Is something hot coming? YES!!!
“Jewelry?” she whispered beneath her breath, her voice barely brushing the air like the rustle of silk. A flicker of uncertainty stirred in her chest. Why would he ask for such a thing?Her eyes lifted slowly to his face, tracing the regal lines of his profile turned slightly away. The sunlight gilded the edge of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw, the dusky bronze of his skin. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she had misunderstood him—if her ears had tricked her, or perhaps her heart had hoped otherwise.“Jewelry?” she asked again, this time a murmur laced with hesitance, confusion dancing in her eyes, though anticipation was an unspoken shadow behind it.He turned just enough to glance at her over his shoulder—bare and gleaming faintly beneath the warm light. The gaze he cast was languid yet commanding, the kind of look only a man born to rule could offer.“Yes,” he said, the word crisp and quiet, weighted with unchallengeable authority. “Now be quick.”She chewed the inside of her
The kiss melted into quiet stillness, as if the very water around them had hushed to witness it. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, meeting his—those storm-dark eyes that had conquered cities and crushed empires, now softened in their gaze upon her.For a moment, the air between them held no command, no obedience. Only breath and closeness. Only the subtle ache of something blooming where it shouldn't.Samarth leaned back slightly, studying her face as though it were the most sacred scripture he had ever read. His thumb lingered along the edge of her jaw, tracing it lightly, and when he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to a murmur—a velvet caress upon her ears.“You awaken something in me I did not know was asleep,” he said. “And now that it stirs, I find myself unable to silence it.”Her throat tightened. She didn't know how to respond to words like that—not from him, not when they sounded like confessions wrapped in poetry. So, she looked away, her gaze falling to the water where
After the prophet departed, a storm of whispers surged through the palace halls. The words of the Lord had been spoken—and when the Lord speaks, nothing may unmake it. No threat, no offering, no plea can bend what has proceeded from His mouth. The people trembled, wondering what fate would now befall the kingdom. But the king, Samarth—he did not tremble. He, who had once bowed his head in the temple with a heart full of reverence, now bristled with fury. Rather than fall upon his face in repentance, he rose in wrath. And before the silence of the court could give way to mourning, he broke it with thunder. “Take the prophet out,” he barked to his guards, his voice echoing with indignation. “Throw him beyond these walls. Let him speak his riddles to the winds.” The guards hesitated, but fear of the king outweighed reverence for the prophet. Nathan was led out, not with violence, but with dishonor. It was worse than disobedience. It was defiance. And those who stood within earshot
When the desert’s breath turned colder and the night deepened into its quietest hour, the chill seeped through the stone corridors of the palace. It was the kind of cold that did not bite suddenly, but crept in with grace—like a silk thread woven through the very air, teasing the skin, tickling the bones. Beneath the open terrace, in the warmth of royal shelter, a man lay in slumber—King Samarth, the lion-hearted. Wrapped in a thick woolen blanket and cushioned by ornate rugs, his body was still, yet his brow twitched faintly as a breeze slipped through the arched stone railings. The wind played with the loose tendrils of his dark hair, brushing them over his temple and stirring him from sleep. His eyes opened slowly, not with urgency but with the gentleness of one returning from a dream—and the first image to greet his waking gaze was the quiet figure of Inayat. She lay beside him—not close, but near enough to share the hush of the night. Her back was turned slightly, her slende
The sun had long slipped behind the sands when the royal chariot came to a halt at Raj’s place. Lanterns hung like fallen stars, suspended from high canopies, bathing the great courtyard in a soft amber glow. Strings of jasmine and marigold garlands framed every arch, while golden bells chimed gently in the wind—welcoming the night and its honoured guests.A carpet of crimson unfurled before Samarth and Inayat as they descended the chariot. Inayat, clad in white and gold, walked with the poise of a queen carved from moonlight. Her skirt swept the floor like a whispered hymn, the golden borders catching the flames of nearby torches and shimmering with every step. Her blouse clung to her, and the heavy-bordered dupatta draped across her chest moved like silk upon still water. Samarth walked beside her in royal ease, his gaze resting upon her like worship. The hall grew quieter at their approach, and for a fleeting second, time forgot to breathe.Whispers stirred—soft, stunned, revere
It had been several days since the banquet at Raj’s province, a time already beginning to blur in the gentle passage of palace routine.Morning sunlight poured like liquid gold through the lattice windows of Inayat’s chamber, scattering across the tiled floor and dappling the silken rugs beneath her bare feet. The air carried the faintest scent of sandalwood, stirred by the slow, deliberate movements of her attendants.Ridhima stood behind her, brushing her dark, silken hair with languid strokes, the wide-toothed ivory comb gliding through the strands like a boat over still water. Her fingers followed gently after, reveling in the smoothness, the weight, the quiet luxury of tending to someone so graceful.“Your hair flows like a moonless river, My Lady,” she murmured with an absent fondness, her eyes meeting Inayat’s through the mirror, the kind that glints between closeness and reverence.To her sides, other attendants moved in quiet harmony—one arranging delicate gold bangles upon a
The hour was quiet, lingering between the warmth of the afternoon and the hush of dusk, when an attendant stepped lightly into Inayat's chamber. She bowed with practiced grace and delivered the message with calm reverence, “My lady, His Majesty the King requests your presence in the dining hall tonight.”Inayat, seated near the latticed window, looked up from the scriptures she had been reading. Her fingers gently closed the pages of the holy book, a flicker of surprise lighting her features. Samarth rarely asked to dine with her. It was not expected—she was still but a slave in the eyes of the court, though her bond with him was known by whispers.Yet, without letting surprise linger on her face, she nodded gracefully. “You may go,” she said softly. The attendant bowed once more and withdrew, her bare feet whispering against the marble.Inayat turned her eyes to the delicate stack of books before her, softly bound and worn from use. She touched the spine of one with affection before
The sun dipped low over the training fields, bathing the courtyard in molten gold. Aabroo’s small hands gripped the sword, her breaths heaving, cheeks flushed with the fire of effort and frustration. She lunged once more, her blade clinking softly against Samarth’s sword—a dull ring that spoke of her exhaustion. “Enough!” she gasped, stumbling back and collapsing onto the grass with dramatic flair. “I shall faint, my lord, if you force me to swing this dreadful thing once more!” Samarth lowered his blade, the hint of a smile touching his lips. His hair was bound back, the sleeves of his tunic rolled to his elbows. “Oh? The Lioness of the North yields so easily?” he teased, his voice laced with warmth, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. “I’m so young!” she shot back between gulps of air. “Even the fiercest lioness needs a nap!” He laughed—deep and rare—letting the sword drop to his side. “Very well, braveheart. You are spared. For now.” As Aabroo laid herself across the gras
The grey fingers of dawn slowly stretched over the vast waters of Tziyonia’s ocean, stirring its restless tides into shimmering ripples of silver and blue. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of salt, damp wood, and the faint sweetness of wild coastal blossoms that grew along the craggy shores. Mist clung low over the waves, breathing mystery into the morning, while the cries of seagulls swept across the water like wandering spirits.Upon the rocky coasts, life had long awakened.The fishermen, rugged and diligent men, were dragging their heavy nets back to shore, their simple boats creaking under the burden of the night’s catch. For them, this was the hour of labor and gain, to return with fishes fresh and for the morning trade.Among them, a man named Vihan worked silently, hauling a woven net filled with the glinting bodies of fish. His tunic was soaked to the knees, and his hands, calloused from years of toil, gripped the ropes with a sure strength. As he heaved his boat
The morning sun stretched its long golden fingers across the palace grounds, brushing over stone and silk, glinting off armor and glass. Yet within the shaded corridors, the air remained cool, heavy with a quiet that spoke of unspoken tensions.Inayat moved swiftly, her white robes swaying as she carried a scroll against her chest, heading toward the council wing for matters that could not wait. Her steps echoed softly along the marble floor.But before she could turn the corner, a familiar presence filled the space ahead — a shadow tall and commanding. Samarth stood there, his arms crossed, his dark eyes heavy with something far colder than mere disapproval.Their eyes locked.A pause, stretched thin as a drawn bowstring, hummed between them.“Inayat,” Samarth said, his voice low, almost too calm. “A word.”There was no request in his tone — only command.Inayat halted, lifting her chin, her heart already tightening at the storm she sensed rising.Samarth stepped forward, closing the
The afternoon sunlight was gentle, spreading across the stone terrace. A warm breeze stirred the sheer curtains that hung from the arches. On a low marble platform, shaded by the curving vines of a flowering tree, Inayat and Aabroo sat together, their iktaras resting lightly against their knees.The melody rose, simple and sweet, as Aabroo plucked the strings carefully, her small fingers finding their place with growing confidence. A smile flickered across Inayat’s face as she guided her, letting her own fingers dance more freely across her instrument, filling the air with a melody that wove itself between the columns and drifted into the blue sky.For a time, they said nothing, letting the music speak what words could not.Then, almost shyly, Aabroo’s voice broke into the stillness, low and uncertain, as if she feared her own thoughts.“He seems... very occupied these days,” she said, keeping her eyes on the iktara, her fingers still moving over the strings. “My brother.”Inayat’s fi
The night had laid its heavy cloak upon the palace, and the moon floated like a solemn sentinel in the velvet sky, its pale light spilling across the marble corridors. Samarth walked alone, his robe whispering against the polished floor, his hand trailing lightly over the cool stone of the columns as he passed beneath them. Above, the stars shimmered like ancient witnesses to the turmoil brooding in his heart.He gazed heavenward, his steps slow and measured, the weight of kingship pressing heavily upon his shoulders.“What is this plague that stirs in the heart of my kingdom, O God?” he spoke into the silence, his voice low, yet thrumming with restrained anguish. “One night was enough to throw order into chaos. I sense the serpent has entered with a lifted brow, sure of its strike. I am not blind, nor am I unaware of its design — to bleed this kingdom, to strike me down. And yet... who is it?”He paused beneath a great arch, the moonlight pouring around him like a silver river.“Cou
The night was a tapestry of stars, scattered across the velvety sky like shimmering pearls on black silk. The wind whispered through the palace courtyard, carrying with it the cool breath of the desert that melted against the warmth of the stone walls.Inayat sat beneath the open sky, her shawl wrapped snugly around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on the stars. She had become familiar with their constancy, their quiet brilliance in the vast, uncertain night. There was a peace in the heavens that escaped her own world, one filled with turmoil, choices, and a future uncertain. The stars, though, they always remained — timeless, patient, and steady.It was during this moment of serene contemplation that she heard the soft creak of the door, followed by the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps. She didn’t need to turn her head to know it was him.Samarth’s presence was as familiar to her as her own breath, and yet, tonight, there was a stillness about him that unsettled her. He approached h
The morning sun rose pale and weary over the kingdom, as if even the heavens sensed the unrest brewing within the palace walls. The great court of King Samarth was summoned early, its gilded doors thrown open to a gathering of trusted men — advisors, royal architects, the taskmaster, scribes, war strategists, shipwrights, and lords of the high council.A heavy, expectant silence weighed over them all.Samarth entered, clad in a dark, rich robe, a gold sash crossing his broad chest. His presence silenced every whisper instantly, for it was not merely the title of King that commanded such awe — it was the storm burning in his eyes, the gravity of his being.He seated himself on the high throne, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.“Speak,” he commanded, his voice deep, steady, filling the hall.One of the elder advisors, his hands trembling slightly with age, stepped forward.“My lord… troubling news. The fleet dispatched for Velendor… has been lost to the ocean.”A murmu
The night was heavy with silence, save for the distant howl of desert winds against the stone of the palace. Moonlight pooled like silver on the marble floors, casting soft, rippling reflections against the walls.Inayat sat by the low burning lamp, her slender fingers threading idly through the fabric of her shawl. Two nights had passed since that storm of fury between her and Samarth, yet the sting of his anger still burned somewhere inside her, tender and raw.And then — footsteps. Slow, deliberate, certain.Her heart seized without permission. She didn’t have to look up to know it was him. The scent of sandalwood and earth that clung to him drifted toward her, a herald of his arrival.Samarth entered, dressed not in the royal armor or heavy robes she was accustomed to seeing him in, but in a simple white kurta and a dhoti, the fabric clinging lightly to the hard lines of his body.He looked utterly, ruinously beautiful — masculine strength carved into mortal form, yet dangerous, l
The evening breeze fluttered the silken drapes of Inayat’s chamber. A faint scent of rosewater lingered in the air, mingling with the mellow gold of the setting sun. She sat by the low marble table, her fingers tracing idle circles on the rim of a silver goblet, waiting.She had arranged the evening carefully—tea steeped with cardamom and cloves, figs and almonds laid out, a lamp lit with jasmine oil, and herself clad in soft ivory silk. A quiet moment. A little peace with him.But the sky had darkened, the tea cooled, and Samarth had not come.When the door finally opened, it wasn’t the quiet creak of a man entering with apology. It was the confident thud of boots and the rustle of a heavy cloak — the sound of a king who did not know he was late.“Inayat,” he said casually, his voice low and assured. “I had to meet with the merchants from Althar — they are proposing to lend two ships toward—”“The tea is cold,” she said, not looking at him.Samarth paused. He studied her — the way sh
The courtyard was embraced by the warmth of late morning. The scent of roses floated through the open corridors, stirred by a passing breeze. Aabroo’s laughter echoed faintly from the other side of the palace gardens, while somewhere in the inner quarters, the distant sound of a tanpura hummed low and steady like a prayer.Ridhima walked slowly, the end of her dupatta dragging gently across the marble tiles as she passed the arched entry to Inayat’s chambers. She had meant to bring a fresh bundle of rose petals for the footed brass bowl placed near the bed. But as she neared the door, she paused.There was a quiet voice—no, two. And one of them did not belong to Inayat.“…you mustn’t forget what you came for. Your softness will undo you.”Ridhima’s brows drew together faintly. The voice was barely more than a breath, cloaked in tension. A woman’s voice—but not Inayat’s. The tone held a sharpness, the kind that glides like a blade.Ridhima moved no closer. Her ears sharpened like the