Vaidehis Chamber, Devdhara Palace — Dawn.

Rain tapped gently on the windows, filling the quiet room with a soft rhythm. The sky outside was still dark, and everyone in the palace was asleep.

Vaidehi sat near the edge of her bed, tying the strings of her practice kurta. Her damp hair was pulled back into a loose braid. She had woken up early — not because she had to, but because her heart wouldn't let her rest.

She wanted to practice. Needed to.

But going out wasn’t easy anymore. The guards had been everywhere lately because of the recent dacoit attacks, and Pranati, who usually helped her sneak out, had gone home for a few days.

She thought about the mornings that had become a quiet routine over the past week—Shaurya, always present, escorting her to the practice grounds.

She had been relying on him more and more over the past week. Every morning, they had woken early, and he’d escorted her to the practice grounds, keeping watch over her like an ever-present shadow. She hated admitting it, but the routine had become... comforting.

She didn’t have to sneak around anymore. Shaurya was there, watching over her. And for the first time, she didn’t feel so alone.

He had been busy today, though. He’d told her last night she could rest and that he would be tied up with other duties. She hadn’t argued, but the weight of staying in felt heavier than she had expected. She glanced over at the sword resting against the wall. It was so close, and yet, so far.

Vaidehi sighed, walking over to the small window. She pulled the curtain aside and peeked out. Rain. Light, steady, and cold. The courtyard below looked empty. It was the perfect time — if only she could get past the guards near the main hall.

She turned back and stared at the old wooden door behind the dressing screen. The one the servants used.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Maybe…

She quietly tiptoed across the room, careful not to make a sound. Her sword, wrapped in cloth, was already packed and hidden under her shawl.

She pressed her ear to the door.

Silence.

She bit her lip, hesitating only a second more — then slowly pulled the door open.

One step at a time.

She was going out.

The old servant passage was narrow and cold, but Vaidehi knew every step by heart. She moved quickly, her bare feet silent on the stone floor, her shawl pulled close to shield her from the chill.

At the far end, she found the small wooden exit. It creaked slightly when she pushed it open — just enough to make her flinch and glance back.

Still quiet.

Still alone.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped outside.

The rain kissed her skin instantly, cool and fresh. It soaked through her light clothes within seconds, but she didn’t care. She felt free.

For a moment, she just stood there — eyes closed, face turned up to the sky, letting the soft rain wash over her.

Then she moved.

Swift and steady, she crossed the empty courtyard, heading towards the quiet edge of the palace gates.

The sword on her back felt heavier with the rain, but comforting. Like she wasn’t just Vaidehi anymore.

She was someone stronger.

Someone she was still trying to become.

What she didn’t know was that she wasn’t alone.

Far above, in one of the darkened balconies, someone watched her — silently, grey eyes sharp, breath still.

He stood in the shadows of the upper balcony, rainwater dripping from the edges of the carved stone above him. The palace grounds lay quiet and dim, blanketed by the early morning rain — and there she was, moving like a secret the world wasn’t meant to know.

Vaidehi.

His grey eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her make her way across the courtyard, sword strapped to her back, soaked and unaware.

“Stubborn little bird, aren't you?” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

She had no idea someone could’ve seen her slip through that side passage. No idea how vulnerable she looked. Yet, there was something about the way she walked — determined, head high even as the rain lashed around her — that made his jaw tense.

She wasn't weak.

But she was reckless.

Too trusting of the silence. Too unaware of the darkness that sometimes moved even closer than the light.

His hand dropped to the hilt of his dagger — an old habit — before he turned, disappearing from the balcony without a sound.

Vaidehi didn’t pause as she approached the training grounds, the rain pouring harder now, drenching her to the skin. She wasn’t worried about the cold, nor about being seen. All that mattered was the practice — the focus. She needed to clear her mind.

She reached the edge of the training area and dropped her sword bag onto the wet ground. Without hesitation, she unsheathed her blade, feeling the weight of it in her hands. The cool metal was comforting, its edge sharp and precise, much like her thoughts should be right now.

Her feet moved naturally into position, and she began to swing the sword, cutting through the air with sharp, measured movements. The rain hissed as it hit the ground, but Vaidehi didn’t notice. Her focus was total, the rhythm of her strikes slowly calming her chaotic mind.

Behind her, Shaurya had arrived quietly, blending into the shadows. He stood just out of sight, watching her.

The sight of her—drenched, fierce, and focused—struck him in a way he hadn’t expected. There was something about her... something different.

His gaze narrowed as she spun gracefully, the sword moving with such purpose.

She didn’t stop.

Did she always train in the rain? In the cold?

A small, amused smile escaped him, but it quickly faded. What was it about her?

For the first time, he questioned whether following her was really about understanding or simply... watching.

But just then, Vaidehi stopped. She turned, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if sensing something. Her breath was steady, despite the exhaustion.

She wasn’t alone.

The sound of laughter and splashing water filled the air, drawing Vaidehi’s attention. She paused mid-swing, her eyes scanning the grounds. The faintest sound of children playing in the rain echoed through the practice grounds. Without thinking, she lowered her sword and walked towards the noise, the rain soaking her to the bone.

A few  children, careless and carefree, were splashing around in the water, their giggles blending with the heavy rainfall.

She wasn’t practicing now — her sword rested against the wall, forgotten. Instead, she stood still, her gaze drawn toward a group of palace children playing in the puddles, squealing and laughing.

And then, to his surprise, she stepped forward.

She didn’t hesitate. She joined them.

SHAURYA FROZE.

He had followed her only out of caution, his footsteps silent as always. He didn’t expect this.

Barefoot, her long braid clinging to her soaked back, Vaidehi laughed as she splashed into a puddle, the rain soaking her simple lavender tunic. Her joy was unfiltered, like a child who had escaped her cage.

Shaurya stood hidden behind a pillar, completely still.

He couldn’t look away.

The world around him faded — the sound of thunder, the weight of the mission, even the anger buried in his bones. All he saw was her — dancing in the rain like she belonged to the sky.

There was something about her. Something untouched.

Something he didn’t know how to protect without wanting to claim.

His jaw tightened.

This girl would be his undoing.

Raindrops slipped down the stone pillars, but he didn’t move an inch. His breath was steady, but his chest felt oddly tight.

Vaidehi twirled — with a kind of carefree abandon that didn’t belong to a palace or its rules. Her laughter floated through the courtyard, soft and sincere, rising above the patter of the rain and the children's shrieks of joy.

There was mud on her feet, a streak of water running down her cheek, and her clothes were soaked through — but she looked… radiant.

No jewels. No veil. No title.

Just her.

Shaurya had seen warriors bow before him, assassins bleed at his command, empires shift with his silence — and he was here with this… this girl spinning barefoot in the rain who looked like the most precious thing he’d ever witnessed.

Innocence.

Untouched, unshaped by the cruelty of the world.

Something sacred.

His hand clenched slightly at his side.

What was it about her?

Why did he feel like if someone so much as looked at her wrong, he’d burn the world to the ground?

She didn’t see him.

Shaurya watched as one of the smallest boys lost his balance and tumbled into a puddle. Vaidehi rushed forward, lifting him into her arms with ease. She held him against her chest, whispering something only the boy could hear. Her lips brushed his temple gently, and her eyes crinkled as he touched her face in wonder.

That laugh.

That warmth.

The image hit him like a blow.

Vaidehi didn’t just remind him of a memory. She reminded him of her — his MOTHER, the only person who had ever loved him without fear, without question.

And now, this girl… this stubborn, sunshine-soft girl who knew nothing of the wars he fought — was pulling at pieces of him he had long buried.

The boy in her arms squealed with delight, and two more children came running, slipping and sliding through the wet grass. One tugged at her dupatta, the other tried to be held by her like the one in her arms.

Vaidehi laughed — full, bright, completely unbothered by the rain or the mud staining the edge of her clothes. She let the child in her arms down gently and spun the next one around with a playful shriek. Water droplets flew from her hair, catching the faint light of dawn like tiny shards of gold.

Shaurya couldn’t breathe for a second.

Her smile — unfiltered, unguarded — was blinding. Her eyes sparkled with joy, the kind that couldn’t be faked. Her skin glowed under the soft rain, dewy and warm, like the earth itself had sculpted her out of sunlight and storm.

She knelt in the grass, laughing as the children dogpiled on her, her hands busy fixing their wet hair, tucking a stray flower behind one little girl's ear, kissing another's fingers when he showed her a scratch.

Every movement of hers was delicate, divine — like watching a goddess descend into a mortal world, not to be worshipped, but to belong.

Shaurya had seen many beautiful women. None had ever looked like this.

Untouchable. Unforgettable.

Rain slid down his temple, unnoticed. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there, eyes locked on her as if he might miss something sacred if he looked away even for a moment.

She laughed again, tossing her head back, eyes closed — and that sound, that sound — he felt it echo in places he thought didn't exist.

He had come here with questions. With purpose. With restraint.

But now, all he could think was—

“What are you, little lioness?”

Because whatever she was… she wasn’t meant to be ordinary.

“You smell like flowers!” the boy giggled, arms wrapped around her neck.

Shaurya’s lips twitched.

A little girl tugged at Vaidehi’s dupatta. “Are you a real princess?” she asked, eyes wide. “You look like one… but prettier. Like someone from the sky.”

Vaidehi bent with a smile, brushing the girl’s wet hair back. “No, I’m not from the sky.”

“But you have to be,” another boy insisted, “because no one here looks like that.”

Shaurya exhaled slowly, his chest tightening with something unfamiliar. He could hear every word. Every giggle. Every fluttered compliment tossed at her.

Then, the youngest — barely walking — toddled over and reached up, small palms touching her rain-slicked cheek.

“You’re warm,” he murmured. “You feel like home.”

She leaned down and kissed the boy on his forehead, cradling him with a softness Shaurya hadn’t seen before — not from anyone. Not in years.

And then it hit him again.

She reminded him of the way his mother used to hold him after sword practice, her voice teasing but full of light. The kind of light Vaidehi now carried in her very bones.

He didn’t realize he was smiling.

Not until his jaw relaxed and his eyes softened, drawn into the moment like it belonged to a different world — one he was no longer part of.

But she was.

The rain was beginning to settle into a gentle mist when a strange rhythm broke through the quiet.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Her laughter stopped mid-breath as her head turned sharply. The children around her froze, small faces turning toward the echoing sound of hooves fast approaching the muddy road.

"Come here," she said softly, quickly gathering the children closer. Her tone left no room for hesitation. "We need to go."

"Did the bad men come back?" one of the older boys asked, eyes wide.

“No talking. Just hold each other’s hands and follow me,” she ordered, crouching slightly to scoop the littlest one into her arms.

The sound of hooves grew louder, the rhythmic pounding reverberating through the air, sending an unsettling chill down Vaidehi’s spine.

At first, it seemed like just a few riders, but as the figures emerged from the mist, she realized with growing horror that there were far more — a hundred, at least, their horses kicking up mud and rainwater as they advanced.

DACOITS.

The leader of the dacoits rode ahead of the group, his horse snorting as it trotted towards Vaidehi. The man was tall, with a face hardened by years of violence, his eyes scanning her and the children with a cold, calculating gaze. The rest of his men followed suit, their horses forming a menacing circle around her, the thunder of hooves nearly drowning out everything else.

Vaidehi’s heart pounded, but she didn’t let it show. She shifted the children behind her, pulling them close. The little one in her arms clung to her desperately, sensing the danger that loomed.

"Move aside, let us go," Vaidehi said trying her best to hide the anxiety seeping through her.

That made a few of them chuckle, but the leader leaned closer, squinting at her through the rain.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you? From the palace.” He looked her over. “Highborn. Pretty. I wonder what the palace would pay to get you back…”

Vaidehi’s eyes narrowed. “Try touching me, and you’ll find out what your bones sound like when they break.”

The threat was quiet. Calm. But the sharpness in her tone cut through the air.

A moment of stillness followed. Then the leader stepped down from his horse, mud splashing under his boots.

“Bold. I like bold,” he said, drawing a blade from his belt. “But bold doesn’t keep you alive out here.”

Behind her, one of the smallest children whimpered. Vaidehi didn’t look back, but she subtly shifted to cover more of them with her body.

The leader stopped a few feet from her now, his blade glinting faintly in the pale dawn light. “You're one of a kind .”

The wind picked up. The storm was beginning to rise again. Rain fell harder.

Just as the circle of dacoits began to close in—steel glinting, cruel laughter echoing through the rain—

A loud thud shattered the air.

One of the dacoits near the rear dropped to the ground with a choked gasp, blood blooming on his tunic.

Silence fell like a blade.

All heads turned.

And through the silver sheet of rain, he appeared—

Dark, commanding, drenched to the bone and yet entirely untouchable.

SHAURYA.

He walked in slowly, like he had all the time in the world. His sword gleamed in his hand, freshly drawn, its hilt catching the faint shimmer of dawn.

No words.

Just those storm-grey eyes—burning.

And when they landed on Vaidehi, standing soaked and defiant among wolves, something shifted in the air

. A quiet fury took over his face. The kind that promised ruin. The kind you didn’t beg mercy from—you just prayed you weren’t the reason for it.

Another dacoit lunged towards Vaidehi, blade raised.

Wrong move.

In a blur, Shaurya moved.

His sword slashed through the rain, elegant and merciless. The man collapsed with a groan before he could touch her.

Vaidehi turned at the sound, her breath catching as her eyes met his.

She didn’t say a word.

She didn’t need to.

Because the way Shaurya was looking at her—like she was the only thng that mattered in the world and he’d burn down everything threatening her—it said more than a thousand promises.

He stepped in front of her, shielding her with his entire body.

And then, for the first time, he spoke.

Voice low. Calm. Deadly.

“Think of ever touching her and I’ll scatter your bones so wide not even the vultures will find you.”

The dacoits hesitated.

Not because they were afraid of dying—

But because the man standing before them didn’t look like a soldier.

He looked like the God Of destruction himself.

The moment the dacoits laid eyes on him, something shifted.

The air grew heavier.

Even the rain, wild and relentless a second ago, seemed to hesitate — like it dared not fall on him.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The leader of the dacoits snarled, “Just one man—”

Before the sentence finished, Shaurya moved.

In a blink, his blade was buried in the chest of the first fool who stepped forward.

No grunt, no effort — like he was swatting a fly.

The man dropped, lifeless.

The others stared, stunned.

Shaurya pulled the sword out with a slow, deliberate motion — the blood glinting red even in the gray rain. His eyes… weren’t mortal. They were silver flames. And they were locked onto the enemy like a predator bored of the hunt.

“Step forward,” he finally said, voice calm, deep, lethal, “if death tempts you.”

The next wave charged.

They never reached him.

Shaurya descended upon them like divine wrath — fluid, silent, precise.

His sword danced, but it was no dance of elegance — it was execution. Heads rolled, arms flew, bodies slammed into mud with bone-shattering force.

One man screamed as Shaurya cleaved through his weapon like paper, then spun and struck his chest with the hilt. The man flew backward, spine crushed on impact.

Another tried to crawl away.

Shaurya walked up — slow, composed — and without blinking, drove his blade into the man’s shadow. Not even his body.

The man froze — eyes wide — and dropped dead.

They began to realize.

This wasn’t a man.

THIS WAS RAKTAVEER.

The warrior who spared none.

The one whose rage tasted like destruction and smelled like death.

The one their fathers spoke of in hushed tones.

The Samrat Of Hind himself.

“Retreat!” one shouted. “He’s the Samr...—!”

But it was too late.

Shaurya raised his sword high — and roared.

The sound wasn’t human.

It rolled through the grounds like thunder, shaking the bones of every coward left standing.

Vaidehi’s hands trembled as her eyes took in the blood-soaked chaos before her. The sheer brutality unfolding was too much—even for her. Without wasting another moment, she gathered the wide-eyed children, shielding their faces as best she could, and led them away—away from the screams, the steel, and the man who was painting the ground red. They didn’t need to see this. No child should.

Shaurya had become unstoppable now. Mad fury ran in his veins. The Raktaveer in him had been awakened.

In one breath, he charged—a blur of black and steel, cutting through the thick rain like a blade through silk.

His sword flashed — once, twice, thrice — and with each flick, a life was snuffed out.

One man's throat split open before he even drew his dagger.

Another’s skull cracked beneath the brutal slam of Shaurya’s elbow.

They tried to surround him.

They never got the chance.

He moved like lightning.

A spin. A slash. Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the soaked earth red.

One came from behind — Shaurya ducked, caught the man’s wrist, and twisted it until the bone snapped like dry wood. Then, without looking, he buried his blade backwards into the man’s gut.

He pulled it out clean and kept moving.

The ground was slippery, but he was untouchable — feet never faltering, every step precise like it had been calculated by death itself.

Someone screamed, “Run!”

Shaurya’s lips curled into a smile.

That was the last command the man ever gave.

He lunged at the commander — slicing both his legs off at the knees in one smooth move — and as the man dropped, screaming, Shaurya slit his throat with a single flick. No emotion. No hesitation.

The remaining men panicked.

No. One. Ran.

Because before they could take a step, they were brutally attacked.

Left, right — necks were cleaved. Arteries sprayed.

He leapt, twisted mid-air, and landed atop a man’s shoulders — snapping his neck with a downward strike as he used the corpse to launch himself higher.

From above, he descended like a god of war, swords spinning, whirling, cutting through five men in one motion.

The final ten backed into each other.

Shaurya advanced slowly.

One tried to beg. “Please—please don’t—”

Shaurya threw a dagger into his eye without breaking stride.

Another lunged forward. Shaurya disarmed him, snapped his wrist, and used his own sword to impale him into the ground.

Two tried to hide behind a tree. Shaurya pulled his cloak aside and threw two tiny crescent-shaped blades—both hit necks with surgical precision.

Two heartbeats. Two corpses.

The man fell to his knees.

“Mercy…”

Shaurya stepped forward — silent, merciless.

He placed the tip of his sword gently under the man’s chin.

“This is mercy.”

Then, with a flick —

Silence.

The last dacoit stood trembling, the chief of them, surrounded by the mangled corpses of his men—ribs shattered, throats torn, eyes wide open in eternal terror. Blood dyed the mud around him, soaking through his knees as he collapsed to the ground.

The rain couldn't wash this away.

He looked up—and froze.

He knew that silhouette.

The stance. The eyes.

That cloak dancing in the wind like the wings of death.

“R-Raktaveer…”

His voice cracked as he whispered the name—not in defiance, but in dread.

The Samrat of Hind.

The butcher of battlefields. The shadow in bedtime stories meant to scare grown warriors.

He dropped his weapon.

His knees gave out, hitting the soaked ground with a thud.

Palms joined in prayer, head bowed low.

Mouth mumbling fragments of a plea that even he didn’t believe would be heard.

“I didn’t know, Samrat… I swear upon everything, I didn’t know she was under your protection—please, forgive me, Rajadhiraj”

(Rajadhiraj~The King Of Kings)

There he stood.

Drenched in red, not from rain.

Sword in one hand. Axe in the other. Both dripping.

The Raktaveer.

His breath was steady.

His eyes—blazing grey—were fixed on the man.

But not in battle rage.

No.

This… was rage after battle.

The kind that simmers. The kind that consumes.

The dacoit dropped to all fours, crawling like a dog towards him, blubbering.

“I—I didn’t know! Please! Spare me—don’t kill me—I beg you—!”

Shaurya didn't blink.

He took a single step forward.

The man scrambled back, hands raised. “I never touched her! I swear, Samrat—I didn’t lay a finger on her!”

His jaw ticked. Mad fury arising in his grey eyes.

He reached down… and with one hand, grabbed the man by his hair, yanking him to his feet like he weighed nothing.

“Did your feet touch the ground she walked on?” Shaurya asked, his voice calm. Too calm.

The man whimpered, eyes darting around. “I—I—”

Shaurya's fist drove into his gut with such force, the man coughed blood instantly—his body folding in half before Shaurya kneeled him straight again with a brutal strike to the face.

Teeth flew out like pebbles. Blood sprayed.

“She must've been so worried.”

Another punch.

“You breathed in the same air as her.”

Another.

And another.

Shaurya didn’t stop.

He threw him down, stomped on his leg, shattering it—bone cracking loud against the storm.

The man screamed. Birds flew from the trees. But Shaurya didn’t even flinch.

“You came here… with a weapon,” he said, bending to whisper in his ear.

“You thought of harming her.”

A pause.

And then he drove his blade through the man's thigh, pinning him to the earth.

The man howled.

“I didn’t! I swear, I didn’t—!”

Shaurya leaned close, and for the first time… he smiled.

A cruel, dangerous, terrifying smile.

“Your scream is too loud for someone who begged like a bug.”

He twisted the blade—slowly.

The man writhed. Foamed at the mouth.

Shaurya stood tall again, towering over him—untouched.

“I won’t send you to death.”

The man gasped, horror flickering in his eyes.

“Death is too quick,” Shaurya said. “I want you to remember every time you try to sleep—whose eyes you dared look into.”

He reached into his belt and pulled out a dagger.

Then—with no hesitation—he carved his royal emblem deep into the man’s shoulder, ripping through flesh and muscle until bone gleamed beneath. The man howled, choking on his own blood, collapsing in a heap of torn skin and shattered pride—alive, leaving him paralysed in a way he’d barely be able to move a muscle in his body, but enough to remember every scream for the rest of his cursed life.

_____________

The rain kept falling, but the world felt still.

Vaidehi wiped her face with the back of her trembling hand, though it did nothing to stop the tears—or the rain. The children were safe now. She had made sure of it, quietly leaving each one at their doorstep, her heart pounding the entire time.

But the moment she was alone, it all hit her.

The sight of blood.

The sheer madness of what had happened.

And him.

She sank down onto the edge of an old stone platform, trying to steady her breath. Her body was exhausted, but her mind—her heart—refused to rest.

I put him in danger... because of me...he had to....

Before she could spiral further, a sharp tug pulled her back to reality.

Strong arms yanked her roughly away from the stone, pinning her against the cold pillar behind. She gasped, startled.

And then—those eyes.

Grey. Furious. Burning like a storm barely contained.

And then came the voice—deep, thunderous, and low enough to shake her to her core.

"What the hell do you think you were doing?"