In the quiet hush of dawn, when the first threads of sunlight crept over the gilded domes of Pataliputra, the temple grounds lay suspended in sacred stillness. Birds stirred in the banyan branches, cooing softly, as if reluctant to wake the ancient stones from slumber. The marble floors, still kissed by the night's chill, glowed faintly under the amber sky.
Devika stood alone at the edge of the garden, where the lotus pond mirrored the heavens. Her reflection wavered with every ripple, fragmented and beautiful. The silk of her white robe shimmered faintly, damp with dew at the hem, and her long braid glistened with drops that caught the newborn light.
She had not slept. Not truly. Not since the moment Aarav had stepped from the shadows days ago and spoken her name like a prayer.
"Devika."
The way he'd said it, not as a title or with reverence, but as though it were a melody he'd once known — had stirred something deep within her, something that had no name, no beginning, only a feeling as ancient as the stars.
She dipped her fingers into the cool water, letting the ripples distort her reflection again. Her thoughts swirled like smoke: Aarav's eyes, intense and storm-dark. The way he listened when she spoke, like her words were sacred. Like she, not the goddess, was the miracle.
"Devika," came Meera's voice from behind, gentle but edged with concern.
Devika turned, startled. "Meera. I didn't hear you."
"You haven't been hearing much of anything lately," Meera said, stepping beside her. She placed a hand on her shoulder. "The priests say your dance has changed."
"Do they complain?"
"No," Meera said with a faint smile. "They say the goddess has possessed you. But I know the truth. A girl in love dances with different feet."
Devika looked away, shame and longing wrestling within her. "It's forbidden."
Meera shrugged. "So is living half a life."
That night, Aarav waited by the river, beneath the canopy of neem trees that bent with the wind like eavesdropping gods. His horse grazed quietly nearby, the silver of its bridle catching moonlight. He wore no armor tonight — only simple linen robes, a satchel over his shoulder with parchment, a flask of water, and a single lotus flower he had picked with calloused fingers.
He heard the soft rustle before he saw her.
Devika appeared, veiled in midnight blue, her eyes peeking beneath the cloth like starlight through clouds. Her footsteps made no sound on the grass. She walked to him as though drawn by a force neither of them could resist.
"You're early," she said.
"I couldn't wait," he replied.
They sat beneath the neem, the lotus pond stretching just beyond them, petals floating like forgotten wishes. Crickets sang in the underbrush, and fireflies danced in the shadows.
Aarav unrolled a piece of parchment. "I wrote something. I… don't know if it's good."
She tilted her head. "Read it."
He cleared his throat. "To the dancer in the temple of stars — if you ever forget your name, look to the moon. It has watched you longer than time. It has memorized your smile."
She didn't speak. She only looked at him, and when he dared to meet her eyes, he saw tears there — not of sadness, but recognition.
"I've never had anything written for me," she whispered.
"I've never written for anyone else."
She leaned back against the tree, and he lay beside her, their shoulders inches apart, hearts thundering in silence. The moon spilled its silver across the grass, casting their shadows as one.
"Tell me something no one knows," she said suddenly.
He thought for a moment. "When I was ten, I let a prisoner go. He was a rebel, they said. A traitor. But when I saw him — he was just a father trying to return to his family. I stole the key and left the door open."
"What happened?"
"They said he escaped. They whipped the guards. No one ever suspected me."
She looked at him, wonder softening her features. "You have a rebel's heart."
"What about you?" he asked.
She smiled, a sad, small thing. "I once tried to run away. When I was fifteen. I made it as far as the outer gates before fear caught me by the hair. I ran back before the sun rose."
"You never tried again?"
She shook her head. "Where would I go? The world does not welcome temple girls."
"It would welcome you," Aarav said fiercely. "Or I would make it."
He reached for her hand, slowly, reverently. Their fingers touched — hesitant, trembling. And then, like something ancient remembered, they wove together.
"I don't know what this is," she whispered. "I only know it feels like truth."
"Then we hold it. No matter what."
The wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, a conch horn sounded — a reminder that time still moved, that the world still watched.
But in that moment, beneath the moon and wrapped in the silence between heartbeats, they were infinite.