: The Suryapuri Delegation
The Grand Courtyard of the Moon Palace was a study in stark contrasts. The sun, Suryapuri's patron, shone brilliantly overhead, its golden light setting the white marble ablaze and making the sapphire inlays glitter like scattered pieces of the sky. Banners of deep blue and silver fluttered in the gentle breeze, and the air was thick with the formal, cloying scent of champaka flowers and sandalwood.
It was a scene crafted for a joyous occasion: the formal gratitude of one kingdom to its savior.
But the atmosphere was funereal.
The Chandrapuri court stood in rigid, silent rows, their faces masks of polite welcome that did not reach their eyes. They were watching a performance, and everyone knew the lead actor had forgotten his lines.
At the center of it all stood Prince Devansh.
He was dressed in the full, formal regalia of the Chandrapuri heir—a deep midnight blue achkan embroidered with silver thread in patterns of swirling constellations and crescent moons. He looked every inch the prince. And every inch a stranger.
His posture was flawlessly correct, his hands folded in the traditional 'anjali' mudra. But it was the greeting of a statue. There was no life in it, no warmth. His face was a perfectly composed mask of neutrality, his eyes two chips of polished lapis lazuli, reflecting the light but holding none of their own.
The great gates swung open.
The Suryapuri delegation entered, a splash of vibrant, sun-washed color against the moon-cooled marble. At their head, walking with a deliberate, steady grace that could not completely hide the lingering weariness in his frame, was Maharaja Viraj himself. His presence was a profound gesture of respect. The Sun King had come to thank the Moon Prince.
And two paces behind his father, his gaze a laser of intense, worried fire, was Prince Aaditya.
He was a vision of solar fury barely contained. His crimson and gold attire seemed to burn in the courtyard. His jaw was clenched tight, his shoulders set. But his eyes… his eyes were only for Devansh. They scanned him, searching, desperately seeking a crack in the icy facade, a flicker of the friend who had saved his father, his kingdom, his heart.
The formal greetings began. The exchange of garlands, the recitation of titles, the presentation of gifts from Suryapuri—chests of gold, bolts of the finest silk, a magnificent stallion whose coat shone like liquid fire. Through it all, Devansh performed his part with a cold, bureaucratic efficiency. He accepted the garland, his fingers not brushing the King's. He acknowledged the gifts with a slight, precise nod. He spoke the words of welcome, his voice a calm, monotonous stream, devoid of inflection.
"Chandrapuri is honored by the presence of the Sun King. Your health and the prosperity of Suryapuri are a blessing to us all."
The words were right. The sentiment was utterly absent.
Maharaja Viraj, a man of great heart and warmth, faltered. He had expected… more. He had expected to see the gentle, brilliant young man who had poured his very soul into a healing raga. He saw a diplomat.
"Prince Devansh," the Maharaja began, his voice softening, shedding some of its regal formality. He took a half-step closer, his fatherly concern overriding protocol. "We can never repay what you have done. You saved my life. You saved our kingdom from a blight we could not fight." He paused, his eyes earnest. "And… you have been greatly missed in our halls. Aaditya…"
He gestured slightly towards his son.
Aaditya's breath hitched. This was the moment. His name, spoken by his father in this context, was a key meant to unlock a door.
Devansh's gaze shifted from the Maharaja to Aaditya.
Their eyes met.
It was the first time since the Music Garden. The first time since the fallen flute.
Aaditya's eyes were an open book. In them was a storm of emotions—the deep, abiding worry that had been his constant companion, the remembered pain of their last meeting, the fierce, protective love that had only grown stronger in the face of this inexplicable change. It was a silent plea. Dev. Look at me. See me. I am here. Come back.
He saw Devansh's blue eyes, so close he could count the silver flecks in them. He saw the perfect, unblinking stillness. And he saw… nothing.
There was no recognition. No warmth. No conflict. Not even annoyance. It was like looking into the eyes of a beautifully painted portrait. The shape and color were perfect, but the soul was absent. Aaditya's heartfelt plea shattered against a blank, impenetrable wall.
Devansh held his gaze for a count of three, then looked back at Maharaja Viraj, as if Aaditya were a piece of furniture that had momentarily drawn his attention.
"I trust the Yuvaraj is well," he said, his voice flat as a still pond.
The words were a dismissal. A casual, brutal erasure of everything they were, everything they had shared. I trust you are well. Not "It is good to see you." Not "I have missed you." A polite, formal, and utterly soul-crushing non-statement.
Aaditya felt the words like a physical blow to his chest. He actually took a half-step back, the air driven from his lungs. The hope that had flickered in his heart, the desperate belief that seeing him might jolt Devansh back to himself, was extinguished, leaving only cold, hard ash.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur for Aaditya. The formal speeches, the hollow assurances of continued alliance, the taste of sweetmeats that turned to dust in his mouth. He watched Devansh, this polished, empty shell, and a cold, sharp clarity began to cut through his pain.
This was not his Devansh. This was not a phase, not exhaustion, not a mood. This was something else. Something had taken hold of him. The man he loved was trapped behind a pane of ice, and polite concern, heartfelt pleas, and fallen flutes were not going to break it.
The delegation began its farewells. The same formal, sterile rituals in reverse. As they turned to leave, Aaditya cast one last look over his shoulder.
Devansh was already turning away, his attention inward, towards the silent, brooding presence of Vani, which a servant held a few paces behind him. He did not watch them go.
The great gates of the Moon Palace closed behind the Suryapuri delegation, the heavy thud echoing with an air of finality.
On the journey back, Aaditya rode in silence, his father's concerned glances bouncing off the new, hardened shell forming around his own heart. The pain was still there, a raw, aching wound, but it was no longer paralyzing. It was being forged into something else. Resolve.
He had begged. He had pleaded. He had hoped. He had given him space.
None of it had worked.
As the spires of Suryapuri rose in the distance, gilded by the setting sun, Aaditya's jaw set. His fiery eyes, which had held so much sorrow, now glinted with a new, determined light.
You are in there, Dev. I know you are. And I will not lose you to this… this shadow.
If you will not come back to me, then I will go in and drag you out.
The diplomatic approach was over. The time for waiting was done.
He had to act.