The moon hung low, veiled in soft clouds, casting a silver glow over the palace grounds. In her bedroom's balcony, Myra sat curled in a white sheer robe, her long hair cascading like silk over her shoulder, bare feet tucked beneath her on the cushioned bench. She looked ethereal—like a forgotten princess painted in moonlight, lost in a story only the stars knew.
The soft breeze played with the edges of her dupatta, and a tiny anklet bell chimed now and then, like a lullaby echoing in the night.
Her face was turned upward, eyes heavy with unshed tears. There was no one to watch her here—no audience, no expectations. Just the shadows, and the ache pressing against her chest.
That little boy's hunger.
The old woman's fragility.
Her own memory—wild, painful, starved.
The past hadn't knocked today. It had barged in, uninvited.
And Ranvijay… the way he had knelt, the way he had quietly given without demanding anything in return—why did it unsettle her more than his fire ever did?
Her fingers clutched the edge of the bench. She wasn't sure if the ache came from gratitude, guilt, or confusion.
But tonight, beneath a sky full of distant stars, Myra looked like something carved from sorrow and starlight. A fairytale figure too delicate for this world—and too strong to ever truly break.
The palace had fallen into a hush, the world draped in velvet night and scattered starlight. Outside, on the wide marble balcony, Myra had never returned inside.
She lay there still—on her stomach atop the cushioned bench, head sunk into her folded arms, hair flowing like an endless waterfall over the edge. The sheer white robe she wore clung delicately to her form, her bare feet curled beneath her, anklets chiming once as the breeze passed. The moonlight danced over her chocolaty skin, painting her like something out of an old forgotten legend.
A sleeping goddess under the stars.
Ranvijay stepped into the balcony without a sound. He froze at the threshold, caught off-guard by the sight. She hadn't gone in. She had simply… drifted off out here, under the same moon that tormented him night after night.
He didn't speak. Didn't dare.
Instead, he sat down near her—close, but not touching.
His eyes trailed over every inch of her: the softness in her brow, the way her lashes fluttered faintly in sleep, the gentle curve of her shoulder as the robe slid slightly down. Her hair spilled around her like strands of midnight, catching the silver glow of the sky.
And in that moment, Ranvijay forgot everything—every enemy, every scar, every secret.
There was only her.
Unaware. Unreachable. Undeniably his.
He leaned forward, his voice barely a breath above silence.
"You ruin me, Myra," he whispered, the words aching from somewhere deep. "Even in your sleep."
The wind stirred gently around them, carrying the weight of things neither of them were ready to say.
But in the quiet, under the stars, he made himself a promise:
Even if she never loved him back… he would guard this softness in her, this broken grace, until his last breath.
A whisper of wind rustled the edge of her robe.
Myra stirred.
Her brows furrowed faintly, lashes fluttering before her eyes blinked open. The sky above looked endless, the stars blurry from sleep. And then—
Her breath caught.
She turned her head and found him sitting there. Silent. Still. Watching her as if the world had paused around them.
She sat up abruptly, gathering her hair to one side, the robe slipping off one shoulder before she pulled it up in haste.
"Y-you… what are you doing here?" Her voice came out breathless, half-asleep, half-startled.
Ranvijay didn't move, didn't blink.
"You were out here for hours. I didn't want you to catch a cold," he said simply, his voice low, calm—yet laced with something heavier beneath.
Myra looked away quickly, her heart pounding in her chest, unsure if it was from being startled—or from something else entirely.
She tucked her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, trying to shield herself with silence.
"I didn't realize I… slept," she murmured, more to herself than him.
He gave a soft nod, eyes still on her. "You looked peaceful."
That word—peaceful—lingered in the air, making her chest feel tighter.
She could feel his gaze on her like warmth, like fire, like something she didn't know how to hold.
The robe slipped again. His hand moved to catch it—but stopped just short of touching her.
Their eyes met.
And for one fleeting second, the night between them thickened with everything unspoken.
Then she pulled the fabric back herself and said, quietly but firmly, "You should go."
His jaw tightened, but he nodded.
Not a word more.
As he stood and walked away, her fingers clutched the robe tighter—like armor around something breaking.
He had just turned, his footsteps silent as ever, when he felt the slightest tug at the back of his shirt.
Her thumb and forefinger—so small, so hesitant—had caught the fabric like a fragile plea.
"Wait," she whispered.
Ranvijay stilled.
His body tensed for a heartbeat, then he slowly turned, curiosity flickering in his eyes. There was the faintest trace of amusement on his lips—but his gaze held something deeper. Something that burned.
Myra quickly let go of his shirt, as if the touch had startled her more than him. She stepped back, brushing her hair behind her ear with clumsy fingers.
Awkward.
Shy.
Yet stubbornly standing her ground.
"I… I wanted to say something," she muttered, still not meeting his eyes. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her robe, her eyes darting from the floor to the railing, to the stars—but never him.
Ranvijay's brows lifted, and his entire body leaned forward, as if his soul had just stilled in anticipation. His very breath hushed, waiting—aching—for whatever she was about to say.
Myra swallowed.
Then finally, barely audible—"Thank you."
Time didn't move for a moment.
And neither did he.
The words were soft, simple… but to him, they landed like thunder in a dry sky.
His heart stopped, then stuttered painfully, like it had been waiting years to hear that one, fragile thing from her lips.
He said nothing.
He couldn't.
Because if he spoke now, he might shatter the quiet miracle blooming between them.
And in that silence, heavy with emotions neither of them could name, the night wrapped itself around their shadows—closer than ever, yet still afraid to touch.
He had heard thousands of thank-yous in his life—some sincere, some hollow, some dressed in velvet lies. But this one… this fragile, hesitant whisper from her trembling lips?
He could trade his entire existence for it.
His eyes softened, the storm in him momentarily calmed by that one word. Not because she owed it to him, but because she chose to say it.
And in that choice—shy, awkward, barely spoken—was the first thread of trust.
He didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
Just looked at her with such aching quiet, it said everything his lips couldn't.
Then, slowly, he turned his face toward the moonlight, as if afraid that if he looked at her too long, he'd fall apart.
But inside, he already had.
Because that one "thank you" had undone a man who'd once been impossible to shake.
She took a hesitant step back, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "For feeding them at the temple," she murmured, eyes fixed somewhere beyond him.
Before she could turn away completely, his hand shot out, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. The unexpected touch made her pause.
He pulled her back just enough so their eyes met—intense, searching, a silent demand to hold onto this fragile connection.
"Don't walk away," he said low, voice rough with something unspoken.
Her breath hitched, caught between fear and something deeper, as the space between them crackled with unsaid words.
"Don't walk away," he repeated, this time quieter… darker.
His grip on her wrist tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that she was his. That somewhere deep in his twisted, burning heart, he had already claimed her long before this moment.
She turned her face toward him, startled.
His other hand rose slowly, brushing against the edge of her jaw, his thumb hovering just near her trembling lip. His gaze—fierce, tormented—pinned her in place.
"You don't get to say something like that," he whispered, voice thick with restraint, "and walk away as if it meant nothing."
Her heart pounded.
He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching, his breath fanning against her skin.
"I've been dying to hear you speak to me like that, even once. And now that you have…" his eyes darkened, "…you think I'll just let you disappear into the night?"
She opened her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to breathe—but he cut the space between them, his forehead pressing against hers, his voice breaking as he said, ""You don't get to walk away after stitching yourself into my veins, "
The night held its breath as she stood frozen in his grasp, trapped between danger and desire.
"You think this ends with a thank you?" he growled low, stepping into her space, his breath mingling with hers. "You breathe and it ruins me. You blink and I crave more. This isn't something you can undo, Myra."
Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"That thank you…" he said, voice laced with mischief, "doesn't feel enough, Myra."
She blinked, confused, still caught in the aftershock of what just happened.
He turned fully now, eyes dancing with something darker, warmer.
"I think you owe me something more."
Her brows knit. "What?"
She stammered, "W-What do you want?"
Ranvijay's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile as he leaned in, his voice dipping into a deep, husky whisper that danced along her skin.
"Hmm… maybe a kiss…"
His eyes darkened slightly, lingering on her lips before flicking back to her eyes.
"Or maybe… something more than a kiss."
Myra's breath hitched. Her cheeks flamed with color, and she took an involuntary step back—only to find the balcony railing behind her.
Myra blinked, caught somewhere between mortified and flustered.
He grinned. "There it is. That little blush. You know it's dangerous to look at me like that, right?"
And just like that, the moment turned too warm, too intimate.
She tried to look away, but he leaned closer, breath brushing her ear.
"Careful, Myra… or I'll start thinking you like me."
Myra's breath caught. Her eyes widened—then quickly looked away as a deep blush bloomed across her cheeks, coloring her from throat to ears.
But then Ranvijay moved closer, his hand sliding along the railing to gently trapping her His body closed in, pressing softly against her , bending her slightly as if silently claiming the space between them.
His eyes, which had been dancing with teasing sparks just a moment ago, darkened—like a tide pulling back before a storm. He took a step closer, the space between them crackling.
"What do I want?" he repeated, gaze fixed on her lips, then her eyes.
His tone was lower now, laced with something raw.
"I want to be the first name your heart whispers when it's scared… and the last one it clings to when it's safe."
"I want to be the reason you stop running."
"I want you, Myra. Every version. Every fear. Every breath."
She froze, breath caught.
And then, quieter—almost as if confessing to himself—he added,
"And someday, I want you to want me too… without fear in your eyes."