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.

They walked the same route each dawn: past the mango sapling, now ringed with fresh earth; past the fountain where lotus petals still floated like pale coins; past the rose arbor where he had snapped the cane. Each circuit lasted exactly the time it took the sun to clear the eastern parapet. Arjun counted the steps—one hundred and thirty-two to the fountain, ninety-eight more to the arbor—so his body would have something to do while hers kept brushing against it.

Subhadra had perfected a catalogue of touches. The fingertip on his wrist when she asked the hour. The knuckle that “accidentally” grazed his thigh as she adjusted her sash. The shoulder that lingered against his upper arm while they watched a juggler in the outer courtyard. Every contact was brief, deniable, and maddeningly precise. He began to anticipate them, muscles tensing a moment before the heat arrived, and hated himself for the accuracy of his expectations.

Shishupala watched from the colonnade each morning, arms folded, eyes narrowed to slits. When Subhadra laughed—too loudly, Arjun still thought—at some remark the prince had not quite heard, the Chedi ruler’s jaw tightened. The sight should have satisfied Arjun; instead it felt like standing in full armour under a sun that grew hotter by the hour. He was the metal, she the forge, and every casual stroke of her hand shaped him against his will.

At night he replayed them: the pressure of her palm sliding along his as she accepted a cup of water; the drag of her thumbnail across the vein at his wrist when she pretended to steady his sleeve. Alone in his chamber he would open and close his fist, testing whether the skin still held the memory. It did. The spot burned until he plunged the whole hand into the basin, holding it under cold water until the ache dulled into a numb throb.

On the fourth afternoon the court physician demonstrated a new astrolabe in the garden pavilion. Subhadra stood at Arjun’s right, close enough that her breath disturbed the fine hairs at his temple when she leaned forward to see the instrument’s face. She smelled of sesame and crushed marigold, the same oil she had worn the first day, but now the scent carried an after-note of horse and sun-warmed dust. He wondered where else it clung to her skin. The thought arrived fully formed, uninvited, and his pulse kicked so hard he feared the physician would hear it.

“Remarkable,” she murmured, fingers closing over the bronze ring he was meant to be sighting. Her knuckles rested against his. “Show me how the index moves.”

He rotated the arm. The metal squeaked. Her thumb followed his, guiding the alignment until the shadow crossed the scale at twenty degrees. A pointless measurement; the sun was already past its zenith. But she kept the contact, skin sliding on skin, until the physician cleared his throat and moved to the next diagram. Arjun stepped back too quickly and trod on someone’s foot. Apologies tumbled out, heat flooding his ears. Subhadra merely smiled, the same small curve that said she had read every beat of his heart and filed it away.

Later, during the evening meal, she reached across him for the salt. The sleeve of her blouse rode up, exposing the soft underside of her forearm. It passed within a finger-width of his mouth; he could see the faint blue river of a vein, the tiny scar shaped like a crescent moon. He swallowed a mouthful of bread that tasted of nothing and everything—dust, roses, the metallic anticipation of rain. When she withdrew, the air felt colder, as if she had taken more than seasoning with her.

That night he did not soak his hand. He lay on the cot fully dressed, palm open against his thigh, and let the burn spread.

The northern gardens had been neglected since the last queen’s death; vines strangled the balustrades, and marble goddesses leaned at angles that made them look drunk. Arjun had chosen the route deliberately—fewer eyes, fewer chances for her to brush against him under pretense. Yet here she was, spinning on her heel beside the cracked lotus pool, arms wide as if the decay were hers to command.

“Hide-and-seek,” she declared. “One round. You count to fifty.”

He folded his arms. “We are not children.”

“No,” she agreed, “we are cousins playing at marriage. Indulge me.”

Before he could answer she stepped out of her sandals, lifted her skirts, and ran. The cloth caught on a thorn; she yanked it free, laughing at the tear, and vanished behind the fountain. The sound of her feet faded among the statues. A single crimson bougainvillea petal drifted down where she had stood.

He stared at the space she left behind. The sensible course was to turn back, report to Yudhishthir that the princess had slipped away, let someone else chase her through the ruins. Instead he heard himself begin to count—low, reluctant, the numbers dropping like stones into a well. At twenty-five he paused, throat dry. At fifty he opened his eyes.

The garden was quieter than any battlefield. Moonlight laid silver across broken mosaic; a nightjar called once, then nothing. He moved methodically, checking behind each plinth, lifting hanging stems with the tip of his bowcase. Every step stirred the scent of damp earth and bruised petals, a sweetness that felt like interference in his lungs.

He found her footprints first—small, definite depressions leading toward the old shrine of the mother-goddess. The marble there was blackened by centuries of lamp smoke; her toe prints ended at its base. He circled the statue. Nothing. Then a breath, barely audible, from above. He looked up.

She had climbed the goddess, one arm hooked around the stone neck, legs braced against the hips. Her sari pooled like spilled ink down the deity’s thighs. In the moonlight her eyes were enormous, triumphant, a little wild.

“You cheated,” he said.

“Prove it.”

He reached; she stretched higher, the cloth slipping another inch. The statue’s carved hand pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her chest forward. He saw the rapid lift and fall, the damp fabric clinging to skin, the dark circle of a nipple suddenly visible against the translucent weave. His own breath stopped as if caught by a bowstring drawn too tight.

She must have seen the change in his face because her smile faltered, replaced by something softer, almost questioning. Slowly she let go, sliding down the stone until her feet touched the plinth. They stood eye to eye, the goddess at their backs like a silent chaperone.

“You found me,” she whispered. “What will you claim?”

He lifted his hand—not to capture, only to touch the single petal caught in her hair. His knuckles grazed her temple; she tilted into the contact, eyes closing. The petal came free, but he did not withdraw. Instead his thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth, the place where her pulse beat visibly beneath the thin skin. She tasted of salt and crushed flowers when he brushed her lip, a taste that erased every argument he had rehearsed.

Her hand rose to cover his, pressing the pad of his thumb harder against her mouth. She opened slightly, took the tip between teeth and tongue, a gesture so deliberate he felt it in his groin like a punch. The night air contracted to the space between their bodies; even the crickets held their breath.

He dropped the petal. It landed on her bare instep, a scarlet speck against pale skin. Neither of them looked down.

The petal stayed where it fell, a red comma against her skin. Arjun’s hand remained on her face, the thumb she had drawn into her mouth now wet and gleaming. He could feel the faint ridge her teeth had left, a tiny topography of permission. Neither of them moved. The goddess behind them loomed, stone breasts and stone eyes, witness to everything and nothing.

Subhadra’s breath came shallow, lifting the damp cloth at her throat. He watched the flutter there, the way the fine hairs rose as if magnetized. His own pulse hammered so hard he thought the marble might crack from the vibration. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head, pressing her cheek into his palm, then slid it down so that his fingers rested against the side of her neck. Her skin was hot, almost feverish; the artery beneath beat against his fingertips like a second heart.

“Your count ended,” she said, voice barely above the rustle of leaves. “You found me. What now?”

He had no answer that would survive being spoken. Instead his thumb stroked the hinge of her jaw, tracing the place where speech began and ended. She tilted her chin, exposing the long line of throat he had stared at across banqueting tables, imagining what it would taste like. He leaned in—not a decision, more like falling forward—and set his mouth just below her ear. Salt, jasmine, the faint metallic tang of night air. She exhaled, a sound that was half sigh, half moan, and her hands came up to grip his upper arms, nails finding the seams of his sleeves.

He licked the spot, experimentally. Her fingers tightened. Encouraged, he opened his mouth, sucked gently, felt the small shiver that ran through her body and into his. One of her legs lifted, knee brushing the outside of his thigh, seeking leverage. He pressed closer, the stone lip of the plinth hard against his hips, her softness yielding just enough to make him dizzy. Through two layers of cloth he felt the peak of her nipple drag across his chest; the contact shot straight to his groin, a bright line of heat.

His hand slid down, thumb hooking inside the neckline of her blouse, pulling it aside until the curve of her shoulder was bare. He kissed there, teeth grazing, tasting rain and skin and the faint bitterness of dye. She arched, head falling back against the goddess’s stone knee, offering more. The cloth slipped further; the dark circle he had glimpsed earlier was now fully visible, tight with cold or desire. He brushed it with the back of his knuckles, a question. She answered by covering his hand and pressing it firmly over her breast.

The weight of her filled his palm, warm, alive, the nipple hard against the center of his hand. He circled it slowly, learning the texture—silk over firmness, the way she pushed into the touch. Her hips rolled once, a small involuntary movement that ground her pelvis against his. The friction made him groan, the sound rough, unfamiliar. He was hard, had been since she bit his thumb, and now the length of him strained against the confines of his lower wrap, seeking the heat radiating from between her legs.

She felt it; he knew because her eyes opened wider, pupils blown black even in the moonlight. Her hand left his arm, travelled down his chest, past the knot of his belt, and cupped him through the cloth. The pressure was light, exploratory, but his hips jerked forward anyway, pushing into her palm. She repeated the motion, firmer this time, fingers tracing the outline of his cock from root to tip, measuring. A bead of moisture soaked through, cool against the night air, testament to how close he already was.

“Subhadra,” he managed, the name more breath than sound.

She leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “I want to feel you,” she whispered. “No more pretending.”

He swallowed, nodded, not trusting words. Her fingers went to the knot at his waist; his went to the lacings of her trousers. The night held its breath again, waiting to see which of them would finish first, which barrier would fall.

Her finger rested against his jaw, a single point of heat that seemed to burn through skin to bone. Arjun couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him like this—not the ceremonial greetings of court, not the rough camaraderie of his brothers, but something deliberate, possessive, intimate. His breath caught in his throat, trapped between her touch and the weight of what it meant.

"Better," she repeated, softer this time, and he realized he'd been staring at her mouth. The word hung between them like a challenge, or perhaps an invitation. His hands hung useless at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to either push her away or pull her closer—he couldn't tell which terrified him more.

The moonlight caught the curve of her cheek, the slight parting of her lips as she waited. She wasn't smiling now, wasn't playing the coquette she'd perfected in the banquet hall. This was something rawer, more honest. Her thumb moved, just barely, stroking the line of his beard where it grew coarse against his skin. The sensation traveled straight to his groin, shocking in its intensity.

"I should go," he said, but his voice came out rough, unconvincing. He made no move to step back, couldn't break the spell of her touch.

"Should," she echoed, tilting her head. "But will you?"

Her other hand came up to mirror the first, cupping his face between her palms. She rose slightly on her toes, bringing their mouths closer. He could feel her breath now, warm against his lips, could smell the sandalwood oil she wore mixed with something sweeter—jasmine, maybe, or the night-blooming flowers that grew wild in the garden's neglected corners.

"Subhadra," he began, meaning to protest, to remind her of their audience, of the eyes that might be watching even here. But she silenced him by pressing her forehead to his, their noses brushing, mouths still not quite touching.

"Say my name like that again," she whispered. "Like it hurts you to hold it in your mouth."

It did hurt—everything about this hurt. The wanting, the knowing he shouldn't want, the way his body betrayed every principle he'd built his life around. His hands found her waist of their own accord, fingers curving around the narrow span, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric. She made a small sound—approval, encouragement—and shifted closer, her breasts pressing against his chest.

The line between performance and reality had not just blurred; it had vanished entirely. There was no court here, no political necessity, no brothers watching from shadows. Just the two of them, breathing the same air, sharing the same dangerous space. Her thumbs traced the angles of his cheekbones, mapping his face with a tenderness that made his chest ache.

"Arjun," she said, and the way she spoke his name—like a prayer, like a promise—broke something loose inside him. His grip tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and he felt her gasp more than heard it, the way her body went pliant against his.

The statue of the goddess loomed behind them, ancient and impassive, but he couldn't think about duty or consequences now. Not with Subhadra's hands on his face, her body warm against his, her mouth so close that kissing her felt inevitable as sunrise.

The next morning he was in the armory before the smiths had stoked their forge, running his thumb along the edge of a new short-sword until the skin threatened to split. The cold iron felt honest; it asked nothing of him except competence. He cleaned his bow, re-wrapped the grip with fresh leather, counted arrows until the numbers lost meaning. When the armorer arrived he made the man drill him on the weight of every spearhead in the rack, as though the kingdom might fall if he misremembered a single ounce.

By mid-day he had moved to the council chamber, poring over grain tallies and border reports that required no memory of jasmine. Yudhishthir raised an eyebrow at the stack of scrolls but said nothing. Arjun wrote marginalia in a neat, tight hand, lines of figures that should have calmed him. Instead the chalk squealed against slate like her breath against his ear. He found he had written her name in the margin of a tax ledger, disguised as a numeral, and scratched it out until the parchment tore.

Afternoon drills: he shot two hundred arrows at diminishing distances, grouping so tight that the later shafts split the earlier. Each release was an exhalation of discipline, yet when the last arrow thudded home he smelled crushed petals on the wind that wasn’t there. He told himself it was only the oil of the bowstring, wiped his palms on his thighs and walked away without looking at the target.

For three days he kept to this schedule—armory, council, field—returning to his chambers only after the lamps had burned low. He took meals alone, sent polite refusals to the evening gatherings where her laughter might surface. The avoidance became its own ritual, a different kind of performance. At night he lay on his back, hands crossed over his ribs like a corpse, and catalogued the cracks in the ceiling until the shapes stopped resembling the curve of her shoulder.

On the fourth afternoon the palace scribe requested his seal on a shipment record. The library was closer than the council hall; Arjun climbed the narrow stairs without thinking. The room smelled of old palm-leaf and lamp smoke, familiar, safe. He located the scroll, unrolled it on the low table, and was halfway through the columns of numbers when he heard the rustle of cloth behind him.

She moved as quietly as any scout, but his body knew the sound. He kept his eyes on the parchment, pen poised, as though the difference between seven hundred and eight hundred measures of rice deserved absolute attention. A shadow fell across the page.

“I need the Chandravaṃśa history,” she said. “Top shelf, beyond my reach.”

He could have summoned a servant. Instead he stood, aware of how the space between shelves was barely wide enough for two. The scroll she wanted was indeed high; he stretched upward, tunic pulling free from his belt, and felt her step in behind him. Not touching, but the heat of her settled against his spine like a brand. His fingers found the rod, slid it free. When he turned she didn’t retreat. They were sharing breath again, the scroll a thin barrier between their chests.

“Thank you,” she said, and took it, but didn’t move away. Her eyes flicked to the treatise he had left open. “Kauṭilya on siege craft. You favor the indirect assault?”

The question was precise, military, nothing like flirtation. He heard himself answer. “Indirect preserves troops. Starve them, then offer terms.”

“But prolongs suffering inside. A quick breach can be merciful.”

She spoke as if she had stood on ramparts, counted rations, weighed lives. He found he wanted to know how she knew, wanted to hear her map a whole campaign. Instead he nodded, non-committal, and stepped sideways to reclaim his table. She followed, setting her scroll beside his, the two cylinders touching.

For a quarter-hour they discussed supply lines, feints, the morale of civilians caught between armies. Her arguments were sharp, informed; she cited river currents, monsoon calendars, the price of grain in distant Mathura. He answered in shorter sentences than necessary, afraid the rhythm of normal speech might reveal the tremor under his ribs. When she leaned over to point at a diagram, her braid slipped forward, brushing his wrist. He did not flinch, but the skin burned as if branded.

Then Bhima’s voice rolled up the stairwell, calling for maps of the western passes. The sound cracked the room like a mace. Arjun straightened, shoulders snapping back into the posture of a prince. He rolled his treatise, tied it, and was at the door before Bhima’s bulk appeared. He did not look back, told himself he imagined the small exhalation that might have been disappointment.

Hours later, in the empty corridor outside his chamber, he discovered a single strand of black hair caught in the bronze clasp of his sleeve. He held it to the lamp, watched it curl in the heat, and felt the armor of duty crack so minutely that no one else would ever notice. He wound the hair around his finger, then tucked it inside the scroll he would pretend to read until dawn.

The scroll rod felt warm from the lamp smoke as he lifted it, but warmer still was the space at his back where she stood. He could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, the slight displacement of air each time she inhaled. When he stepped down from the stool she had not shifted; his heel came level with her bare instep, the arch of her foot a hair’s breadth from his. He moved sideways to set the scroll on the table, and her shoulder grazed his ribs—no accident, no apology. The contact lasted only the length of a heartbeat, yet it echoed longer than the twang of a bowstring.

She unrolled the Chandravaṃśa history, but her eyes stayed on the treatise he had been annotating. “You underlined the passage on night assaults,” she observed. “Do you favor scaling walls in the dark?”

He cleared his throat. “Darkness hides approach. If the garrison is complacent—”

“—the first wave gains the parapet,” she finished. “But the second wave loses cohesion if the first fails. The whole column can stall on the ladders.” She spoke softly, the way one did in libraries, yet each syllable landed inside him like a dropped stone. He found himself leaning closer, drawn by the argument itself, by the fact that she cared about the angle of a scaling ladder at all.

They stepped together to the window alcove where the light was better. The parchment crackled as she turned it toward her, finger tracing the inked diagram of a siege tower. Her nail was trimmed short, practical, a small half-moon of white against the brown skin. She smelled of sesame oil and something greener—crushed basil, maybe—nothing like the jasmine that haunted the garden. He wondered if she had chosen it deliberately, to sever that association, and the thought that she might engineer even her scent unsettled him further.

“Your marginalia,” she said, tapping the charcoal note he had made: Feint east, breach west. “You would divide your force equally?”

“Not equally,” he answered before he could remind himself to stay terse. “The feint must look stronger. Noise, torches, repeated attacks. The real thrust needs only two companies, but they must move fast once the wall is soft.”

She nodded, considering. “So the feint is theater. The audience is the enemy commander.” Her mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You appreciate theater more than you admit, Arjun.”

The use of his name, unadorned, without title or courtesy, struck him silent. He looked at her mouth, then forced his gaze back to the diagram. Ink smudged her fingertip; he imagined that smudge on his own skin, on the inside of his wrist where the pulse beat hardest. The lamp guttered, throwing their shadows across the floorboards so that their silhouettes merged at the edges, a single dark shape that widened and narrowed with the flame.

She rolled the scroll halfway, revealing the next section—an illustration of a sally port. “If you were inside,” she asked, “would you sortie at dusk or wait until the attackers camp?”

He pictured it: the creak of gates, the rush of feet, the brief chaos before lines re-formed. “Dusk,” he said. “While their vision adjusts. Strike, then retreat before full night. Let them doubt every shadow afterward.”

Her eyes lifted to his, pupils wide in the lamplight. “Doubt every shadow,” she repeated, voice barely above breath. “Is that what you do now?”

The question hung between them, stripped of strategy. He felt the throb of blood in his throat, the small involuntary parting of his own lips. If he leaned forward even an inch, their mouths would meet again, and this time there would be no statue, no moonlit excuse, only the certainty that she would meet him halfway.

A step sounded on the stair—heavy, deliberate. Bhima’s voice boomed up, calling for maps. Arjun’s spine straightened of its own accord, years of training snapping him back into the shape of a prince. He rolled the treatise, tied it with sharp, efficient motions, and turned toward the door. She did not try to stop him; she simply watched, the smudged finger still resting on the parchment as if marking a place she intended to return to.

He passed Bhima on the landing, muttered something about finished records, and did not look back. But the image of her silhouette merged with his on the floorboards followed him all the way to his chamber, and he knew—without needing to check—that the scroll he carried smelled faintly of basil and sesame, and that the line between feint and breach had never been thinner.

She kept the scroll closed against her chest, a barrier neither of them acknowledged. “You’ve annotated the margin here—‘feint east, breach west.’” Her fingertip brushed the charcoal line he had drawn at dawn, when the palace still slept. “You would divide your force unequally?”

“Yes.” The word left him before caution could catch it. “The feint must look like the main thrust. Noise, torches, repeated attacks. The real assault needs only two companies, but they must move fast once the wall is softened.”

She nodded, eyes on the diagram as if measuring distances. “So the feint is theater. The audience is the enemy commander.” A flick of a glance. “You appreciate theater more than you admit, Arjun.”

His name, unadorned, struck him silent. He watched her thumb smudge the charcoal, a dark streak across the pad of skin. When she spoke again her voice was lower, almost private. “If you were inside the fortress, would you sortie at dusk or wait until the attackers camp?”

He pictured it: the creak of gates, the rush of feet, the brief chaos before lines re-formed. “Dusk. While their vision adjusts. Strike, then retreat before full night. Let them doubt every shadow afterward.”

“Doubt every shadow,” she repeated. “Is that what you do now?”

The question stripped the strategy away. He felt the throb in his throat, the small involuntary parting of his lips. If he leaned forward an inch their mouths would meet, and this time there would be no moonlit garden, only the certainty that she would meet him halfway.

A step thundered on the stair. Bhima’s voice rolled up, calling for maps. Arjun’s spine straightened of its own accord; he rolled the treatise, tied it, and moved toward the door. She did not try to stop him. She simply remained beside the table, smudged finger resting on the parchment as if marking a place she intended to return to.

He passed Bhima on the landing, muttered something about finished records, and did not look back. Yet the image of her silhouette merged with his on the floorboards followed him all the way to his chamber, and he knew—without needing to check—that the scroll he carried smelled faintly of basil and sesame, and that the line between feint and breach had never been thinner.

Bhima’s tread shook the boards; dust drifted from the rafters onto the open scroll.
“Maps of the western passes, little brother—bring them if you’ve finished mooning over footnotes.”

Arjun’s body obeyed before thought: shoulders squared, chin lifted, the posture every tutor had beaten into him. He rolled the treatise, tied the cord so tight the parchment squeaked, and stepped back. Subhadra did not shift; the scroll she had asked for stayed pressed to her sternum like armor. Only her eyes moved, tracking him, and in them he saw the same bleak drop he felt in his own gut—as if they had been mid-stride and the ground had vanished.

Bhima filled the doorway, blocking the lamplight. “You’re needed in the council room. Now.”

Arjun dipped his head in the minimal courtesy required. “I’m coming.”

He risked one last glance. Subhadra’s mouth had parted slightly, the protest she would not voice in front of Bhima held between her teeth. The smudge of charcoal on her fingertip had transferred to the edge of the scroll; it looked like a deliberate mark, a signal only he would read. Don’t go, it said, or maybe, You always go. Then the corner of her lip tucked in, not a smile, not quite resignation—something softer, more costly. The disappointment was unmistakable, and it struck him harder than any accusation could have.

Bhima clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, turning him. Arjun allowed the motion, letting the contact steer him into the corridor. Each step sounded too loud, like boots on a parade ground. Behind him the library door remained open; he did not hear it close, did not hear her move, and the absence became a weight dragging at his spine.

They descended the stairwell in silence until Bhima spoke again. “You’ve been hiding in books all day. A prince should smell of horse and iron, not lamp oil.”

Arjun grunted, non-committal. The passage narrowed; torchlight slid across the stone, carving sharp shadows that made the walls seem to pulse. He felt the hair she had left on his sleeve earlier brush his wrist with every swing of his arm—an invisible thread still tethering him to the alcove, to the siege tower diagram, to her question about shadows.

At the bend he slowed, unable to stop himself. Over his shoulder he saw the library landing already dim, but her silhouette lingered at the balustrade, lamp in hand, watching him retreat. The flame between them was too small to read her expression now, yet he knew it had not changed: the same unshielded look, the same small hurt. Distance stretched like a drawn bowstring; for an instant he thought he would snap, turn back, explain everything he did not yet understand himself. Bhima’s hand tightened, propelling him forward, and the moment broke.

They entered the council chamber where maps lay unfurled like battlefields waiting for bodies. Yudhishthir spoke of supply carts, of monsoon routes, of grain. Arjun answered when required, his voice steady, his notes precise. No one noticed that the charcoal in his grip snapped twice under pressure, or that the ink he mixed was darker than usual, thick as dried blood.

Later, alone in his chamber, he unrolled the treatise he had carried all evening. The strand of hair was still there, coiled inside the hollow rod. He lifted it to the lamp; it curled, tightened, formed a perfect ring—a private seal no herald would recognize. He closed his fist around it until the pulse in his knuckles matched the pulse low in his belly, the one that beat her name with every stroke.

Outside, the night watch called the third hour. He did not sleep.

The hall smelled of roasted cumin and ghee, too rich after a day spent tasting dust in the drill yard. Arjun kept his spine off the chair-back, counting breaths the way he counted arrows: one, nock; two, draw; three, release. Across the dais Subhadra laughed at something Shishupala had said, the sound bright enough to cut through the drone of vinas. She wore indigo tonight, the cloth gathered beneath her breasts with a gold girdle that flashed each time she breathed. Every courtier watching her breathe was a potential informant; Arjun catalogued them the way he catalogued enemy positions.

When she stood, the conversation ripple stilled. She pressed two fingers to her temple, the gesture delicate, practiced. “Forgive me, cousin,” she called toward the high table, voice pitched to carry. “The lamps pain my head. Arjun, would you walk me to the air?”

A hundred eyes swung to him. He felt the weight settle on his shoulders like armour buckles too tight. Shishupala’s smile stayed in place, but his knuckles whitened around the cup. Arjun rose, bowed to Yudhishthir, then to Kunti, every angle exact. Protocol gave him something to grip.

He crossed the circle of low tables, aware of each footfall: heel, ball, toe, the way instructors taught silent advance. When he reached her, he let his palm rest against the small of her back, fingers splayed just above the gold girdle. The cloth was silk, warmed by her skin; he felt the ridge of her spine through it, counted the vertebrae. She stepped forward; he followed, guiding her between the diners. Whispers scraped his ears like arrow fletchings loosed in error.

The balcony doors opened onto stone still holding day-heat. Night air rolled over them, smelling of wet earth from afternoon rain. He shut the doors, latch clicking loud as a crossbar dropped into place. Below, the city’s lamps flickered between rooftops, a scattered constellation. Somewhere a conch sounded the last harbour watch; the note trembled, faded.

She moved to the rail, palms bracing the carved sandstone. “You may let go,” she said without turning. “No audience here.”

His hand had stayed on her, he realised, thumb resting at the dip above her hipbone. He removed it, but the imprint lingered, a brand. “Headache?” he asked. The word came out rough.

“A diplomatic ailment.” She lifted her hair, twisting it over one shoulder so the nape of her neck showed. “Shishupala was describing his future stables. Twice he managed to mention how many mares he owns.”

Arjun joined her at the rail, careful to leave the width of a shield between them. “He’ll speak to Yudhishthir before the moon turns. The council expects it.”

“And you will do nothing.” She turned then, hip against stone, eyes reflecting torchlight from the hall’s stained glass. “You’ll stand behind your brother, silent, while I am parcelled off to keep peace.”

Duty tasted metallic, like the after-bite of steel. “I am sworn—”

“To them. Not to yourself.” She stepped closer; the shield-width vanished. “Look at me, Arjun. Not as a prince, not as a cousin. Look.”

He did. Her lower lip carried the sheen of sesame oil from the banquet; a single jasmine petal had caught in the hollow of her collarbone, trembling with each pulse. He wanted to brush it away, wanted to taste the oil, wanted with a violence that cramped fingers already scarred from bowstrings.

“I see you,” he said, voice low. “That is the trouble.”

Her breath hitched. Then she rose on bare toes—she had removed her sandals inside—and pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was soft, testing, the barest pressure. He felt the shape of her teeth through her lip, the faint sweetness of palm-candy she had eaten. For one heartbeat he let himself lean in, let the heat of her body meet his, let the world narrow to skin and breath.

The balcony doors rattled; laughter spilled from inside. He jerked back as if struck, pulse hammering against bone. Her eyes stayed on his, dark, steady.

“Run, then,” she whispered. “But you brought me here. You touched me first.”

He had no answer. He turned, hands clenched so tight nails cut crescents into his palms, and left her beneath the torchlight, jasmine petal still trembling against her skin.

She watched him retreat to the far edge of the balcony, shoulders squared like a man before a firing squad. The torchlight through stained glass painted moving chevrons across his back; he stared at the city as if the answer to everything might rise from the rooftops.

“You rehearse silence the way others rehearse speeches,” she said. “Why does it grow louder whenever we’re alone?”

His fingers drummed the stone rail, a brief spasm of movement quickly stilled. “There are things a man is not meant to speak.”

“Not even to the woman whose hand you keep holding in public?” She stepped closer, the jasmine petal finally slipping from her collarbone to the floor. “You touch me when eyes are watching, yet flinch when they turn away. What vow demands that cruelty?”

He exhaled through his nose, controlled, measured. “The vow that keeps this kingdom from splitting at the seams.”

“That vow is a wall,” she said. “And you keep laying bricks while pretending you’re only passing by.”

His jaw flexed; she heard the faint grind of enamel. “You think I want the wall?”

“I think you built it yourself,” she said, “stone by stone, until you forgot a gate was possible.”

He spun then, motion sudden enough to stir the air against her cheeks. “You believe this is simple? That I enjoy standing beside you in full view of Shishupala, pretending, while every breath reminds me it’s false?”

“Then stop pretending,” she said. “Speak true, even if the words cut.”

His hands lifted, hovered, fell back to his sides. “If I speak, I lose the shape of my life. My brothers, my mother—”

“And if you stay silent, you lose me.” The words left her mouth raw, unpolished, nothing like the courtly banter she wielded in halls. “Which loss can you survive?”

He stared at her, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “You assume the choice is mine to make.”

“It is always yours,” she said, “until someone else chooses for you.”

The city hummed below, a low nighttime murmur of cattle bells and watchmen’s calls. Above them, cloud edges slid across the moon, dimming then releasing the light in slow pulses. She felt each pulse in her throat.

“I have trained since boyhood to place the realm before my pulse,” he said, voice rough. “I can notch an arrow in the dark, split a reed in wind, recite every law that binds a king. No one taught me what to do when the realm asks for my pulse anyway.”

She reached out, not touching, palm open between them. “Then let me teach you.”

His gaze dropped to her hand, lingered, but he did not move. “If I take what I want, I become the crack through which our enemies pry.”

“And if you refuse what you want, you become the crack through which I fall,” she said. “Either way, something breaks.”

The air felt too thin, as if the balcony had risen above the clouds. She saw his chest rise, fall, rise again—no discipline in the rhythm now, only hunger fighting leash.

“Subhadra—” Her name sounded broken on his tongue, half warning, half plea.

She closed the final step, breasts brushing his cuirass, the metal cool through silk. “I am not asking you to abandon them,” she whispered. “I am asking you to let me in before the wall grows so thick you forget I am here.”

His hands rose, hovered at her waist, fingers half-curled as if around an invisible bow. She felt the tremor in them travel through her skin, a vibration more intimate than touch. For a breath he held her like that, not quite embracing, not quite releasing.

Moonlight slid free of the clouds, flooding the stone. In the sudden brightness she saw his face stripped bare: desire raw as an open wound, fear pulsing beneath. No court mask, no prince’s composure—only the man, cornered by impossible choices.

She lifted her chin, offering what he would not take. “Look at me,” she breathed, “and decide which side of the wall you want to stand on.”

He looked at her, the moonlight carving sharp lines across his cheekbones, and said nothing. The silence between them felt alive, coiled tight as a bowstring drawn to the limit of its tensile strength. She could see the battle in the way his throat worked, in the minute shift of his weight from heel to ball, the warrior's body trained to action yet held motionless by an invisible chain.

"Speak," she whispered, and her breath fogged the metal of his cuirass. "Say anything. Say you feel nothing, and I will walk away."

His mouth opened, closed. The words that could level armies, that had negotiated treaties and commanded legions, failed him entirely. In the absence of language, his hands rose to frame her face, thumbs hovering a hair's breadth from her skin as if she were made of flame rather than flesh.

She felt the kiss before it happened—the intake of his breath, the fractional lean forward, the surrender written in the tremor that ran through his fingertips. When their lips met, it was with the softness of accident, the barest pressure, yet it detonated through her like lightning striking water. His mouth was warm, tasting of the cardamom he'd chewed after dinner, and for one impossible moment he kissed her back, gentle, almost wondering.

Then reality crashed in. He tore away with a sound like cloth ripping, the force of it rocking her backward. His chest heaved as if he'd run miles in full armor; she saw the exact instant discipline slammed back into place, shuttering his face into marble.

"Forgive me." The words came out strangled. He stepped back until his spine hit the balcony rail, putting the width of the courtyard between them though they stood inches apart. "That should not have happened."

"But it did." Her lips felt swollen, sensitive, as if he'd branded her. "And you wanted it to."

He turned away sharply, hands gripping the stone until his knuckles blanched. Below, a dog barked once, the sound carrying clear and lonely through the night air. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible above the wind. "Want has never been the question."

"Then what is?"

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "The question is how many people I betray with every heartbeat that isn't devoted to them." His shoulders rose and fell once, a silent admission of defeat. "And how to live with myself when I've already failed the answer."

She reached out, fingers brushing empty air. He didn't turn, didn't move, stood frozen as a statue of some martyred saint. The jasmine petal lay between them on the stone, crushed now beneath his sandal, releasing its scent into the night like a secret too heavy to keep.

He moved so fast the air snapped, sandals skidding across the stone. The kiss still clung to his mouth, a wet heat that felt suddenly obscene, as if she had left some part of herself inside him. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips—once, twice—until the skin burned. Behind him he heard her inhale, a small sound that might have been his name, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The balcony doors loomed like the mouth of a tunnel and he plunged through them, down the narrow servants’ stair, each footfall echoing like a slap.

Duty. The word hammered with his pulse. Duty was a clean thing, a straight line; what he had just done was crooked, wet, alive. He tasted her again—cardamom, sesame, the faint salt of her lower lip—and his stomach lurched with something between nausea and hunger. The corridor smelled of lamp-oil and roasted grain, ordinary smells that seemed to accuse him. He passed a mirror; the reflection showed a stranger with swollen lips and wild eyes. He looked away.

His fists were so tight the nails drew blood. He uncurled them slowly, watching the half-moons darken, and felt the sting like a penance. Four crescents, one for each brother he had just failed. He could already hear Yudhishthir’s quiet disappointment, Bhima’s baffled rage, Nakula’s pity. And his mother—Kunti would say nothing, only look at him with that steady, measuring gaze until he crumbled. He had been the reliable one, the arrow that never missed its mark. Now the arrow had veered, and he had no idea where it would land.

He reached the practice yard because the body knew the way even when the mind was lost. The straw targets stood pale in the moonlight, waiting. He seized his bow from the rack; the familiar grip should have steadied him, but his hands shook so violently the string slapped his forearm. The welt rose immediately, a red stripe that throbbed in time with his cock—because yes, he was hard, had been hard since her breath mingled with his, and the knowledge disgusted him. He dropped the bow, pressed the heel of his palm against the ache, willing it to subside. It didn’t. He could still feel the ghost weight of her breasts brushing his cuirass, the tiny sound she had made in her throat when he leaned into the kiss.

He had wanted to open her mouth wider, to taste the heat inside. Wanted to lift her onto the stone balustrade, push up the silk, find the slick core of her with his fingers and hear her lose every courtly word. The clarity of the image made him groan aloud. He sank to his knees in the dirt, palms flat on the packed earth as if he could ground the current racing through his blood. A dog barked somewhere beyond the walls; the sound echoed his own frantic heartbeat.

He stayed there until the sky paled, until the ache in his groin subsided to a dull, dishonest throb. Then he rose, wiped the dust from his knees, and walked back toward the palace that no longer felt like home. Behind every pillar he expected to see her—jasmine in her hair, challenge in her eyes—ready to finish what he had fled. Part of him hoped she would. Most of him prayed she would not.