THE FALL
ANAMIKA
Some of my earliest memories of this palace begin at the edge of the polo ground. Not inside it. Not among the guests seated beneath white shamianas with silver tea sets and polite applause. At the edges.
Behind neatly trimmed hedges, where the staff children gathered because that was where we belonged—close enough to watch, far enough not to be noticed.
Twice every year, the entire estate seemed to come alive. Cars lined the long driveway, guests arrived dressed in crisp linen and sunglasses, and the late Maharaja Anand Jadeja would ride onto the field atop his favourite grey mare as though the whole afternoon belonged to him.
Back then, it almost did. The crowd adored him. I was far more interested in the boy standing beside me. Yuvaan never looked at the spectators.
He watched the match with an intensity that didn't belong on a ten-year-old's face. His hands would remain tucked neatly behind his back, his posture perfect enough to satisfy every tutor in the palace, but I always noticed the tiny things no one else seemed to.
The way he'd lean forward almost imperceptibly when the ball raced toward the goal.
The way his jaw tightened whenever his father's team fell behind.
The way his fingers curled into his palms whenever a rider made a particularly difficult shot.
"Are you excited?" I'd asked him once, nudging his shoulder after one of the goals.
He hadn't even looked at me. "No." The answer had come too quickly. "It's just a game." I never believed him. Not once. I asked him some version of the same question before every polo match after that, and every year he answered differently with exactly the same lie.
"It's fine."
"It's nothing."
"I don't really care."
But I knew him. Even then. He wanted it.
Not the applause. Not the attention. The game itself.
He loved watching it with the kind of quiet longing only children who are told no too often ever learn to hide.
His father never allowed him to play. Too dangerous.
Too much risk for the future Maharaja. The heir couldn't afford broken bones.
Couldn't afford accidents. Couldn't afford wanting something that wasn't duty.
Kairav, on the other hand, being the younger son, rode whenever he pleased.
Yuvaan stood beside me instead. Watching.
Always watching. Which is why, standing at the edge of that same field after so many years, something shifts quietly inside me as I watch him swing effortlessly onto a chestnut mare.
He's actually playing. Not watching. Not pretending he doesn't care. Playing. The thought settles somewhere deep in my chest with surprising warmth. I don't think I've ever seen him do something simply because it made him happy. Not once. He's beautiful on horseback.
The realization arrives before I can stop it. The afternoon sun catches against the polished leather of his boots as the horse surges forward, and he moves with an ease that feels completely different from the composed Maharaja I see every morning over breakfast.
There is nothing restrained about him here.
No council meetings.
No careful expressions.
No invisible crown pressing against his spine.
Just a man and a horse moving together with effortless confidence.
There's something almost boyish about him.
Something wonderfully familiar. I find myself smiling without realizing it.
Kairav tears across the field moments later, shouting something unintelligible toward Samrat that earns the rarest thing in the world—a genuine grin from Samrat.
Even from here it's obvious how different all four of them are.
Kairav plays entirely with his heart, charging into impossible angles simply because they look entertaining.
Samrat is precise, calculating every movement before he makes it, treating the match the way he'd probably negotiate a business acquisition.
Amish spends more time loudly commenting on his own shots than actually taking them, somehow managing to narrate the game for everyone within fifty feet whether they asked him to or not.
And then there's Yuvaan. Quieter. Steadier. He never wastes movement. Every strike is controlled. Every turn is deliberate. The ball seems to obey him. Each clean shot draws appreciative murmurs from the spectators gathered around the field, and I catch myself smiling every single time.
I don't even realise I've been watching only him. Until everything goes wrong. It happens so quickly my mind refuses to process it at first. One second the horse is galloping cleanly.
The next—Something changes.
A stumble.
A wrong step.
Yuvaan's balance shifts. For the briefest fraction of a second his body hangs suspended in the air before gravity wins. He hits the ground hard. The sound seems impossibly loud. The horse bolts away riderless. Around me the crowd gasps as one.
My own heart seems to stop. I don't remember making the decision to run. One moment I'm standing behind the rope barrier. The next I'm already pushing past it. Someone calls after me.
I don't hear who.
Grass slips beneath my shoes as I run across the field, every heartbeat crashing painfully against my ribs.
Please.
Please just be okay.
By the time I reach him, two members of the ground staff are already helping him to his feet.
He's brushing them away with visible irritation.
There's dirt across one shoulder. His left arm hangs just slightly differently than the other.
And a thin line of blood has begun trickling down from a graze near his jaw.
Then he sees me. Something flickers across his face.
Surprise first. Then something softer. "I'm fine," he says immediately.
I don't even let him finish. "No, you're not." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "You just fell off a horse in front of half the estate." I step closer before I can stop myself. "Can you walk?"
He nods once. "I can." The first step makes him wince. That's enough to answer. Without asking permission, I slip beneath his uninjured arm and guide him toward the private medical tent standing just beyond the field.
He doesn't argue. Which worries me even more. People continue staring as we pass. I don't care. Let them.
Inside the tent, I point firmly toward one of the folding chairs. "Sit."
He obeys. Again . . . Far too easily. I rummage through the first-aid box sitting on a nearby table until I find antiseptic, gauze and adhesive strips.
Only then do I realise my own hands aren't completely steady. "You could've been seriously hurt." I kneel in front of him, dampening the gauze before carefully cleaning the cut along his jaw. "You took that turn far too quickly."
"It's polo, Daisy." There's amusement hiding beneath the words. "People fall."
"That doesn't mean you're supposed to." I dab the antiseptic perhaps a little more firmly than necessary. He inhales sharply. Good. A tiny, thoroughly unreasonable part of me feels satisfied. Maybe now he'll understand how frightened he made me.
"I wasn't being reckless." His voice softens. "I just wanted to win." My hand pauses. I look up at him.
"Since when do you care about winning?" For a long moment he doesn't answer. He simply watches me. Then something shifts behind his eyes.
Something older.
Quieter.
"I finally got to play." His smile is small.
Almost self-conscious. "I spent years standing beside that field wanting this so badly I could hardly breathe.
" A tiny laugh escapes him. "I never told anyone.
" He looks away briefly. "I wasn't allowed to want things loudly. " The words settle heavily between us.
I stare at him for a moment before returning to the scrape on his face. "I knew." His eyes lift again. "I always knew." A smile tugs gently at my lips. "You thought you hid it well."
"You didn't."
I smooth another piece of gauze across his jaw. "Every year you'd tell me it was just a game." I shake my head softly. "But your face always gave you away."
His gaze never leaves mine. "You always noticed." There's something achingly gentle in the way he says it.
"You saw things no one else ever looked for.
" The words leave me strangely breathless.
I don't trust myself to answer. Instead I concentrate very hard on fixing the adhesive strip over the graze.
My fingers linger a heartbeat longer than they need to.
Only then do I become suddenly aware of how close we are. I'm kneeling between his knees.
His face is only inches from mine. If either of us leaned forward even slightly . . . "Your Highness?" The doctor's voice shatters the moment before it can become anything else. I jerk backwards so quickly I nearly lose my balance. The palace doctor enters carrying his medical bag. "I can examine—"
"My wife is already handling it." Yuvaan doesn't even let him finish. His hand finds mine before I realise he's reaching. His fingers curl gently around my wrist. Not possessively. Not urgently.
Just . . .Naturally.
He gives the faintest tug, drawing me back toward him. "Thank you, Doctor." His eyes never leave mine. "She's got it."
The doctor blinks. Looks from him to me. Then, wisely deciding his services are no longer required, offers a polite nod before quietly stepping back outside.
The flap of the tent falls closed behind him. Silence returns. I suddenly become acutely aware of the warmth of his hand around mine. Of how close we're sitting. Of the way he's looking at me.
Not hurried.
Not distracted.
Simply . . . Looking.
As though there isn't a single place he'd rather be than sitting in this quiet tent with a scraped jaw and my fingers still caught loosely in his. Heat creeps steadily up my neck. "You didn't have to do that." My voice comes out embarrassingly soft.
He doesn't let go. "I wanted to."
Just three words.
Simple.
Honest.
Entirely him.
And somehow . . . Those three quiet words unsettle my heart far more than the fall ever did.