appeared from the stables, shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Subhadra caught sight of him, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed his forehead. Sahadev blushed the color of pomegranate seeds. Nakul followed, carrying a lute he had supposedly restrung for the evening’s entertainment. She took it without asking, strummed a chord, and handed it back strung differently—sweeter, Arjun could tell from the way the sound rose, light and teasing. Nakul laughed as if she had paid him a fortune.

He catalogued each breach of protocol. A princess did not touch the faces of princes unless anointing them for battle. She did not handle weapons or instruments before greeting the queen. She did not laugh while standing in the dust of the outer courtyard, where merchants and grooms passed. Her laughter was too loud; her gestures sliced air that belonged to archers and scouts and the disciplined silence he had cultivated since boyhood.

Yudhishthir emerged last, descending the wide steps with the measured tread that usually signaled a council session. Subhadra met him halfway, bent to touch his feet, then rose on her toes and whispered something that made the future emperor of Indraprastha close his eyes and exhale through his nose—an expression Arjun recognized as surrender. Yudhishthir’s hand lifted, almost touched her hair, dropped again. The gesture looked helpless.

Arjun’s own hands tightened on the balcony rail. He felt the grooves of ancient battles carved beneath his palms, the stone dust gritty against skin. A single muscle jumped in his jaw. He told himself it was the heat.

When she finally moved on, the courtyard exhaled. Servants returned to their tasks, but slower, as if reluctant to release the air she had stirred. Sahadev glanced up, spotted Arjun overhead, and waved. Arjun did not wave back. He stepped into the shadow of a pillar, counting heartbeats until they matched the cadence he used on the practice field: draw, release, recover.

He decided, without pausing to examine the decision, that he would keep his distance. The palace ran on rhythms—sunrise drill, sunset prayers, the quiet exchange of duty and honor that had steadied him since childhood. Subhadra’s presence vibrated at a different frequency, one that threatened to loosen the joints of the life he had bolted together vow by vow. He would not allow it. He would greet her at the formal feast because protocol demanded it, then return to the archery range, the armory, the maps that never laughed or touched anyone’s face.

Below, the courtyard emptied. A single jasmine petal lay where she had stood, bruised by sandalwood sandals. Arjun looked at it for a long moment, then turned inside, shoulders already set for the evening’s discipline.

The hall smelled of sandalwood smoke and roasted lamb, the long tables set with plates of hammered brass that reflected torchlight in wavering gold. Arjun entered last, as he preferred, when most guests were already seated. His mother looked up from the high table and indicated the empty chair opposite Subhadra with the smallest tilt of her chin. The placement was no accident; Kunti arranged people the way a general arranged battalions.

He bowed, took his seat, and fixed his gaze on the rim of his water cup. Around him conversation rose and fell like a tide, but he concentrated on the geometry of the table: knife aligned with the edge of the plate, lentils centered in their small bowl, bread folded into a precise triangle. Discipline could be measured in fingers’ breadths.

Subhadra was speaking to Yudhishthir about irrigation. Her voice carried the same cadence she had used in the courtyard, but the words were different—measured, informed. She described sluice gates, the silting of canals, the cost of labor in the dry season. Yudhishthir listened with the stillness that meant his mind was racing. When she paused to drink, he asked a quiet question about gradient ratios. Arjun’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth; he had not known she could read survey charts.

A serving girl offered more lamb. He declined with a small shake of the head. Subhadra accepted, holding out her plate so the meat fell in a neat pile. Her wrists were bare, the skin darker than the gold cuffs most women wore. A faint scar crossed the inside of her forearm, thin as a single hair. He wondered how she had come by it, then caught himself and returned his attention to his rice.

“Cousin,” she said, and he realized she was speaking to him. “You’ve left your curry untouched. Shall I send it back to the kitchens?”

He met her eyes for the first time since greeting her at the gate. They were the color of river water at dusk, gray shot through with brown. A flicker of amusement moved across them, as if she had guessed every thought he had just disciplined into silence.

“I’m not hungry,” he answered.

“But you trained all afternoon. Nakul told me you shot two hundred arrows without stopping.”

He set his cup down harder than intended; brass rang against wood. “Nakul should mind his own tally.”

Yudhishthir lifted an eyebrow. Subhadra merely smiled, the same small, knowing curve of the mouth she had given him in the archery field. She tore a piece of bread and used it to scoop his curry onto her own plate.

“Waste offends the gods,” she said, and ate.

Conversation resumed around them. Bhima was recounting a wrestling match; Sahadev interrupted with corrections; Nakul laughed into his cup. Arjun listened with half an ear, the rest of his attention fixed on the woman opposite. She chewed slowly, eyes lowered, but he felt her glance rise every so often and brush across his face like a fingertip. Each time it happened the skin between his shoulder blades tightened, the way it did when an arrow left his bow on a perfect line.

When the sweet course arrived—honey cakes stuffed with raisins—she spoke again, softer, so only he could hear. “You keep inventory of your rice grains. Do you count heartbeats as well?”

He did not answer. She licked a trace of honey from her thumb, watching him while she did it, and he understood the gesture was deliberate, a test. He refused to look away. For three slow breaths they held each other’s gaze, the hall around them reduced to a blur of torch smoke and distant laughter. Then Kunti rose to propose a toast, and the moment broke. Arjun stood with the rest, cup lifted, eyes forward, tasting nothing.

The moon had climbed above the parapet when Arjun stepped onto the packed earth of the training ground, bow in hand, quiver slung across his bare back. Night drill was his habit when the palace grew too loud; the silence let him hear the small sounds—string against wrist-guard, breath leaving his chest, the faint whistle of fletching through air. He set his feet, nocked an arrow, and drew.

The first release felt clean. The second, cleaner. By the tenth he had fallen into the old cadence: draw to the corner of his mouth, pause one heartbeat, let the string roll off his fingertips without jerking. Sweat gathered along his spine, cooling instantly in the night wind. He did not count shots; he counted breaths, the way his tutor had taught him at seven. Inhale, hold, exhale, loose. The target—a bale of hay fifty paces off—showed a clustered wound of shafts glinting like black teeth.

He was reaching for the next arrow when he felt the shift. Not sound, not exactly; more the way air rearranges when another body enters it. He turned, bow half-raised, and saw her.

Subhadra stood beneath the stone arch that separated the field from the jasmine walk, hands loose at her sides. Moonlight cut a hard line across her cheekbones and left her eyes in shadow. She had not changed from dinner; the indigo cloth still wrapped her, now silvered at the folds. Her hair was unpinned, falling to her waist in a thick braid that gleamed like wet rope. She did not speak, did not smile. Simply watched.

Arjun’s fingers tightened on the bow. He could order her away—courtyard rules applied after dark, and women were not permitted here without escort. Instead he nocked the arrow he had meant to shoot, lifted, drew. The motion felt suddenly theatrical, as if he performed for an invisible audience of one. His elbow wobbled a fraction. The shaft flew wide, hissing past the bale and burying itself in the grass beyond.

He lowered the bow. “You’re not allowed.”

She stepped onto the earth. Her feet were bare, ankles ringed with tiny bells that made no sound; the guards had been removed. “Neither are you,” she said. “The armory closes at dusk.”

He had no answer. She walked the edge of the field, fingertips brushing the low stone wall that ringed it, eyes never leaving him. The distance between them was perhaps twenty paces, but the space felt charged, as if he stood inside the shot and she held the string. His pulse bumped against his throat.

“I came to see if you count arrows in your sleep,” she said. Her voice carried the same quiet it had at table, pitched for him alone. “Or if you loosen in private.”

He set the bow against the wall, metal limb clinking on stone. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet I am.” She stopped at the corner nearest the target, moonlight full on her face now. The scar on her forearm showed pale. “Keep shooting.”

He almost refused. Instead he found himself lifting the bow again, fitting another arrow. The draw felt different—longer, heavier. He could feel her gaze travel along his extended arm, over the curve of his shoulder, down the line of his spine. The breath stuck in his chest. He loosed; the arrow struck the outer rim of the bale, quivering like a trapped thing.

She moved closer, slow, deliberate. Ten paces. Five. He could smell jasmine now, not the flower but the oil she used, warmed by her skin. His next shot missed entirely, skimming the top of the bale and vanishing into dark.

“You’re pulling left,” she said. She stood at his elbow now, close enough that her sleeve brushed his forearm. “Your fingers grip too hard after release.”

He turned. The bow hung useless in his hand. Her eyes were level with his collarbone; she had to lift her chin to meet his gaze. There was no mockery in it, only a calm assessment that felt worse. He saw himself reflected there—sweat-slick, breathing hard, discipline cracked open like an overdrawn limb.

She lifted one hand, not quite touching him, palm hovering over the place where his heart hammered against bone. Then she let it fall, stepped back, and was gone, footsteps silent on the dust. The jasmine lingered, sharp and sweet, mixing with the scent of straw and iron.

Arjun stood alone, bowstring humming in the dark, the target suddenly as far away as another life.

He watched her silhouette retreat through the archway until even the after-image dissolved into moonlit stone. The jasmine clung to the air, heavier than before, as if the vines themselves had tightened their grip while they stood there. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, a pointless attempt to slow the thud that kept time with the bowstring’s fading vibration.

The bale waited, arrows bristling like black quills on a pale beast. He walked to it, yanked the shafts free, and returned them to the quiver one by one. Each tug required a small, brutal jerk; the straw resisted surrender. When the last shaft slid home he should have felt restored—inventory complete, disorder corrected—but the field still felt crowded, as though she had left an invisible twin leaning against the wall.

He told himself it was simple: a princess had trespassed, offered unsolicited critique, then withdrawn. Nothing in that violated any law he was sworn to uphold. Yet the memory of her scar, thin as a spider’s thread against the indigo sleeve, kept resurfacing, along with the way her voice had lowered when she said loosen. The word seemed to echo inside his ribcage, taking on meanings that had nothing to do with archery.

The sensible course was to leave, bathe, sleep, resume duties at dawn. Instead he lifted the bow again, drew, and held. The muscles of his shoulder trembled; the arrow point jittered against night sky. He forced himself to count four heartbeats, then let the string roll free. The shaft disappeared into darkness beyond the target. He did not bother to retrieve it.

Somewhere in the palace a door closed. A dog barked once, then thought better. He became aware of sweat cooling under the linen wrap at his waist, the grain of callus on his fingertips, the small pain where the bow grip had pressed a ridge into his palm. Details he usually welcomed—proof of exertion, data to catalog—now felt like accusations: you missed, you wanted, you noticed.

He unstrung the bow, coiled the string, and started toward the barracks. Halfway across the yard he stopped. If he returned to his chamber he would lie awake replaying the sequence: her bare feet, her assessment, the near-touch that had not quite happened. The prospect was intolerable. He turned toward the river instead, taking the narrow path that skirted the vegetable plots, boots scuffing through fallen hibiscus petals slick as skin.

The water lay black and slow, carrying torchlight from the distant guard walk in wrinkled strips. He stripped off his clothes, waded in, and submerged before thought could catch him. The current was mild but cold enough to punish. He stayed under until lungs burned, then surfaced, gasping quietly. Droplets ran off his eyelashes; the world reassembled in silver and shadow.

He floated on his back, arms out, letting the river carry whatever it pleased away. Overhead, stars kept their fixed courses, indifferent to treaties, marriages, or the small rebellions of princes. Gradually the chill numbed the place beneath his ribs that had been hammering since she appeared. For the first time since dinner he felt the old, familiar contraction: mind narrowing to a single, manageable task—stay afloat, breathe, count the distance back to shore.

When he finally stood, water sluicing off his skin, the jasmine was gone, replaced by the sour green smell of river reeds. He dressed in wet cloth that clung like accusations, then started toward the palace, footsteps silent on the path. Behind him the current kept moving, carrying away nothing that mattered.

The next morning the palace smelled of fresh ghee and sandalwood, but underneath it clung something sharper—unfamiliar horse sweat, iron from too many new weapons, the sourness of men who had ridden hard. Arjun noticed it the moment he crossed the inner gate. Servants were rushing toward the guest wing with extra mattresses, and the steward’s boy ran past carrying a banner whose emblem he did not immediately recognise: a rearing bull on crimson.

He found his brothers in the small council antechamber, door ajar. Nakula’s voice, low and urgent: “…Chedi’s levy is twice what we estimated. If he calls it in as dowry we’ll be bled white before spring planting.”

Sahadeva answered, calm as always. “Numbers can be negotiated. Reputation cannot. If we refuse outright we look afraid.”

“Afraid is better than bankrupt,” Bhima growled. “Or dishonoured. The man’s a brute.”

Arjun paused outside, shoulder against the frame. Through the gap he saw Yudhishthir seated on the low window ledge, fingers steepled under his chin, gaze fixed on the floor as though answers were written in the marble veins. He looked older than he had yesterday.

A herald appeared at Arjun’s back, cleared his throat. “My prince, your mother asks you attend the welcome procession. The guests enter the main court at the next bell.”

Arjun nodded, waved him away, and stepped inside. Four pairs of eyes lifted. No one smiled.

“Shishupala,” he said, naming the scent in the air.

“Himself,” Yudhishthir replied. “With forty retainers, twenty extra horses, and a marriage proposal already drafted.”

Bhima snorted. “He didn’t bring a gift, he brought a demand.”

Nakula pushed a scroll across the table. Wax seal broken—Chedi bull again. “He’ll speak to Father’s widow in public audience today. Formal courting begins at sunset.”

Arjun read the first line: To the noble lady Subhadra of Dwarka, jewel among women… The ink was still dark, as though the scribe had finished only moments before sealing. He rolled it shut. “She knows?”

“Not yet,” Sahadeva said. “Mother’s keeping her in the weaving rooms until the entrance is done. Protocol.”

Protocol, Arjun thought, that would place Subhadra on the dais this evening, smile arranged, while a man she had never met declared his right to claim her. He felt the old contraction in his chest—mind narrowing to a single, manageable task—but this time the task refused to come clear.

Yudhishthir stood. “We need a counter-move before the court gathers. Something that signals she is spoken for without insulting Chedi.” His eyes settled on Arjun, steady, apologetic. “I can think of only one that moves fast enough.”

The room went quiet except for Bhima’s breathing, which had thickened the way it did before a fight. Outside, the first bell began to toll, bronze against stone, counting the guests toward them.

Arjun looked at the scroll, at the bull seal already half smudged by his thumbprint. He thought of jasmine oil on night air, of a finger hovering above his breastbone, of missed shots and loosened discipline. The bell rang a second time; servants would be lining the corridors, courtiers taking places, Subhadra probably being laced into some formal garment that would mark her as prize.

He raised his gaze to Yudhishthir, saw the decision already formed behind his brother’s mild eyes, and understood that vows, once spoken, could knot as well as free.

“Tell me what I must do,” he said.

Yudhishthir motioned Arjun to the narrow window. Below, the courtyard filled with crimson turbans; Shishupala’s men were lining up for inspection, breastplates polished until they flashed like fresh blood. The prince himself had not yet appeared, but his standard already flew beside the Pandava lion, equal height, equal wind.

“Look at them,” Yudhishthir said quietly. “Forty riders, twenty spare mounts, grain for a fortnight. Enough to start a skirmish, enough to claim protection rights once they are ‘guests’.” He tapped the sill with one finger, steady as a metronome. “If he speaks first in open court, refusal becomes insult. If we refuse, Chedi’s levy becomes tribute. If we accept—”

“We gut ourselves feeding his army,” Arjun finished. His voice sounded flat, foreign.

“Precisely. So the refusal must come from her, not us.” Yudhishthir turned. Sunlight caught the hollows beneath his eyes, turning them into small, neat scars. “And it must be public, graceful, final. A better offer already accepted.”

Arjun felt the words arrive before the thought: Not me. He kept silent.

Yudhishthir’s gaze did not waver. “You are unbetrothed, respected, close kin. A match with you elevates her, satisfies her brother Krishna, and gives Chedi a face-saving excuse—‘the lady’s heart was already given’. Shishupala cannot feud over a woman’s preference; his pride will settle on blaming fortune.”

Each sentence landed like a chisel strike, shaping the block he would be required to occupy. Arjun’s palms began to sweat inside his gauntlets. “A lie,” he said. “A performance.”

“A shield,” Yudhishthir corrected. “One that costs us nothing but a few weeks of play-acting.” He placed a hand on Arjun’s shoulder, the weight fraternal, immovable. “I ask this as eldest, as king-in-waiting, as brother. Feign courtship. Walk with her, exchange garlands at the festival, let the court see what it needs to see. When Shishupala withdraws, the matter ends. You may then step back, unscathed.”

Unscathed. As if desire could be rationed like grain, as if memory of jasmine and moonlit skin could be dismissed by decree. Arjun stared at the lion carved into the windowsill, its mouth open in a roar that never arrived. He felt the same silent snarl trapped behind his teeth.

Inside his chest the river-cold discipline rose, automatic, offering its old bargain: obey first, digest later. Yet the bargain felt thin now, frayed by a single finger that had almost touched his breastbone the night before.

“I gave Mother my word,” he said, voice low. “No personal ties until the kingdom is secure. The vow was public.”

“A courtship is not a marriage,” Yudhishthir answered, gentle, relentless. “The vow remains intact. This is strategy, not union.”

Strategy. The word tasted of iron. Arjun looked past his brother at the courtyard where Shishupala’s captain now tested the weight of a Pandava spear, spinning it once, twice, as if measuring how easily it could be turned against its owner. Forty men. One misstep and they would camp outside the gates until hunger forced the hand of Indraprastha.

He swallowed. “If she refuses the ruse?”

“She will not.” Yudhishthir’s certainty was absolute, the same certainty that had once sent them into exile without flinching. “I have spoken briefly. She understands the stakes.”

So the script already existed; he was merely being informed of his role. Arjun felt the block finish itself under the chisel, edges smooth, inescapable. His next breath came shallow, as if the armour across his chest had contracted.

“I will begin today,” he said. The words tasted like grit.

Yudhishthir exhaled, the strategist’s relief indistinguishable from brotherly affection. “Good. The garden at sunset. Courtiers will be watching. Try to smile.”

Arjun nodded once, turned, and walked toward the door. Each step felt rehearsed, already part of the pantomime. Behind him the bell rang a third time; somewhere above, Subhadra would be descending the staircase in cloth-of-gold, jasmine oil fresh on her throat. He told himself the tremor in his right hand was anger, not anticipation, but the lie felt as thin as the one he had just agreed to wear like a second skin.

The garden lay in the western angle of the palace, where the sandstone walls cast long, cool shadows and the fountains ran quieter than elsewhere. Arjun entered by the lotus gate at the precise moment the sun touched the parapet, the sky bleeding into copper behind him. Courtiers strolled in pairs along the gravel paths, their conversation a low, decorative hum. He felt their glances snag on his embroidered sash, the one Yudhishthir had chosen because its indigo matched the colour Krishna’s heralds used for betrothal announcements. A costume, nothing more, yet it itched like mail.

Subhadra stood beside the mango sapling that had been planted at her arrival, one hand resting on the slender trunk, the other holding a fallen blossom. She wore saffron today, the cloth wrapped so that a single shoulder was bare, skin gleaming with sesame oil. When she saw him she did not straighten or curtsey; she simply let the flower drop and waited, mouth curved in that particular smile which suggested she had already guessed the script and found it mildly amusing.

He stopped an arm’s length away, boots planted exactly parallel, spine locked in the posture his tutors had beaten into him at thirteen. “Cousin,” he began, the title sounding like a board nailed across a door. “The garden is pleasant at this hour. I thought… perhaps you would walk.”

The pause that followed was small but heavy enough to feel the weight of every watching eye. Then she tilted her head. “I would be honoured, prince.” Her voice was soft, pitched for privacy, yet the words carried to the nearest cluster of ladies who immediately turned, whispering behind painted fans.

He offered his arm because protocol demanded it. She placed her fingers on his wrist, not the other way around, a reversal so subtle only he felt it—her thumb brushing the vein that had started to jump. They began to move along the central path, gravel crunching beneath their steps in perfect synchrony, as if they had rehearsed. He stared straight ahead at the turning fountain, counting heartbeats, measuring distance, anything that felt like control.

“You may breathe,” she murmured without moving her lips. “I have seen statues with more colour.”

Heat crawled up his neck. He forced his shoulders to relax, felt them disobey. “We are observed,” he said, low.

“Naturally. That is the purpose.” She slid her hand down to clasp his properly, palm against palm, the way lovers did in the market frescoes. Her skin was warm, slightly calloused from reins or bowstrings—he couldn’t remember which story claimed her skill. The contact sent an involuntary jolt through his chest, equal parts irritation and something sharper.

They reached the fountain’s edge. Lotus petals floated on the dark water; a single lamp flickered beneath the surface, turning their faces gold. He turned to her because the script required a smile. He produced something close, lips tight across teeth. She studied it, then lifted her free hand and, under pretext of adjusting the flower in her hair, leaned close enough that her breath grazed his ear.

“You look as though you’re marching to your own execution, cousin. Do try to look at least a little bit pleased with my company.”

The warmth of her exhale slid beneath his collar and lodged at the base of his spine. He managed not to shudder, barely. When she drew back her eyes were bright with private laughter, and he understood—too late—that the performance was not his alone, and that she had been acting since before he arrived. The realisation should have steadied him; instead it felt like stepping onto shifting sand. He tightened his grip on her fingers, a silent warning. She answered by lacing their hands more tightly, public and possessive, and steered them toward the rose arbor where the shadows were deepest and the whispers could not follow.

The rose arbor formed a low tunnel, canes interlaced so thickly that only scraps of sky showed through. Inside, the air smelled of bruised petals and wet earth. Arjun felt the temperature drop along his arms, or perhaps it was the sweat drying under his linen sleeves. Subhadra released his hand but stayed close, her shoulder nearly touching the leather of his cuirass. He could hear the faint creak of its straps whenever he breathed.

“Better,” she said, voice pitched for the two of them alone. “Here the audience must imagine.”

He hated that she was right. The courtiers lingering by the fountain could no longer see them clearly; they would invent the rest—lowered eyes, whispered promises, the first tender negotiations of a betrothal. Imagination would do Yudhishthir’s work more efficiently than truth ever could.

He turned so that the arbor wall was at his back, giving the illusion of privacy while still leaving a narrow gap through which observers might glimpse a silhouette. Strategy again: show enough to satisfy, hide enough to protect. Subhadra watched him calculate, her mouth curving in apparent fondness. She reached up, fingers brushing his temple as if removing an imaginary thorn. The touch lingered, tracing the hair that curled against his ear, then slid to the hollow behind his jaw. He felt the pulse there jump against her pad of her thumb.

“Still stiff,” she murmured. “You keep your face the way you keep your arrows—fletched for distance, not for feeling.”

He caught her wrist, meaning to push it away, but the skin was warm and the bones felt fragile, bird-like. He held on a second too long, long enough for her lashes to flicker. When he let go, her hand dropped to her side, yet the imprint stayed, a small heated ring where her thumb had pressed.

“I agreed to walk,” he said. “Not to perform acrobatics.”

“A walk is already a performance.” She stepped past him, deeper into the arbor, skirts skimming the dirt. Over her shoulder: “Come. The path turns. We can give them a better view.”

He followed because refusal would look sullen, and sullenness would be reported. The corridor of canes opened onto a circular bench built around a dry stone basin—some forgotten queen’s retreat. Moon-white roses climbed the trellis; their petals littered the seat like torn parchment. Subhadra sat, arranging the cloth of her sari so that the bare shoulder caught the last slant of sun. She patted the stone beside her. He remained standing.

“Your reputation for courtesy is exaggerated,” she observed.

“My reputation for survival is not.” The words came out harder than intended. He glanced back toward the garden mouth; shadows moved there—curious ladies, a steward pretending to prune. “We should return soon. Too long away breeds speculation.”

“Let it breed.” She lifted a fallen petal, spinning it by its tip. “Speculation is the whole point.”

He watched her fingers, the way the petal blurred into a pale disk. A memory intruded: the same fingers last night, curled around the mango sapling, moonlight on the oil of her skin. He forced his gaze to the trellis, counting thorns instead.

She rose abruptly, closing the small space between them. The toe of her sandal touched his boot. “Look at me, Arjun.”

He did. Her eyes were the colour of wet flax, darker than he remembered, and the faint scatter of freckles across her nose was visible only this close. She studied him the way he had studied enemy formations—patient, cataloguing weaknesses. The silence stretched until he felt the arbor itself listening.

Then, softly: “I am not your enemy.”

The sentence landed somewhere beneath his breastbone, displacing air. He wanted to answer, to explain that enemies were simpler; enemies did not require him to lie twice—once to the world, once to himself. But speech felt dangerous, as if any word might tilt him into territory he had not mapped.

Instead he reached up, fingers closing around a low rose cane heavy with bloom. He snapped it cleanly at the node, thorns catching his gauntlet. Holding the spray between them, he offered it—an obedient gesture, easily read as courtship. A single drop of sap beaded where the stem had broken, bright as blood.

She took the roses, expression unreadable. For a moment the only sound was the distant splash of the fountain. Then she tucked the spray into her sash, careful that the blossoms faced outward, visible to anyone who watched them emerge.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded. They stepped from the arbor into the copper light, shoulders aligned, hands almost touching. Behind them, petals drifted down onto the empty bench, already beginning to wilt.