The summer air in the village shimmered with heat, thick with the smell of dust and sweat. Cows lowed lazily in their pens, children darted barefoot through the alleys, and the temple bells rang somewhere far away.
Leena was only twelve then, her hair tied back in a messy braid, her arms stained with herbs and soil. She ran through the crowded street, ignoring the elders' frowns, clutching a small pouch of medicine leaves so tightly her nails dug into her palm.
Ram was dying.
She burst into his family's courtyard, her sandals scraping against the dry earth. Inside, the smell of sickness hung heavy — a mix of stale sweat, incense smoke, and fear. Ram's mother knelt by his pallet, whispering prayers under her breath. A priest sprinkled ashes onto his forehead, muttering chants, his eyes already holding the resignation of someone who had seen this before.
"He won't last the night," someone murmured.
Leena's stomach twisted. She didn't hear the rest. She pushed past the priest, ignoring the gasp from Ram's mother.
"What are you doing, girl?" the man barked. "The gods decide—"
"The gods gave us minds to heal!" Leena shot back. Her voice, still high with youth, rang with defiance.
She knelt beside Ram. His face was pale, skin clammy, breath ragged. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, unfocused.
"You're not leaving me, Ram," she whispered, crushing the leaves between her fingers until the bitter scent filled the room. She mixed them into water from her pouch and lifted his head, forcing him to drink.
He coughed weakly, some of the liquid spilling from his lips, but she kept going. Hour after hour, she fed him spoonfuls, cooled his forehead with damp cloths, whispered stubborn promises that she would not let him die.
And somehow, against every prayer and prediction, Ram woke at dawn — fever broken, eyes sharp again.
The first thing he saw was Leena slumped beside his bed, head resting on her arms, asleep.
When she stirred, his gaze locked on hers, and something shifted between them.
"You saved me," he said, voice rough but steady.
She smiled faintly. "Of course. What else would I do?"
Ram's jaw tightened, and his eyes — still ringed with the shadow of sickness — burned with something deeper. He reached for her wrist.
"My life is yours now," he said, each word deliberate. "You hear me? Every breath I take is because of you. That means I belong to you, and you… you belong to me."
Leena laughed softly, shaking her head. "Don't be silly. You owe me nothing. You'll just live, and that's enough."
But Ram's grip didn't loosen. "No. I'll protect you. Always. No one will touch you, no one will take you from me. That's my vow."
Years passed, and Leena grew into the young woman who could coax life from the brink — tending wounds, easing births, brewing remedies from roots and flowers. People whispered when she passed. Sometimes with gratitude. More often with suspicion.
Ram heard every whisper.
From the shadows of the marketplace, from the gatherings of elders, from the temple steps. The priests called her dangerous — a girl who meddled in the work of the gods. The older women clucked their tongues, muttering that she would bring misfortune.
One evening, Ram overheard the words that set his blood on fire:
"She needs to be stopped. She's too bold. If we let her keep going, she'll shame us all."
That night, he went to the council, his voice steady, his face unreadable. "I'll take her as my wife," he said. "If she's under my roof, she'll cause no trouble."
The murmurs subsided. For a while.
But Leena… Leena did not stop.
Ram remembered the day that changed everything. The street was packed with merchants and shoppers, the sun a blazing disc overhead. A woman — thin, trembling, her skin marked with the dust of the lower caste — stumbled into the market, clutching her swollen belly.
No one moved to help her.
No one except Leena.
Ram watched as she tore her shawl, spread it on the ground, and knelt without hesitation, her hands working quickly. The crowd stared in stunned silence as she delivered the woman's child right there in the dirt, her hair falling into her face, her voice calm and steady despite the disapproving glares.
Ram's heart thudded in his chest. Pride warred with dread.
He saw the priests watching.
He heard the sharp intake of breath from the elders.
That night, the whispers turned into a hunt.
"They'll kill her" he told himself. "They'll tear her apart for shaming them like this."
And so the vow he had made as a fever-stricken boy hardened into something unshakable.
It was no longer just about gratitude.
If she would not stay by his side willingly, he would make her. He would save her — even if it meant dragging her back to India in chains, away from this foreign prince who looked at her like she was his to protect.
She wasn't the prince's.
She was his.
The memory bled away. Ram's hand, the same one that had once gripped hers in fever, now curled around the rusty handle of the shack's door.
The hinges groaned as it swung open.
Inside, the prince moved instantly, shifting his bound body to shield Leena. Even tied, he looked ready to kill.
Ram's lips curled into a slow smile.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, stepping inside. "Hope you slept well."