The ride back to the palace was a blur. Hooves thundered against the dirt, their rhythm erratic yet relentless. The wind lashed against Nakul’s face, dust and sweat mingling on his skin, but he barely noticed. His breath came sharp and fast, though not from exertion—from dread. A weight pressed against his chest, thick and suffocating, his mind refusing to quiet.

They had left the palace vulnerable.

He should have stayed back.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the lingering scent of damp earth from the previous night. The sun had only just begun its ascent, casting long shadows that stretched across the stone walls of the palace. The gates loomed ahead, stark against the soft golden light filtering through the mist.

Guards stood rigid at their posts, their expressions tense but composed. Their weapons were unsheathed—not in frantic panic, but in grim vigilance. There was no chaos, no panicked shouts—only a readiness that spoke of control, of an attack that had come and gone.

A sharp stab of relief surged in his chest, only to be drowned by cold apprehension when a soldier broke formation, his expression tense as he approached.

“Glory be to Indraprastha! Rajkumar Sahadev is expecting you,” the guard reported, voice clipped. He bowed swiftly before turning on his heel, leading them toward the palace entrance.

Yudhishthir was the first to speak, his tone even but unyielding. “The scale of the attack?”

The soldier kept his gaze ahead as he answered. “It was a small, focused strike, aimed at the inner chambers. Atulya led them in,” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, “He died in combat.”

Nakul’s breath stilled. Atulya.

The name rang hollow now, as if it had already begun fading from the world. A man who had chased his vengeance too fiercely, only to be consumed by it. He had spent his life grasping at power, shaping conspiracies in the shadows, only to be undone by his own hands. A man who had burned too brightly in his quest and had been reduced to nothing but smoldering embers.

Atulya. Dead.

A grim inevitability.

Nakul swallowed back his thoughts and focused on what mattered. The palace. His family. Abhijishya.

Sahadev was waiting for them near the inner courtyard, his gaze sharp, cataloging each of them with the practiced efficiency of a physician. No words of greeting, no questions—only a quick assessment, searching for wounds. His tension eased slightly when he saw they were unharmed.

“The children?” Nakul demanded before Sahadev could speak.

“They are fine.” Sahadev’s answer was brisk, factual. “The attack was never meant to cause mass casualties. A smoke vial was used—an irritant, but non-lethal. It was likely to draw the children out and use them as hostages. Rajkumari Subhadra and Panchali are with them.”

A breath Nakul didn’t realize he had been holding escaped his lips. His body sagged just slightly, his shoulders easing, but the moment of relief was fleeting. There was still one more answer he needed.

His voice was quieter this time, but the urgency in it remained. “And Abhijishya?”

Sahadev hesitated.

It was barely a flicker, a heartbeat’s worth of pause, but Nakul caught it.

“She took a slash wound from sword,” Sahadev admitted, tone measured and eyes apologetic. “Deep, but non-fatal. It will take time to heal. She’s resting—with Anvi.”

For the first time since he had ridden through the gates, Nakul turned to Yudhishthir. He barely needed to say anything.

Yudhishthir gave a single nod. Permission granted.

Nakul didn’t wait.

He turned and sprinted down the corridors, his boots hitting the stone floors with urgency. He wove through the dimly lit halls, the warm glow of oil lamps barely cutting through the shadows. The scents of sandalwood and herbs mingled in the air, but they did nothing to quell the unease clawing at his chest.

His pulse thundered in his ears, a single thought hammering through his mind.

How deep?

How much blood?

How much pain?

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. Abhijishya was strong—fierce, stubborn, unyielding—and everytime it seemed fate wanted to test her strength.

When he reached her chamber, he paused for only a breath before pushing the door open.

---

The sight before him was both exasperating and endearing.

Abhijishya reclined against a mound of cushions, her face pale but her eyes sharp as ever. Their daughter, Anveeksha, sat beside her, hovering over the bandages with a scowl of deep concentration. Charu, ever-diligent, flitted nearby, adjusting pillows, pouring water, and fussing in her own way.

“I’m fine, Anvi,” Abhijishya huffed, though her tone held no true frustration. “You’re acting as if I lost a limb.”

Anvi turned, horror flashing across her face. “But you lost a lot of blood!” she countered, her voice tight with worry. “The entire floor was—”

Nakul chose that moment to step inside, shaking his head in amusement. “Ah, so this is what happens when I’m not here—rebellion in my own household. Is my wife being held hostage?”

Anvi whipped around, her face brightening for a split second before she schooled it into a frown. “You should have been here sooner, Pitashree! Look, Maa got herself injured. I had to come to her rescue as the oldest and now she is telling me to rest as if I am still a child.”

Nakul sighed, crouching to her level as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. “Oh is that so? She is gravely wrong if you are no longer a child. But why do I remember carrying you on my shoulders just last winter?”

Anvi scowled. “That was last winter. I’m older now.”

Abhijishya smirked. “Older, but still foolish enough to run straight into danger.”

Anvi huffed. “I was helping!”

“She tried to fight,” Abhijishya drawled, eyes twinkling. “With all the skill of an enraged kitten.”

Nakul blinked, then burst into laughter. “Brave but foolish, eh?” He cupped Anvi’s cheek, thumb brushing against her temple. “I’ll train you properly, then. No more just sword-form basics.”

Anvi’s eyes widened. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Satisfied, Anvi leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, her small fingers gripping his tunic tightly. “I was scared, Baba. There was a lot of smoke and Vindu was very scared. Nika and Som were crying and-”

“I know. I know, dear. I promise you everything is alright now. They will be fine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “And we’re here now. You don't have to worry anymore.”

She pulled back, her expression still serious. “Next time, don’t leave me without telling.” Then, with an imperious tilt of her chin, she turned to Charu and said, “Come. If we leave them alone, maybe Maa will actually rest.”

Abhijishya groaned. “Traitor.”

With one last knowing glance, Anvi left with Charu, her little feet making surprisingly firm steps as she walked away.

As soon as the door closed, Nakul sat beside Abhijishya, his gaze sweeping over her with careful precision. The bandage across her side stood out stark against her skin, and despite her composed expression, he noted the faint tightness around her lips—a sign of concealed pain.

His fingers twitched. Guilt pressed against his ribs.

“I wasn’t here,” he said, the weight of it heavy in his voice. “I should have been here.”

She reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “And what would you have done?” she asked, tilting her head. “Fought off the attackers, stopped time, shielded the entire palace by yourself?”

He exhaled sharply. “I would have tried.”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “I know. And I love you for it. But, darling—you were where you needed to be. And I am alive and well.”

His fingers brushed against her cheek, voice turning teasing. “Alive but incredibly stubborn. Anvi’s right—you never listen to reason.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I don’t listen? And you were planning to walk out of here without tending to your own bruises?”

Nakul opened his mouth, then promptly closed it when she fixed him with a pointed stare.

“Now, sit down beside me and pass me the ointment,” she commanded, voice leaving no room for argument.

He huffed but obeyed, shifting so that she could examine him.

She worked methodically, fingers grazing against his skin as she dabbed ointment onto the cuts along his arm. Her touch was warm, gentle yet firm, as if she were silently reprimanding him for every wound he bore.

Nakul watched her. He took in the way her brows furrowed in concentration, the quiet concern hidden beneath her dry humor, the occasional flicker of pain that she refused to acknowledge.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he murmured, catching her wrist as extending her hand more would pull at the wound.

She softened, fingers pausing briefly against his skin. “And I don’t like seeing you hurt,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “However, it is our privilege that we don’t get to live untouched by pain.”

His exhale was slow, measured. He lifted a hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before resting his forehead against hers.

“Then promise me something,” he said.

“Hm?”

“If we are to endure pain, then let’s endure it together.”

She stilled for a moment, then smiled—a tired, genuine thing.

Her fingers trailed along his jaw before she pressed a feather-light kiss to his lips, murmuring against them, “Always.”

Nakul sighed, resting back against the cushions. He glanced at her bandages once more before shaking his head. “They’ll call for a council meeting by evening or the morning after at the latest.”

Abhijishya groaned. “Of course they will. Who’s leading it?”

“Jyesth.”

She exhaled. “That means it’ll be long.”

Nakul chuckled. “He’ll want every detail.”

Her fingers toyed with the edge of his tunic absentmindedly. “And what’s your role in this?”

“Making sure you don’t sneak out of bed and attend it yourself,” he quipped.

She scoffed. “I would do no such thing.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She huffed. “Fine. Maybe I thought about it.”

“I rest my case.”

There was a comfortable silence before Abhijishya tilted her head. “And what’s the plan for Leelavati?”

Nakul sighed. “That’s… complicated.”

She nodded, already knowing. “And Ahim?”

“Under watch for now along with Jatasya.”

She closed her eyes briefly, letting the weight of it settle. “So it’s over for now.”

“Seems so.”

Another silence stretched between them before Nakul smiled faintly, voice light despite the tension. “Anvi has your stubbornness, you know.”

She smirked. “She has your dramatics.”

He gasped in mock offense. “Dramatics?”

“You sulked for a week when I beat you at ashta chamma.”

“I did not sulk.”

“You absolutely did.”

He huffed, crossing his arms. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

She chuckled, wincing slightly as she shifted. Nakul’s amusement faded, concern creeping back into his features.

“Rest,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple.

She closed her eyes. “Only if you stay.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.