22.
It had been approximately two lunar phases since Devasena returned from Dwarka, and Vanga, in all its ancient stillness and disciplined rhythm, had already folded her back into itself so seamlessly that anyone observing from the outside would have believed nothing inside her had changed at all.
The palace remained unchanged.
The eastern corridors still filled every dawn with the scent of wet lotus leaves and incense drifting upward from temple courtyards below.
Silk banners embroidered with the insignia of Vanga still stirred softly against long sandstone hallways whenever river winds entered through the carved arches overlooking the Ganga's distant silver currents.
Court ministers still lowered their heads the moment Princess Devasena entered the royal assembly chambers, because she still carried herself with the same composed restraint she always had—back straight, chin steady, expressions measured carefully enough that even older nobles hesitated before speaking carelessly in front of her.
Everything remained where it belonged.
Except her thoughts.
Because no matter how stubbornly she tried to discipline her heart against it, her mind always drifted back toward the same memory with traitorous tenderness.
Warm hands steadying trembling wrists.
A flame brightening instead of dimming.
Dark eyes carrying entire oceans of quiet awareness looking at her as though he had already understood something she herself was still trying desperately not to name.
The contradiction exhausted her.
At times it even frightened her.
Because was it not almost sinful?
To think so constantly of another while guarding the sacred flame tied to the man destiny itself had chosen for her?
Sometimes while sitting before the diya late into the night, Devasena would stare so long at the unwavering golden flame within its crystal enclosure that her vision blurred at the edges, moonlight stretching pale and ghostlike across the marble floors of her chambers while silence pressed softly against the carved walls around her.
You are waiting for him.
Not for another.
Not for borrowed warmth.
Not for remembered hands.
Him.
The man whose life was tied to the flame she had protected since childhood.
And yet—
the more fiercely she tried to harden herself against the memory, the more mercilessly it returned.
Because her heart no longer remembered merely comfort.
It remembered him.
The calm steadiness in his voice.
The effortless amusement resting beneath every word he spoke.
The impossible ease with which he occupied space, as though the world naturally rearranged itself around his presence without resistance.
Even now, weeks later, she could remember the warmth of his hands around her wrist more vividly than entire conversations she had held only hours earlier.
It was unbearable.
Winter had settled across Vanga slowly since her return.
The sunlight had grown thinner now, softer, spreading weak gold across palace terraces during mornings before fading early into long cold evenings wrapped in pale mist rolling inward from the riverbanks.
The royal gardens slept beneath silver dew each dawn, flowers blooming less frequently beneath the season's quiet restraint while peacocks wandered the palace grounds with feathers closed tightly against the chill.
Rain was uncommon during winter.
Yet lately the skies had wept often.
Not violent storms.
Soft rains.
Restless drizzles lingering against the palace roofs for hours.
Grey clouds stretching endlessly above the kingdom before dissolving back into silence.
The older women within the palace called it strange weather.
Devasena called it cruel.
Because every time rain touched the carved rooftops of Vanga, Dwarka returned to her mind with painful clarity—the endless sea winds, salt drifting through marble corridors, lamps trembling against ocean air, moonlight silvering lotus ponds beneath open pavilions.
And him.
So she buried herself inside routine instead.
Her days became rigidly structured.
Court hearings beside Dyumsena.
Temple visits.
Royal archives.
Embroidery.
Endless embroidery.
She stopped releasing peacocks inside the manuscript courtyards after one particularly disastrous afternoon involving shredded diplomatic scrolls and a horrified minister from Anga who nearly collapsed upon discovering royal peacocks walking directly across trade agreements with ink-stained claws.
Dyumsena had forbidden it afterward with the exhausted firmness of an elder brother already aware arguing with her would achieve nothing.
And Devasena—
to everyone's astonishment—
had obeyed.
Mostly.
But nights remained dangerous.
Because nights were quiet.
And quietness gave memory too much room to breathe.
Nearly every evening she found herself alone before the sacred diya long after attendants had withdrawn from her chambers, the enormous room glowing dimly beneath scattered oil lamps while moonlight spilled through latticed windows in pale silver patterns across the floor.
Sometimes she spoke to the flame.
Sometimes she simply stared at it for hours.
And sometimes—
on the loneliest nights—
tears escaped her silently enough that even she did not notice them until they reached the corners of her lips.
"Why are you making me wait this long?" she whispered once, voice trembling faintly beneath distant thunder rolling across Vanga's winter skies.
The flame only burned steadily in answer.
Her heart had begun growing impatient from waiting.
Not weak.
Not faithless.
Simply tired.
Because love stretched endlessly toward an unseen future slowly transformed devotion into ache.
The brightness within her where love once lived so hopefully had dimmed slightly these past months.
Not vanished.
Just... softened into hesitation.
She had become quieter whenever marriage was discussed within court.
More guarded.
Less dream-filled than before.
And yet despite all of it, she still forgave the man she had never met.
Every single time.
She soothed herself gently through loneliness the way mothers soothed frightened children, whispering reassurances softly into the silence as though speaking both to the flame and her own heart together.
He will come.
He has not forgotten you.
Love delayed is not love denied.
And always—
always—
her prayers ended with the same fragile request she guarded more fiercely than pride itself.
Let me be the only wife he loves.
That was all.
She would give him everything else willingly.
Her loyalty.
Her kingdom.
Her devotion.
Even her life if destiny demanded it.
But love—
love she could never bear to divide.
The thought of sharing her husband's affection with other women hollowed something painful within her chest, something she could neither explain nor uproot no matter how often she tried convincing herself otherwise.
So every prayer ended the same way.
Please.
Only me.
Only once.
Only fully.
"Didi! This is completely unfair."
The loud complaint shattered the heaviness instantly.
Devasena looked up from the half-finished shawl draped elegantly across her lap to find Dushala holding another embroidered cloth with visible outrage while Ruti and Shona stood behind her in complete failure of royal decorum, both trying desperately not to laugh.
Winter sunlight spilled warmly through the carved jharokha windows of Dushala's chambers, illuminating scattered baskets overflowing with silk threads, unfinished baby garments, folded shawls, pearls, tiny gold anklets meant for the child, and trays of saffron milk slowly cooling beside untouched sweets.
The entire chamber carried warmth now.
Domestic warmth.
Softness.
Life growing quietly within it.
Dushala dramatically thrust the embroidered cloth toward Devasena.
"My embroidery is not that terrible."
Devasena examined the design carefully.
Then blinked once.
"...is that supposed to be a peacock?"
"It is a peacock!"
Shona broke instantly.
The poor girl nearly folded into herself trying to contain laughter. "Rajkumari," she gasped between breaths, "forgive me, but I have never once seen a red peacock in my entire life."
Ruti immediately turned away, shoulders shaking violently.
Even Devasena's lips twitched despite herself.
Dushala looked deeply betrayed. "It looked graceful while I was stitching it."
"In your imagination perhaps," Devasena replied with dangerous calm, "the peacock survived a battlefield."
That finished them entirely.
Shona dissolved into helpless laughter while Ruti covered her face completely.
Even Dushala finally collapsed backward against cushions laughing breathlessly, one protective hand immediately resting over her rounded stomach afterward.
The sight softened Devasena instantly.
Because pregnancy had changed Dushala in quiet ways over the past months.
There was new gentleness within her now.
A softer fullness to her face.
A glow beneath exhaustion.
And every time her hand drifted unconsciously toward her stomach, the expression crossing her features became so tender it almost hurt to witness.
"Have you thought of a name yet, Rajkumari?" Ruti asked dreamily while folding tiny embroidered cloths nearby.
Dushala's eyes lowered immediately toward her stomach again, fingertips caressing the fabric resting there with absent affection.
"Hmm..." she murmured thoughtfully. "Dyum insists the child will be a daughter."
Devasena smiled faintly. "Because he wishes for someone as stubborn as you to torment him forever."
"He says sweet," Dushala corrected proudly.
"He is delusional."
Dushala laughed softly, warm and breathless. "But if it is a boy..." she continued quieter now, "...I would like to name him Dhairya."
The name settled gently into the room.
Patience.
Courage.
Quiet endurance.
Ruti sighed immediately. "That is beautiful."
"It suits him already," Shona added dreamily despite the child not even being born yet.
Devasena leaned back against embroidered cushions beside Dushala, expression softening almost unconsciously. "I only pray he inherits your temperament. Bhaiya was born behaving like a royal minister."
"Devasena," Dushala protested through laughter.
"It is true."
Outside the chambers palace preparations already echoed faintly through the corridors because the Simantha ceremony approached rapidly now.
An old Vanga tradition.
Sacred and joyous together.
Women from across the kingdom gathering to bless mother and child while the mother's lap was filled with gifts, silks, jewels, fruits, flowers, prayers, songs, and blessings for safe childbirth.
And Devasena—
despite restless nights and hidden exhaustion—
had taken responsibility for nearly everything herself.
"My didi deserves the grandest blessings in all of Aryavarta," she declared stubbornly every single time servants suggested she rest.
She had long abandoned the word bhabhi for Dushala.
Somewhere between shared laughter, sleepless nights, tears, and quiet conversations beneath oil lamps, Dushala had simply become her sister completely.
And meanwhile—
as winter deepened over Vanga—
Devasena herself only grew more dangerously beautiful with time.
Not merely prettier.
Worse.
The softness of girlhood was fading now, replaced slowly by poised elegance sharpened by intelligence, restraint, devotion, and grief carried too gracefully for someone so young.
People noticed.
Men noticed more.
Princes rode impossible distances merely for glimpses of her during temple festivals. Kings sent trays overflowing with jewels, ivory, rare silks, musicians, poets, horses bred from foreign bloodlines, absurd declarations of admiration written in gold ink.
Some challenged rivals publicly for rights to seek her hand.
Others refused to accept silence as rejection.
And the most dangerous among them—
were the stubborn ones who mistook quietness for eventual surrender.