29.
(PLAY THIS SONG ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY , OTHERWISE YOU WON'T FEEL THIS CHAPTER THE WAY I FELT IT. USE SPOTIFY OR WTV NECESSARY DOWNLOAD IT IF U MUST , BUT U NEED TO PLAY IT.)
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song:-ishq mubarak (arijin singh)
The night after that gathering, Dwarka rested beneath a sky heavy with sea mist and silver moonlight, the entire golden city quieter now that the celebrations had dissolved into softer hours.
Waves crashed endlessly against the cliffs below the jeweled citadel with an ancient rhythm that never truly ceased, while cool salt-laced winds wandered through open marble corridors carrying the fading scents of sandalwood incense, lotus oil, extinguished lamps, and the distant sea.
The palace no longer echoed with laughter or music now.
Most chambers had darkened. Silk curtains shifted slowly in the midnight breeze while temple bells from distant shrines occasionally rang somewhere deep within the sleeping city, soft enough to sound almost dreamlike against the endless roar of the ocean below.
Krishna stood alone upon one of the western balconies overlooking the sea, one hand resting loosely against the carved stone railing while the other turned his flute slowly between long elegant fingers, absentmindedly, almost unconsciously, as though his body sought distraction from thoughts his mind refused to settle.
Below him the ocean stretched endlessly into darkness, restless beneath fractured moonlight that scattered across the waves like shattered silver mirrors constantly breaking and reforming with the tide.
Far below, the harbor still breathed quietly beneath the night where massive ships rocked gently against Dwarka's gilded docks, their chains clinking softly whenever the sea pulled harder beneath them, while conches from late-returning sailors echoed faintly through the sleeping kingdom.
His thoughts had not quieted once since evening.
Which itself was unusual.
Krishna was not unfamiliar with beauty. Entire kingdoms had written poetry for women less graceful than the Princess of Vanga.
He had watched empires collapse over desire mistaken for devotion, devotion mistaken for destiny, and longing transformed into ruin beneath the hands of men too weak to carry it properly.
He understood attraction too well to be unsettled by it.
Yet none of those things resembled whatever this strange quiet unrest had become.
Because nothing had happened. That was the problem.
No confession. No intimacy reckless enough to leave undeniable meaning behind it.
No lingering touch beyond mere seconds. No exchange of words improper enough to justify why her presence had followed him into every moment afterward like sea mist refusing to leave the shore.
Only fragments remained.
A trembling flame.
Soft eyes lifting toward him beneath golden pavilion light.
"Fire behaves as it is."
The memory returned again with infuriating clarity.
Krishna exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze toward the dark violent sea beneath the cliffs as though the ocean itself might swallow the thought if he looked away long enough.
But it did not. He remembered the exact way she had spoken too—not dramatically, not coyly, not even knowingly.
Devasena spoke with a kind of honesty royal courts usually destroyed in people long before adulthood.
There had been no performance in her voice.
No manipulation hidden beneath softness.
Only calmness. Simplicity. A gentleness untouched by calculation.
And somehow that lingered more dangerously than beauty ever could.
His fingers slowed faintly against the flute.
Because the truth was—he had avoided meeting her before tonight.
Deliberately.
Every time Arjuna mentioned her over the past months, Krishna had redirected conversations elsewhere without appearing obvious about it.
He remembered it now with uncomfortable precision: Arjuna casually speaking during training sessions, during strategy meetings, during journeys across kingdoms, mentioning the Princess of Vanga longer than necessary each time afterward.
"She studies trade routes herself."
"She argued with ministers twice her age without losing composure."
"She defended Dushala publicly inside a Mahadev temple."
"She carries some strange sacred flame everywhere."
At the time Krishna had listened silently only because Arjuna rarely admired people repeatedly unless something about them genuinely interested him.
Yet every mention had stirred something faintly uneasy beneath Krishna's otherwise effortless calm, something instinctive enough that he chose distance before understanding why.
Even when Subhadra invited Devasena to smaller palace gatherings earlier that week, Krishna had remained elsewhere intentionally.
Council work. Military discussions. Temple visits.
Excuses that were not entirely excuses. Balram had noticed immediately of course.
Balram noticed everything when it concerned him.
And perhaps Krishna himself had already known the reason too.
Because long before seeing her, he had heard whispers about the flame.
A flame blessed strangely by Mahadev.
A fire that never extinguished fully.
A fire said to respond.
Krishna remembered an older conversation years ago now, fragments of Mahadev's voice crossing memory like smoke drifting through darkness. Not prophecy exactly. Mahadev rarely spoke so plainly.
A soul carrying unfinished longing across lifetimes.
A flame born from devotion denied.
When the fire recognizes what destiny itself fears to return, silence will no longer remain silence.
At the time Krishna dismissed it entirely.
Now—
the memory unsettled him more than he liked admitting.
Behind him footsteps echoed suddenly across polished marble.
Heavy.
Unhurried.
Familiar.
Krishna did not turn this time.
"Still awake?" Balram asked casually as he stepped onto the balcony beside him, broad shoulders draped loosely in pale silks while moonlight caught against the silver ornaments woven carelessly through his hair.
Krishna smiled faintly without looking away from the sea. "You say that as though you expected otherwise."
"I did," Balram admitted easily, leaning against the carved railing beside him. "Especially after tonight."
Krishna already knew where the conversation was heading.
Unfortunate.
Balram folded his arms comfortably before adding with deliberate innocence, "So."
A measured pause followed.
"The Princess of Vanga."
Krishna's expression remained perfectly composed. "What about her?"
Balram nearly looked offended by the immediate answer. "Arjuna was right."
That earned the faintest lift of Krishna's brow. "About?"
"That she is difficult to ignore."
The sea wind shifted colder suddenly between them, carrying droplets of mist upward from the cliffs below while somewhere deeper within the palace hanging bells chimed softly in the breeze.
Krishna remained silent.
And unfortunately—
that silence itself became answer enough.
Balram noticed instantly.
Of course he did.
A slow knowing grin appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Ah," he murmured softly. "There it is."
Krishna finally glanced sideways. "You sound deeply entertained."
"I am deeply entertained."
Balram laughed quietly beneath his breath before continuing, "For months Arjuna would not stop speaking about Vanga, and every single time her name came up, you found somewhere else to be."
Krishna looked unimpressed. "You exaggerate."
"No," Balram replied immediately. "You avoided meeting her before she arrived. Which means you already suspected something."
Krishna's gaze shifted back toward the sea again.
Because that part—
unfortunately—
was true.
He had suspected something.
Not consciously perhaps.
But instinctively.
The moment he touched her wrist in the lotus pavilion and watched the flame brighten instead of tremble, something deep within memory had stirred with terrifying familiarity.
The diya had not behaved like ordinary fire.
It had recognized. Responded. Almost breathed between them.
Krishna still remembered the exact warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the faint catch in her breathing when he steadied the flame, and the unbearable calm that settled through the entire pavilion afterward as though the night itself had paused to witness something neither of them understood yet.
Balram's gaze sharpened slightly now, amusement softening into observation. "Bhima likes her too, you know."
Something inside Krishna stilled for half a heartbeat.
Small enough most people would never notice.
Balram did.
His grin widened instantly.
"Oh," he said quietly, almost delighted now.
Krishna looked back toward the sea before answering smoothly, "You are imagining reactions."
"No," Balram replied. "I am observing them."
Krishna said nothing.
Because suddenly he remembered dinner far too clearly.
Bhima sitting beside Devasena laughing openly while she smiled back softer than before, her usual reserve easing around Bhima's uncomplicated warmth.
Bhima always made people comfortable quickly.
There was honesty in him. Simplicity. And Devasena had relaxed around him naturally enough that Krishna found himself watching longer than necessary before deliberately looking away.
An irritating feeling had remained afterward.
Not anger.
Not even resentment.
Something quieter.
Sharper.
Like hearing someone else speak a melody he had somehow begun recognizing as his own before understanding why.
Balram noticed his silence again. "Interesting."
"There is nothing interesting about it."
"Then why," Balram asked calmly, "have you thought about her every moment since leaving that hall?"
The words landed too accurately.
Krishna's fingers slowed against the flute once more while another wave crashed violently against the black cliffs below them, sea foam scattering upward into silver mist beneath the moonlight.
Because the truth was irritatingly unclear even to himself.
He did not understand why Arjuna admiring her unsettled him.
Or why Bhima's warmth toward her lingered unpleasantly in the back of his mind afterward.
Or why hearing other people speak her name now created something restless and unformed beneath his otherwise effortless calm.
It was not jealousy.
Surely not.
Krishna almost laughed internally at the absurdity of the thought.
And yet—
the memory of Devasena blushing during the formal introduction returned with unbearable precision.
Not because Balram introduced her.
Because she remembered him.
Krishna had seen it instantly. That small hesitation in her breathing. The softness crossing her face before she lowered her gaze again. She remembered the lotus pavilion. The diya. His words. His touch steadying the flame before it fell.
And for reasons he still could not explain fully—
that realization had remained with him the entire night afterward like a wound too beautiful to name properly.
Balram watched him carefully now before speaking quieter this time. "She feels familiar somehow."
Krishna's gaze lifted slightly toward the distant horizon where dark clouds had begun gathering beyond the sea.
Familiar.
Yes.
That was perhaps the most dangerous part of all.
Not attraction.
Not curiosity.
Recognition.
As though some hidden unfinished part of existence had already known her long before this lifetime allowed them to meet again.
Krishna frowned faintly at the thought immediately.
Dangerous territory.
Especially for someone like him.
Before either brother spoke again, lighter footsteps suddenly echoed through the corridor behind them.
Quick.
Careless.
Arjuna.
"Madhav," he called easily while approaching, dark hair still damp from late-night training, entirely unaware of the atmosphere he interrupted. "I was looking for you."
Krishna straightened subtly, every trace of emotion vanishing beneath effortless composure so naturally most people would never suspect anything had existed there at all.
Most people.
Balram looked seconds away from laughing openly.
"The eastern cavalry leaves tomorrow," Arjuna continued casually while stepping beside them. "I wanted your thoughts before dawn."
Krishna nodded once. "We can discuss it."
But before they moved, Arjuna added absentmindedly, "Devasena suggested something interesting earlier."
There it was again.
That immediate invisible stillness beneath Krishna's ribs.
Balram noticed instantly.
Arjuna remained oblivious.
"She noticed the grain routes near Magadha overlap unnecessarily during monsoon season," Arjuna continued while leaning against the railing. "I checked afterward. She was right."
Krishna's expression remained calm. "How observant."
Arjuna nodded lightly, smiling without realizing it. "She notices everything."
Something uncomfortable twisted quietly inside Krishna at the softness hidden unconsciously within Arjuna's voice.
"She carries herself strangely for royalty too," Arjuna continued thoughtfully. "There's something ancient about her almost."
Krishna's gaze flickered once.
Only once.
Balram saw it immediately.
And then Arjuna smiled faintly before adding with complete sincerity, "You would like speaking with her properly, Madhav."
Krishna looked toward the sea again immediately because denying the truth now felt increasingly pointless.
He already did.
Far more than he should.
And somewhere deep beneath uncertainty, beneath restraint, beneath divine understanding itself, another realization surfaced slowly enough to feel almost forbidden—
he wanted to see her again not because Dwarka admired her, not because Arjuna spoke of her constantly, not because of politics or prophecy or curiosity—
but because silence itself no longer settled properly inside him after meeting her, and no matter how calmly he stood beneath moonlight pretending otherwise, something ancient within him had already begun moving toward her long before his mind allowed itself to understand why.