18.
(Play song moh moh ke dhaage for better experience female version)
(It also saddens me to mention .
I'm putting back to back effort into putting my thoughts into rods within few hours to keep you all happy.
The least you guys can do is interact , comment/like .
Grateful to those who are showing constant efforts to show appreciation though.)
Dwarka had started to feel less like a foreign palace to Devasena and more like a place that refused to let her remain alone for too long, not in a suffocating way but in a strange rhythm where someone always seemed to appear the moment silence grew too heavy, yet even then she had no real companion here beyond Subhadra, and that realization had been settling slowly in the background of her thoughts over the past few days, quieter than loneliness but sharper in its awareness.
Dushala was often pulled away now, always gently, always with soft apologies that came with the responsibility of being newly tied into Dyumsena's world, leaving Devasena behind in rooms that still felt too large when she was alone, and her own attendants spoke respectfully but never lingered in conversation, never stayed long enough for words to become anything more than duty, so she found herself increasingly beside Subhadra because Subhadra, unlike everyone else, did not ask permission to stay.
They were sitting in the lotus pavilion again that afternoon, the sea wind slipping through carved stone like something alive, Subhadra leaning back lazily while eating something she had absolutely not been given by the royal kitchens, speaking through half a laugh, "Dwarka is the only place where I feel like I am both entertained and constantly being judged at the same time," and Devasena, carefully turning the cloth around her diya, replied softly without looking up, "You are being judged because you are eating stolen food in a sacred pavilion. "
Subhadra gasped dramatically, clutching her chest as if wounded, "It is not stolen, it is redistributed hospitality," which made Devasena finally smile despite herself, small and controlled but real, and Subhadra immediately pointed at her like she had achieved something important, "See, that is your problem, you smile like you are apologizing for it. "
Devasena paused slightly at that, fingers stilling for a moment over the crystal enclosure, and she said quieter, almost absent without meaning to be, "I do not often have reason to," which softened the air between them in a way Subhadra did not joke over for once.
Instead Subhadra shifted closer, less playful now, more grounded, "That is not true," she said, picking at the edge of her bangles, "you just do not count people as reasons," and Devasena glanced at her briefly, as if deciding whether to answer honestly or dismiss it, before Subhadra added quickly again, trying to lighten what she had just made heavy, "Also, I am clearly a reason, I am delightful. "
That made Devasena exhale a quiet laugh, and it was in that small moment that something settled more naturally between them, not friendship named formally, but something softer, like familiarity choosing itself without being asked.
Subhadra leaned back again, watching her for a moment before speaking more casually, "Do you miss Vanga already?"
The question did not land sharply, it simply arrived, and Devasena's hands slowed again, her gaze drifting briefly toward the distant horizon where sea and sky met in a line too clean to feel real, "I miss what it feels like to not have to observe everything," she admitted quietly, then corrected herself gently, "but I do not dislike Dwarka. "
Subhadra hummed as if she accepted that without argument, then tilted her head, "That is because Dwarka has not finished showing you itself yet," and Devasena, half amused, half unconvinced, replied, "Or it simply has too much to show at once."
Subhadra opened her mouth to respond, then stopped as footsteps approached through the archway again, and this time the change in air was subtle but undeniable, like the pavilion itself had shifted its attention without warning, Subhadra immediately murmuring under her breath, "Speak of Dwarka and it answers," and Devasena, still seated, looked up only when Subhadra suddenly went still in a way she rarely did.
"Subhadra."
The voice arrived from behind them, calm and unmistakably present, and the entire lotus pavilion seemed to acknowledge it before anyone turned, the sea wind slipping through carved stone slower for a breath as if even the air had paused to listen, and Devasena turned too quickly in instinct, pale silk sleeves shifting with the motion, the diya tilting in her hands as its golden flame bent sharply—too fragile in that sudden angle, too alive in its hesitation—
and before it could fall into imbalance, a hand moved into the space between motion and collapse.
Not gripping.
Not restraining.
Just steadying her wrist with quiet precision, warm and unhurried, as if correcting the moment had always been the simplest thing in the world.
The pavilion light caught the moment fully now—the faint shimmer of gold lamps hanging from carved archways, pearl curtains swaying behind them in slow sea wind, and the reflection of the diya's flame trembling once before—
it did not go out.
It responded.
As his hand steadied hers, the flame deepened instead of dimming, growing brighter, steadier, almost aware in its glow, as if something in that contact had anchored it beyond hesitation, and the golden light spilled further across her fingers, illuminating the faint tension she had not realized she held in her grip, turning even the smallest tremor into something visible, something alive.
Devasena felt it before she understood it.
Not just warmth.
Not just steadiness.
But the absence of uncertainty in the way the moment was handled, as if nothing about her near-mistake had surprised him at all, as if he had already accounted for it before it happened.
Only then did she lift her gaze.
And he was already there.
Closer than presence usually allowed, but not intruding—simply existing in alignment with the space, as though Dwarka's night itself had made room for him without needing instruction.
His attire caught the pavilion light softly—fine fabric in deep tones that moved subtly with him, neither overly decorated nor plain, but composed in a way that suggested authority without announcing it, and the faint gold at his wrist and shoulder caught the reflection of the diya like it belonged there more than ornament ever should.
Dark eyes met hers first.
Not searching.
Not startled.
Just aware—as if the moment had already been seen from within and only now physically arrived.
And then, faintly, a smile that did not arrive fully but existed already halfway formed, his voice breaking the silence with the same calm ease as before, smooth but carrying an effortless weight even in softness.
"You commanded the entire trade council," he said lightly, gaze briefly dropping to the steadied flame still burning stronger than before, "and yet you could not handle a simple flame?"
The words should have felt sharp.
But they did not.
They felt like observation spoken too early, too confidently, as if he had already decided what kind of person she was and was now simply confirming it with amusement rather than judgment.
Subhadra, immediately entertained by the imbalance of tension, let out a small breath of disbelief like she refused to let silence dominate the space, but he did not look at her at all.
His attention remained on Devasena.
Not pressing.
Not withdrawing.
Just resting there, as if her reaction was the only thing unfinished in the moment.
The pavilion around them continued quietly—the distant sound of waves breaking against Dwarka's cliffs below, soft chimes from hanging lamps moving with sea wind, the faint scent of sandalwood drifting through the marble corridors where attendants had already slowed their movement instinctively as if not to disturb what had entered.
Then, almost gently, as if the question had been waiting rather than beginning, he asked—
"What is your name?"
Devasena realized only then that her grip had steadied completely.
The diya no longer trembled.
The flame burned with a strange confidence now, as though it had decided on permanence.
She answered, voice softer than she intended but controlled nonetheless, "Devasena... Princess of Vanga."
The name settled between them without resistance, and for a brief moment his gaze did not change—but something inside it did, like recognition had aligned itself quietly with hearing rather than discovery.
"Devasena..." he repeated, not as introduction, but as confirmation, as if the name itself had already existed somewhere in thought before being spoken aloud.
A pause followed—dense, but not uncomfortable, just held, like the pavilion itself was listening without needing participation.
Then his voice shifted slightly, still calm, still composed, but now carrying something more observant, almost curious in a restrained way.
"...what is Devasena doing here at this hour, when the world has already decided to sleep?"
It was not a challenge.
It was not curiosity dressed as formality.
It was a simple noticing, like he had seen her existing outside the expected rhythm of the world and chosen to acknowledge it exactly as it was.
Subhadra immediately leaned forward, breaking the stillness with practiced ease, her jewelry catching faint lamplight as she spoke, "Bhaiya, she is not out of place, if that is what you are implying. I brought her here."
His gaze shifted briefly to Subhadra—just enough for faint amusement to touch his expression—before returning to Devasena again, as if the explanation had been registered but not prioritized.
Subhadra continued anyway, gesturing lightly toward the diya, "She carries that everywhere. I thought Dwarka should meet it properly."
His eyes lowered again to the flame.
And something changed in his expression—not surprise, not admiration, but recognition that lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, like he had seen something familiar in something entirely new.
"The flame does not leave her hands," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Devasena felt it again—that subtle awareness that he was not speaking to her in that moment, but about something he already understood in fragments.
The diya flickered once more—
and before it could lose even a moment of balance, his hand returned again, steadying her wrist with the same quiet control, as if correcting motion was as natural as breathing.
No force.
No interruption.
Only alignment.
The flame steadied instantly, brighter than before, as if refusing even the possibility of instability now.
His voice followed softly, almost conversational, "You seem steadier in councils than with fire."
Devasena met his gaze properly this time, longer than before, and for the first time her answer did not arrive immediately.
"Fire behaves as it is," she said finally.
A faint pause crossed his face—like that answer had matched something already held internally.
Then, after a breath that did not belong to urgency or departure, he added quietly—His expression shifted slightly again, that faint unreadable smile returning, and he said simply, "And people are not," as if concluding something private to himself.
Then, after a beat, he added lightly, "I hope Dwarka is not troubling you too much before you leave."
It should have been a polite sentence.
It did not feel like one.
Devasena hesitated for the first time in the conversation, just enough for Subhadra to notice and glance at her with curiosity, but before she could answer, he had already stepped back slightly as if the exchange had naturally reached its end.
"I will not take more of your time," he said, tone easing back into calm neutrality, then his gaze briefly returned to her before adding, almost as an afterthought,