"She… she ran away with someone."
The words slithered through the royal hall like venom.
For a moment, the entire world seemed to stop breathing. The flicker of torches slowed. The silk curtains barely stirred. Even the chandeliers above swayed as though bowing to the weight of the silence that followed.
Anirudh Singh Rathore didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
He simply stood there — tall, composed, devastatingly still.
His sister's voice trembled again, weak, apologetic.
"Bhaiya… she— she's gone."
Gone.
The word cracked something deep inside him.
He turned his head slowly, his movements deliberate — a king trying to control his fury, and failing. His hand tightened around the mangalsutra he still held — the delicate gold pendant glinting faintly under the torchlight, the black beads swaying softly, as though mocking him.
"She ran away," he murmured, almost absently, like he was repeating a riddle he didn't understand.
His tone was calm. Too calm.
Then, softer, almost amused:
"With someone."
The stillness deepened.
Then he laughed.
A quiet, breathless laugh that started in his throat and grew — louder, harsher — until it became something unrecognizable. Something unholy.
He wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing.
"With someone," he repeated again, voice cracking with dark humor. "How beautiful."
Finally, his gaze snapped to the row of guards standing frozen near the grand doors. His expression turned cold, and the laughter died.
"You're all still alive," he said softly.
The words hung in the air like frost.
He tilted his head slightly, his tone light — conversational even — but every syllable burned with quiet madness.
"You're all still alive," he repeated, taking a step forward.
"Strange."
The guards stiffened.
"You see," he continued, voice calm and measured, "if she managed to run away with someone while you stood guard… one would assume you'd all be dead by now."
A beat of silence.
His next words came out quieter — almost a whisper.
"But here you are. Breathing."
The captain fell to his knees instantly.
"Your Majesty, forgive us— we didn't know— she went near the east gate, we saw a man— she— she took his hand— they ran—"
"She took his hand?"
The question was whispered — barely audible.
But it was the kind of whisper that froze blood.
Anirudh's gaze fell to the mangalsutra in his hand. His thumb brushed over the golden pendant with slow, deliberate care — as though trying to remember the warmth of the skin it once touched.
"She took another man's hand," he said softly. "While this still lay warm against her neck."
His voice cracked on the last word.
He laughed again — a single, broken sound — then his expression shifted. The warmth drained out of him completely.
"What a… poetic irony," he murmured. "My queen, my love, my wife — guarded by men who couldn't guard their own breath."
The captain stammered, "We tried, Your Majesty— we swear— we called out, we followed— but she was gone before we could—"
"Before you could what?" Anirudh's tone turned deceptively sweet. "Breathe? Blink? Think?"
No one dared answer.
He took one step closer to the captain.
"Tell me," he said, voice calm, even gentle. "What did her eyes look like when she ran? Were they frightened?"
"I—I don't know, Your Majesty—"
He smiled faintly. "Then you weren't looking."
His tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"Bring them all," he said softly, without looking at anyone. "Every guard stationed at the east gate. Now."
The doors opened immediately. Within moments, four men were dragged in, trembling, eyes wide with fear. They fell to their knees before him.
Anirudh crouched in front of one, his voice quiet. "Tell me… what did she say before she ran?"
The guard's throat bobbed. "She— she didn't speak, Your Majesty. The man— he— he held her hand and they— they just— ran."
For a long time, Anirudh didn't move.
Then, in a motion too quick to follow, he stood, hand curling around the mangalsutra so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"You saw," he said, his tone trembling with restrained rage, "my queen— my Aayat— holding another man's hand."
"Y-yes—"
"And you lived to tell me."
He smiled — a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"You're lucky," he whispered, "that I'm in a generous mood."
Then he turned, walking toward the throne with slow, steady steps. The mangalsutra swung loosely from his hand, the faint clink of beads echoing like a death knell.
When he reached the end of the hall, his voice cut through the silence — low, lethal, and absolute:
"Take them to the basement."
The guards froze.
"Your Majesty—"
His head turned, the faintest curve of his lips appearing. "You know what happens," he said softly, "to those who fail to guard what's mine."
The men were dragged away, their pleas swallowed by the heavy doors as they slammed shut.
Anirudh stood alone now — the storm beginning to roar outside, the wind howling through the carved stone corridors.
He looked down at the mangalsutra again, his thumb tracing the smooth surface of the pendant.
Then he lifted his head and spoke, his tone eerily calm.
"Find her. Find him. Search every gate, every road, every shadow." His voice lowered, each word a dagger. "Bring her back to me. And bring him back alive."
He turned on his heel and left the hall.
---
The corridors were dim, lit only by the flicker of dying torches. His footsteps echoed against the marble, rhythmic and hollow.
Rain began to fall, tapping against the windows like soft applause.
He pushed open the doors to their chamber.
The room was pristine. Her shawl still draped across the chair. Her jewelry on the table. The bed perfectly made — his side rumpled, hers untouched.
Everything looked normal.
Except that it wasn't.
It felt too clean. Too empty.
Like she had never existed here at all.
He walked to the dressing table, his eyes landing on the open drawer — her comb, her perfume, her bracelets — all perfectly arranged. And in his palm, the only thing that didn't belong there anymore: her mangalsutra.
He stared at it for a long time. Then he laughed — softly, bitterly.
"You left it again," he whispered. "Only this time… you meant to."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, his voice breaking into fragments of thought.
"You smiled when I left," he murmured. "You told me to come back soon. You promised you wouldn't go anywhere."
His fingers tightened around the chain until it dug into his skin. "You lied. You always lie so sweetly, Aayat."
He stood abruptly, pacing. The storm outside answered him with thunder.
"I gave you freedom," he hissed. "I gave you trust. I gave you time. And you used it to run from me."
He stopped suddenly, his gaze falling on the bed — where the faint scent of jasmine still lingered.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if trying to absorb her ghost.
But when he opened them, they were colder. Harder.
"You took my gentleness," he whispered. "You took my love. And now…"
He smiled faintly, voice soft but deadly. "…now you'll meet what comes after."
He lifted the mangalsutra, holding it before the candlelight. Its beads gleamed black like tiny eyes watching him.
"This was supposed to bind you," he murmured. "But maybe it wasn't enough."
He let it swing once from his hand, slow and deliberate. "When I find you, my love," he whispered, "you'll wear this again. Not as a symbol— but as a shackle."
He looked toward the open balcony, the moonlight spilling over his face.
And then — softly, almost lovingly — he said,
"You wanted to see devotion, Aayat?"
His lips curved into a smile that was both tender and terrifying.
"Now you'll see what it looks like when it stops pretending to be love."
The last candle flickered once and went out.
The palace plunged into silence.
And somewhere deep inside the marble halls, the king of Rajasthan began to laugh — soft, low, and endlessly.