Vaayansh's Return — A Shadow Follows
The peace of the royal palace in Paavangarh was a delicate thing, woven from the sigh of night winds through jali screens and the distant, rhythmic lapping of the palace lake against marble steps. It was a peace that shattered not with a crash, but with a sound torn from the human throat a raw, choked-off scream.
Prince Vaayansh bolted upright in his bed, silk sheets tangled around his legs like bindings. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs, a desperate, ragged sound in the profound dark. His hands flew to his abdomen, fingers splaying over the smooth, unbroken skin of his stomach, probing for a wound that existed only in the realm of memory and nightmare. The phantom pain was a cold, twisting blade, so vivid he could almost feel the heat of his own blood spilling over his fingers.
Just a dream.
The rational part of his mind,the prince trained in logic and statecraft, insisted.
Just a dream.
But for months now, the same nightmare had been his nightly phantom. Not a story, but a sensory prison: the suffocating press of a cold, grey fog that smelled of damp stone and old iron; the thunder of his own heart as he ran, legs leaden, through a featureless void; and behind him, always, the presence. Not a monster, not a beast. A figure tall, faceless, its form blurred but its intent a crystallized point of malice. In its hand, a sword that glowed with a sickly, greenish luminescence, the only colour in the monochrome hellscape. And every single time, without fail, the chase would end the same way. He would stumble, the fog would part, and the glowing sword would punch forward with cruel, slow inevitability, piercing him just below the ribs. The pain was not the shock of a blow, but the deep, intimate agony of metal parting flesh, grating against bone. He would feel his life force seeping out into the chilling mist… and then he would wake.
Tonight, the dream had been sharper. The pain had lingered, a cold echo in his waking muscles. The face of the figure, though still obscured, had felt… closer. Almost recognizable.
He sat on the edge of his bed until his breathing steadied and the cold sweat on his skin began to dry, leaving a stale chill. Sleep was a conquered country he could not re-enter. Silently, he padded out of his chambers and climbed the spiral stairs to the palace's highest, open-air terrace. Here, the wind was a living thing, rushing in from the distant mountains, cool and cleansing. It whipped through his sleep-tousled hair and dried the last dampness on his temples, but it could not touch the deeper cold lodged in his core.
Why this? Why me? The questions were familiar, worn smooth from repetition. Who is he? And why does he hunt me across the border of sleep?
He had no answers. Only the growing, chilling certainty that this was not a dream born of anxiety or indigestion. It was a memory. A memory his waking mind had buried, but his soul could not forget.
"Vaayansh."
The voice was gentle, but it made him start. He hadn't heard the footsteps.
King Anilraj stood in the archway, his robe drawn against the night chill, his face softened by concern in the moonlight. "My son. You look as if you've seen a ghost."
Vaayansh straightened his posture instinctively. "It is nothing of consequence, Father. Merely… a restless dream."
Anilraj, wise in the ways of his son's silences, did not pry. Instead, he gazed out at the sleeping city, its lights like fallen stars. "I must send an emissary to Bhoomigadh at first light. A matter of… delicate import. I cannot go myself. I have been pondering who might best represent our house."
Vaayansh didn't hesitate. The name was out of his mouth before the thought had fully formed. "Send me."
He needed to move. To outrun the static terror of the nightmare. To fill his eyes with new sights, his lungs with different air.
A faint, knowing smile touched Anilraj's lips. "I had hoped you might say that. Very well. You leave at sunrise."
But as the word "Bhoomigadh" settled in the space between them, Vaayansh felt a different kind of jolt. Not fear. A quick, fluttering sensation deep in his chest, like a trapped bird finding a sudden glimpse of sky.
Bhoomigadh.
The home of steady earth and blooming gardens.
The home of Princess Dharaaya.
He bowed, the formal gesture hiding the sudden tumult within. "Your will is my command, Father. I depart at dawn."
---
Bhoomigadh — Where Hearts Wait
Miles away, in the sun-drenched heart of Bhoomigadh, Princess Dharaaya was performing her morning ritual, her fingers carefully selecting the most perfect blooms from her mother's prized rose bushes. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of earth and perfume. Suddenly, her hand stilled. A strange, unnamable restlessness shuddered through her, a tremor that began in her heart and radiated out to her fingertips, making the petals she held tremble.
She straightened, looking around the serene garden. The guards stood at their posts. Bees hummed. Nothing was amiss.
Why does it feel like the air is waiting? she thought, bewildered. Like something is about to change… or someone is coming.
Shaking off the feeling, she turned back toward the palace. But at the main gate, she saw servants stringing fresh marigold garlands, and soldiers polishing ceremonial armor.
"Pratha!" she called to her sister, who was gleefully directing the decoration of an elephant's howdah. "What is all this for?"
Pratha whirled around, her face alight with excitement. "Didi! Have you not heard? Prince Vaayansh of Paavangarh is coming! Today!"
The name struck Dharaaya with the force of a physical blow. Her breath hitched.
"Vaayansh…?" His name was a whisper, stolen by the breeze.
A flood of images ten years of them crashed over her: his serious grey eyes during philosophy debates, the rare, surprising warmth of his smile, the solid, reassuring pressure of his hand pulling her from harm's way in the training yards. And now, after years of silence and distance, he was coming here. To her home.
Before her whirling thoughts could settle, a trumpet blared.
"PRINCE VAAYANSH OF PAAVANGARH ARRIVES!"
A chariot, burnished gold and drawn by white horses, rolled through the gates. And then he stepped down.
Time seemed to slow. The sun caught him, outlining his form in a halo of light. He had grown taller, his shoulders broader, but the calm, discerning stillness about him was exactly as she remembered. He was both familiar and beautifully, terrifyingly new.
Pratha sighed dramatically beside her. "Gods, he's handsome…"
But Vaayansh's gaze was not sweeping the welcoming party. It was searching. And it found her.
Across the courtyard, over the heads of bowing nobles and between drifting petals, their eyes locked.
For a heartbeat, the world dissolved. The cheers, the music, the fragrant garlands—all of it faded into a silent, humming background. There was only the recognition, the shock of seeing a ghost from her most cherished memories made flesh and standing in her sunlight. A blush, hot and sudden, swept up her neck. She saw a similar, fleeting uncertainty flicker in his eyes before they both glanced away, but not before she caught the faint, undeniable curve at the corner of his mouth. A secret smile, echoed on her own lips.
At the feast that followed, Dharaaya was the model of royal decorum. Yet her eyes, against her will, kept drifting to where he sat beside her father. And sometimes, when she looked, she found his gaze already on her. They would both quickly turn their attention to their plates, a silent, shared game of glance and retreat.
---
An Evening of Silent Words
Later, as dusk painted the sky in peach and lavender, Pratha, ever the enthusiastic host, took Vaayansh on a tour of the palace gardens. From her favourite secluded balcony overlooking the jasmine grove, Dharaaya watched them. She saw Pratha's animated chatter, saw Vaayansh listen with polite attentiveness.
"Didi! Come down!" Pratha called, waving.
Dharaaya shook her head, a gentle smile on her face. "I am content here."
Vaayansh looked up. His eyes found hers on the balcony, a silhouette against the fading light. This time, her smile was less shy, more open. He returned it, offering a slight, formal bow of his head in her direction. Pratha, below, beamed, believing the courtesy was for her.
That night, courage gathered like dew, Dharaaya took a tray with a cup of warm, spiced milk to the guest chambers. Her knuckles hesitated before rapping softly on the heavy door.
It opened. He stood there, having changed into simpler, comfortable clothes, his silver-streaked hair slightly damp.
"Princess Dharaaya." His voice was quiet, a note of surprise softening its usual even tone.
"Prince Vaayansh," she said, holding out the tray. "I thought… the journey can be tiring. This might help you sleep."
"You are kind. I am well." He took the cup, his fingers brushing hers. A tiny, electric contact. "And you? Bhoomigadh suits you."
"I am… home," she said, then immediately regretted how mundane it sounded. "It has been… many years."
He smiled, a real one that reached his eyes. "It has. The Gurukul sometimes feels like a story I read about another person's life."
Her heart sank a little at the distance in his words. She looked down at her hands. "Did you… ever miss it?" The question was softer than she intended, vulnerable.
He tilted his head, a teasing glint entering his gaze. "I missed the library. The sparring grounds. Should I have missed… someone in particular?"
The playful barb found its mark. Her face fell, the hope in her eyes dimming. He saw it instantly.
His teasing expression melted into something more tender, more real. He took a half-step closer, the space between them shrinking, charged with the unsaid words of a decade.
"I missed you too, Princess," he murmured, the admission hanging in the quiet corridor like a sacred confession.
Her heart stuttered to a stop. Her eyes flew to his, wide and luminous. For a long, breathless moment, they simply looked at each other, the past and the present collapsing into this single, charged point. Then, with a soft, flustered sound, she turned and hurried away, the memory of his words and the warmth of his nearness burning in her cheeks.
---
A Proposal Whispered in the Moonlight
The next morning brought the brisk efficiency of departure. Horses stamped in the courtyard. Vaayansh received a sealed scroll from the King of Bhoomigadh.
"For your father's eyes only, Prince Vaayansh. The matter is… sensitive."
Vaayansh bowed. "It will know no other, Your Majesty."
Before mounting his chariot, his gaze lifted, drawn as if by a magnet, to the high balcony. She was there. A solitary figure in the morning light, watching him go. No wave, no call. Just her presence, a silent farewell. She offered him a gentle, lingering smile. He held her gaze for a beat longer than protocol allowed, bowing not just with his head, but with his eyes a silent promise, an acknowledgment of the unspoken thing that had passed between them in the night.
Then the chariot rolled forward, carrying him away from her and back toward the mountains of home.
That night, under a moon so full it looked like a polished pearl dropped on velvet, the King and Queen of Bhoomigadh sat in their private terrace garden.
"Did you observe Prince Vaayansh?" the King mused, sipping his wine. "Disciplined. Intelligent. His bearing is impeccable. A prince worthy of any alliance."
The Queen nodded, her smile thoughtful. "He has a good heart beneath that calm exterior. I saw how he looked at our Dharaaya."
The King's eyes sparkled. "You remember, my love? Years ago, when the children were just babes, Anilraj and I shared a cup of wine and a dream. He said then, 'When our children are grown, let our houses be joined. Let my son have the honour of your daughter's hand.'"
Unseen, hidden behind a latticed screen where she had come to retrieve a forgotten shawl, Pratha froze. Her breath caught. The words washed over her, sweet and intoxicating as honey.
Their daughter…?
I am their daughter.
A dizzying joy bloomed in her chest,painting her future in glorious, romantic colours. Vaayansh's handsome face, his quiet strength, his title it all seemed to click into a perfect, destined picture. For me, she thought, her heart singing. It was always meant for me.
She never stopped to consider the simple, devastating truth.
Bhoomigadh had two daughters.
---
The Shadow Returns
Outside, in the deep, moon-washed silence of the palace courtyard, where shadows lay long and black as spilled ink, something stirred.
It was not a man. It was a coagulation of darkness, a shape that drank the light around it. It moved along the high outer wall a slick, silent glide, leaving no footprint, stirring no dust. It was a presence without breath, a hatred so old it had become a living thing.
This was the shadow from the edge of the fisherman's memory. The shadow from Vaayansh's nightmare. The same eternal, faceless hatred that had chased him through countless turnings of the wheel of life, whose glowing sword had ended his story again and again. It fed on a love it could not comprehend and a bond it was destined to sever.
And in this life, as the threads of connection between the wind-prince and the earth-princess began to visibly tighten, the shadow had returned. Not weaker, but honed by centuries of frustration. Sharper. Hungrier. Its thirst for the prince's life, and for the despair of the one who loved him, was a cold, patient fire.
High above, the moon shone, indifferent and beautiful.
In her chamber,Dharaaya slept, a soft smile on her lips, dreaming of grey eyes and a voice saying I missed you.
On the mountain road,Vaayansh rode, the sealed scroll against his chest, unaware of the ancient eyes tracing his path from the darkness behind.
And in her room,Pratha lay awake, weaving fantasies of a royal wedding, blind to the true target of the whispered promise.
And from the deepest pool of darkness in the courtyard, a thought, colder than the void between stars, pulsed into the night:
This time… I will not fail.
Far from Bhoomigadh's glowing courtyards and Paavangarh's proud mountain roads, a realm existed where neither time nor breath flowed.
In that realm, the shadow paused.
It lifted its faceless head, sensing something change in the fabric of fate.
A thread… tightening.
Another… loosening.
A third… snapping.
The faintest tremor rippled through the void, like a whisper of prophecy waking from a long sleep.
For the first time in centuries, the shadow's hand closed around its sword—
the same sword that had pierced Vaayansh's soul in life after life.
The blade flickered to life in a pulse of sickly green light.
A whisper hissed across the abyss:
"He remembers the pain."
The sword glowed brighter.
"She remembers the warmth."
The shadow took a step toward the living world, its shape condensing, sharp as a nightmare made flesh.
"And the other girl…"
The shadow paused, amused.
"…has no idea she stands on the edge of ruin."
A crack tore open in the sky—thin, jagged, bleeding green light.
And from deep within it came a second whisper, older, colder, more dangerous:
"This time, you are not the only hunter."
The shadow froze.
For the first time…
it felt fear.
And then the crack snapped shut.