The chamber still breathed the silence of the night, though the faintest rim of grey touched the shutters, promising dawn. The lamp at the bedside had burned low, its wick curling in on itself, casting a dim glow that wrapped them in half-shadows.

Abhijishya sat with her back against him, quilt pooled about her waist, the curve of her shoulders bared. Nakul's hands rested there first in hesitation, as though simply feeling the living warmth of her skin might steady the restlessness that had gnawed at him all night. Then he began to move, pressing his thumbs into the tight cords of her neck, kneading down in slow circles.

She let out a long breath, head dipping forward, the strain easing from her spine.

His touch was not hurried. Each press, each sweep of his palm, was deliberate-an act of reverence. He worked down from the base of her skull, his fingers sinking into the knots where worry had gathered. When she hissed at a tender spot, his thumbs softened, coaxing instead of forcing. He smoothed his hands along the slope of her shoulders, spreading the tension out until her breathing grew heavier, lazier, as though her body surrendered against his chest.

Her hair spilled over him like a river, dark and endless. He gathered it gently, combing through with his fingers, untangling each snarl with patient care. Every few strokes he paused, pressing his lips to the crown of her head as though to mark the rhythm of his devotion.

"If you keep this up," she murmured, her voice blurred, half-slurring from the warmth pooling through her veins, "I won't let you go anywhere. Ever."

Nakul's hands stilled in her hair. A smile ghosted across his mouth, but his jaw tightened. "Then keep me," he whispered, bold and unflinching, though something raw flickered behind his eyes.

Her soft laugh rang like glass, fragile and bright. She had woken up in the wee hours as she always did these days, too shaken to go back to sleep but this time she had found Nakul awake as soon as she sat up. It was as if Nakul had kept vigil even in his sleep. The thought had warmed her and now his skillful hands seemed determined to uncurl any worry that might have twisted up at the base of her head. But as much as she wanted to give into the lull of comfort, she knew this indulgence could only be scarce. She tilted her head back just enough for him to see her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. "We should get ready for the day soon."

"The world can wait," he answered, his voice rougher now. He bent down, brushing his mouth over hers. The kiss was gentle, unhurried, but it burned through the quiet like flame meeting dry wood. Abhijishya sighed into it, the sound not of passion but of relief, as if a knot within her had loosened.

Nakul did not rush. He parted from her lips only to gather her hair again, running his fingers down its length. With careful precision, he drew it into three strands and began to weave them, his large hands working slowly, almost reverently. The braid was loose, the kind she wore only in the privacy of her chamber, never for court. With each pass of his hand, he lingered, caressing the silk of her hair as though memorizing it.

She leaned back against him, eyes closed, letting him finish. The steady pull of his fingers down her scalp, the scrape of his nails, the press of his palm-it lulled her, soothed her, even as her heart ached at the knowledge of why he was being so meticulous.

When the braid lay finished across her back, his hands slipped from it and cupped her face instead, tilting her to him. His mouth found hers again, this time deeper, urgent. She melted into it, her hands fisting in the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer as if she, too, wanted to suspend the world a little longer.

"I don't want to leave," Nakul murmured against her lips, his forehead pressed to hers, breath uneven.

"I know," she whispered, her voice softer than silk.

They stayed like that, breathing each other's breath, until silence gave way to another kiss, longer, hungrier, their bodies speaking the words they dared not say aloud.

Time slipped. Shadows turned gold and then white with the noon light. Still they clung to one another, as though their limbs could hold off destiny itself.

It was only when a sharp knock rattled the door that the spell shattered. "Rajkumari," came Charu's careful voice, muffled through the wood. "There is a message for you."

Nakul's jaw tightened. For once, he did not hide his irritation. His hand lingered possessively against Abhijishya's waist, unwilling to let go.

Abhijishya sighed softly, her palm coming up to smooth his cheek, her thumb brushing the furrow between his brows. She kissed him once at the corner of his mouth, a fleeting promise, before she drew herself upright. Her braid slipped over her shoulder, strands already loosening where his hands had been too tender to tie it tight.

Nakul watched her, a storm in his eyes-frustration, longing, reverence, all bound into one-as though Charu's knock had stolen something priceless from him.

"Come in," Abhijishya said at last, her voice steady though her body still hummed faintly from the warmth of Nakul's closeness. She smoothed out her garments, stepped out of the curtain that surround their bed and walked towards the door. She didn't pay much attention to the shuffling after her. It seemed Nakul too would like to hear the news.

Charu slipped into the chamber, careful as ever, her head bowed. "Forgive the intrusion, Rajkumari, but-" She broke off when her eyes flicked upward and landed on Nakul.

The Pandava stood with his arms folded across his chest, his stance regal but his glare unmistakably personal. He looked at Charu as if she were a trespasser disturbing a sanctuary. The weight of his gaze was enough to make the woman falter, her tongue tying itself in hesitation.

Abhijishya followed her trusted attendant's gaze and, catching sight of Nakul's expression, let out the smallest breath of laughter. "Arya," she said gently, though her tone carried an edge of rebuke. "Don't scowl at her so. It is not her fault duty comes when it pleases."

Nakul's jaw worked, his silence stubborn, before he finally shifted forward. The fierceness in his eyes softened under her look, but he kept his princely sulk intact. He leaned close enough for only her to hear, his voice pitched low and steady: "Then at least join me for lunch."

It was half command, half plea, heavy with unspoken meaning. Abhijishya's lips curved faintly-half sigh, half smile-but before she could answer, he was already striding away, his departure punctuated by the sharp tug of the curtain as it fell closed behind him.

Charu lingered by the threshold, hesitant, hands clasped tight. Abhijishya, amused despite herself, shook her head softly. "Do not mind him. Now-what was the message?"

Grateful for the shift, Charu straightened. "A note has come from Parnika. She reports troubling matters-men posing as soldiers, ones who had been demoted, are extorting the villagers. They demand higher taxes, stop merchant carts, seize valuables. When the officials come to collect, the merchants refuse, saying they have already paid."

Abhijishya's brows drew together. "Impossible," she said under her breath. "Every soldier of Indraprastha serves with loyalty. With honour. For men of our crown to stoop to thieving from the very people they swore to guard-" She cut herself short, her jaw tightening as if the thought itself were poisonous.

"How many?" Her voice, when it returned, was sharper, clipped.

"At least six," Charu replied.

Abhijishya's eyes narrowed in thought. "Tell Scholar Bhavesh I want every record-why these men were demoted, and whether they were even soldiers at all. And Charu-" her voice dropped, cool and deliberate, "be careful. To plunder openly in the king's name means someone gives them protection. Someone with reach, perhaps here in court itself. Tread lightly."

Charu bowed, her face set in obedience though her eyes flickered uneasily. "Yes, Rajkumari."

But before she turned to go, some flicker of daring-or perhaps affection-broke through her solemnity. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Though, if I may say so... Rajkumari looks rather... pleasantly tired today."

Heat rose to Abhijishya's cheeks before she could marshal her composure. Her eyes widened, caught between indignation and laughter. "You-" she began, then bit down on the words, shaking her head. "Finish your duty, Charu, instead of wasting your time on being cheeky."

Charu's grin lingered even as she bowed herself out, retreating with light steps.

Silence pressed into the chamber once more. The air still carried the faint trace of Nakul's presence-his sulky glare, his quiet demand, the imprint of his fingers in her hair. Slowly, Abhijishya lifted her braid, the one he had woven so carefully hours before. A few strands had slipped loose against her shoulder.

She reached for a ribbon and began to tighten it, drawing the braid firm, smoothing the strays into line. The gesture was practical, but her movements held a kind of ritual-methodical, unyielding, binding everything into place.

Her reflection in the polished bronze mirror stared back: hair neatly bound, face composed once more. The braid felt like an answer to Nakul's tenderness, a reminder that rest-like loose strands-was a luxury she could not afford. The world would not wait. Neither could she.

When the ribbon was tied, she rose, straightened her shoulders, and moved toward the desk where her seal and parchment lay waiting. The chamber had shifted from sanctuary to battlefield in the space of an hour, and she stepped into it without hesitation.

____

Nakul's hands lingered longer than necessary on the clasp of his vambraces, tightening the straps, loosening them, then fastening them again as though the ritual itself might steady the turmoil in his chest.

He had accepted it: he would leave with his brothers. No matter how many times Abhijishya's voice replayed in his mind-calm, merciless in its clarity-he knew she was right. His staying would not ease her. And yet, every part of him rebelled at the thought of walking away while her body carried their unborn child, while shadows deepened under her eyes, while she wove silence around her own suffering.

His jaw tightened. How could he walk away from her? From the child he might not see until its first cries have already filled the palace halls?

He thought of Anvi, bright-eyed, her words too sharp sometimes but her heart tender as raw silk. She was growing too quickly, becoming a woman before his eyes-yet in moments of fear she still clung to him as though she were little again. And Shatanik-his wild, reckless boy, barely four, all mischief and delight, who flung himself into the world headfirst, trusting it would catch him the way his father always did.

Nakul exhaled hard, rubbing a hand across his face. He was already longing for his return before he had even departed.

He pulled his shawl into place, belted his sword at his hip, and glanced toward the chamber where Abhijishya sat. He paused in the doorway. She was bent over the low table with Reva, parchments spread like a fan before them, her slender fingers tracing neat lines of script as she discussed something in a low, urgent tone.

Nakul lingered, watching her. The furrow between her brows, the quick way she tapped the edge of a parchment when she disagreed with Reva's reading-it was all so familiar, and so unbearably dear. He wanted to stride in, sweep the parchments away, and force her to rest in his arms. But he did not. Instead, he only said, with a faint edge of sulk, "We are having lunch together. Do not forget."

Her head lifted, eyes flashing briefly at his tone, before softening with a smile that was equal parts fond and exasperated. "I will be there, darling. In a bit."

It wasn't enough, but he nodded once, curtly, and left.

____

The stables smelled of hay, leather, and sun-warmed wood, a familiar comfort that had steadied him since boyhood. He ran his hand along the flank of a tall Kosalan stallion, the creature's coat gleaming like burnished bronze in the shafts of morning light. The horse stamped, tossing its mane, and Nakul smiled despite himself.

"These are fine stock," he said, glancing at the stable master. "Strong bone, good chest, eyes bright." He crouched briefly, running a hand down the line of a fetlock, nodding when he found it clean and free of swelling. Rising again, he gave a curt nod. "Keep them groomed. They must be ready at all times, war or show."

"Yes, Rajkumar," the man replied, bowing.

Nakul moved down the line, checking each animal with the eye of both warrior and horseman. His hand was firm but reassuring on each flank, his gaze sharp as steel. Yet when he reached the end of the row, he frowned. "Where is Rajkumari Anvi's mare?"

The stable boy shuffled nervously, scratching at his ear. "Rajkumari took her out, Maharaj. Rajkumar Shatanik was with her. They should be back soon."

The words were still fresh in the air when the thunder of hooves rolled down the path outside. Nakul turned, his heart lurching in instinctive recognition. The mare came into view, dust rising in plumes around her hooves. Anvi sat astride, back straight, the reins tight in her hands. In front of her, perched on the saddle, was a small figure bouncing with delight-Shatanika.

The mare slowed, Anvi pulling the reins skillfully, but before she could fully halt, her little brother launched himself forward.

"Nika-!" Anvi's voice rang out in panic, but it was too late.

Shatanik had already leapt, arms wide, face split in a reckless grin. Nakul's heart stopped, then kicked into a gallop as he lunged forward. His arms caught the boy in midair, the weight slamming into his chest with a force that nearly knocked the breath from him.

"Pranipaat, Baba!" Shatanik crowed, laughing wildly as though this had been a game all along.

Nakul's knees nearly buckled. He held the boy tight against him, his pulse racing like a war drum. "By the gods, Shatanika!" he burst out, his voice caught between fury and relief. "Do you mean to kill me before I even march to war?"

Shatanik only grinned up at him, utterly unrepentant. "I knew you'd catch me."

"You-reckless little-" Nakul broke off, pressing his lips together. His son's hair smelled of sun and horse, his body warm and squirming with delight. How could he stay angry when love swelled so hard in his chest it hurt?

Anvi was already sliding down from the mare, her face stormy. "Nika! You could've broken your neck!" She strode over, seized her little brother by the ear, and tugged sharply.

"Ow! Ow ow ow!" Shatanik yelped, wriggling in his father's arms. "Sorry, Didi! Many many sorry! Let go!"

"Not until you promise never to do that again!" Anvi snapped, her voice quivering with the terror she was trying to disguise as anger.

Shatanik flailed, his grin slipping into a sheepish pout. "Fine, fine! Promise! Sorry!"

Nakul shook his head, exasperated, but warmth tugged at his lips. "And what," he said at last, shifting his son to face him, "was so urgent that you couldn't wait to get down properly?"

At once, Shatanik's face lit up, all mischief forgotten. His little brows knitted together with sudden seriousness. "Pitashree," he said gravely, "did you make Choti Maa eat a baby? Is that why she looks all tired and sick?"

Nakul blinked. For the first time in years, he was utterly speechless.

Anvi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "For the last time, Nika," she said, her voice full of teenage exasperation. "I told you-a baby is inside Maa's belly. She didn't eat it. You're going to be a brother."

Shatanik huffed, folding his little arms across his chest. "Then how did it get in there?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously at his father. "Was it like how Mata got hers? Like when Shrutasena was inside and then baby Karma. Like a blessing from heaven? But she didn't look sick then."

Nakul's mouth opened, then closed again. For a man who could recite a thousand verses of the Vedas, who could negotiate treaties with kings, who could command troops with the flick of his hand-he had not a single word for his four-year-old son's question.

His silence stretched, and Anvi sighed deeply, glaring at her brother. "You ask too many questions, Nika. Some things you'll understand when you're older."

"But I want to understand now!" Shatanik protested, tugging at Nakul's collar. "Tell me, Baba!"

Nakul stared at the boy in his arms, then at his daughter who stood with crossed arms and flushed cheeks. For a moment, he almost laughed-the absurdity of it, the innocence, the weight of love pressing so hard against his chest it made him ache.

"Ah-" he began, but no words seemed fit. Shatanik's wide, expectant eyes drilled into him like a little judge awaiting confession, while Anvi stood with arms folded, clearly enjoying her father's predicament despite her attempt at sternness.

Nakul cleared his throat, shifted his son higher on his hip, and muttered half to himself, half to them, "Why do children always choose their questions when their father has no sword or shield to defend himself with?"

Anvi smirked, "Because we know that's when you're weakest, Baba."

Nakul shot her a look-half reproach, half pride at her sharp tongue. Then he turned to Shatanik, who was still frowning in utmost seriousness.

"My little tiger," Nakul said, voice softening, "there are some secrets in this world that are too grand, too sacred to be given away so easily. Do you think your Baba would just tell anyone the mysteries of the universe?"

Shatanik's lower lip jutted out in a sulk. "But I'm not anyone. I'm your son."

Nakul chuckled, pressing a kiss to the boy's hair, inhaling the sun and dust that clung to him after the ride. "And that is why, Nika, I will tell you when you are ready to hear it. For now..."-he leaned close, whispering in a mock conspiratorial tone-"...let us simply say that babies are gifts. And your Choti Maa has been given one. It is not easy carrying such a gift-that is why she is tired. But one day soon, you will see how precious it is."

Shatanik's brow furrowed as he mulled this over, clearly unsatisfied, yet distracted by the tenderness in his father's voice. "So it is like Mata? A gift from the heavens?"

"Something like that," Nakul said, deliberately vague, his lips twitching at the corner. "But this time, the heavens were very wise. They chose your Choti Maa, because no one else could guard such a treasure as well as she can."

That seemed to appease the boy-at least for now. His grin returned in a flash, the kind that could undo Nakul's heart with its sheer mischief. "Then I will guard the baby too! I will fight anyone who tries to take it. Even Tatshree Bheem!"

Anvi groaned, tugging at his ear again. "Don't say such foolish things, Nika. You can't even lift his mace."

"I'll grow!" Shatanik retorted indignantly, flailing in his father's arms. "I'll be big, bigger than all of you!"

Nakul laughed, the sound warm and weary all at once, his heart caught between mirth and an ache he could not name. "Gods help us if that day comes," he said lightly, setting his son down on his feet.

Then, as Shatanik scampered off toward the haystacks, no doubt imagining himself a warrior already, Nakul's gaze lingered on him until the ache in his chest turned almost unbearable. He swallowed it down. His son's joy deserved no shadow.

Beside him, Anvi brushed her palms against her skirt, dusting off bits of hay from her earlier dismount. Her eyes followed her brother, then shifted back to her father. She was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice was careful, softer than usual.

"You look... worried, Baba."

Nakul glanced at her, caught by the steadiness in her young face. She had her mother's eyes, sharp and watchful, but the earnest concern in them was wholly hers. He forced a smile. "Worried? No. Only recovering from losing my life to your brother’s flying leap.”

Anvi huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “He nearly gave me a heart attack too. He doesn’t think before he does anything. He just… jumps.”

“Just like someone else I know,” Nakul said meaningfully, raising a brow.

Color rose in her cheeks, but she tossed her braid over her shoulder in mock defiance. “I don’t leap like that anymore. And I never did from a horse. I’m grown now.”

“Ah,” Nakul murmured, reaching to tug gently at that braid as if she were still his little girl. “Grown, yes. But still mine.”

Her lips curved, but then her eyes dipped, thoughtful. She lowered her voice. “Is it because of Maa? You look like… like you’re carrying something heavy inside.”

The words struck him deeper than any sword might. For a heartbeat, Nakul could not answer. He wanted to tell her everything—that he was leaving, that he feared returning too late, that he dreamed of Abhijishya pale and fading, of the unborn child who might never know him. But she was only fifteen. His daughter. Too young to be burdened with her father’s fears.

So he curved his arm around her shoulders instead, drawing her close as they walked slowly along the stable row. “You see too much, Anvi. You are just like your mother,” he said gently.

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re still allowed to be.”

She frowned, as if wanting to argue, but then she sighed and relented, leaning into him just a fraction, enough for him to feel her warmth. “Then let’s talk about my mare instead,” she said after a moment, almost deliberately light. “She carried both of us all the way to the river bend and back without tiring once. She’s fast, Baba. Faster than even your best gelding, I swear.”

Nakul chuckled at the spark in her voice, grateful for it. “Is that so? Shall I set a race, then?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, her eyes brightening. “And when I win, you must give me something.”

He raised a brow, playing along. “A wager? You sound more like your Kuru uncles with every passing day. And what would you demand from me if you won?”

Anvi pretended to think hard, her finger tapping her chin in exaggerated drama. “A bow of my own. One that isn’t a cast-off. A proper one, made for me.”

Nakul stopped, looking at her, his smile turning softer. “A bow of your own.” He said it as if testing the words on his tongue, as if feeling the weight of what she was asking—not just a weapon, but recognition. A place. A promise that she was seen.

“Do you think I cannot wield one properly?” she challenged, almost defensive now, sensing the pause.

He cupped her cheek briefly, brushing away the sharpness in her tone with the tenderness of a father who knew her heart better than she knew it herself. “I think,” he said slowly, “that you will one day wield more than just a bow. But yes, my fierce girl, you shall have one. When I return.”

Something flickered in her eyes at those last words. Return. She heard the unspoken meaning.

Before she could ask, Shatanik came charging back, flinging himself between them, demanding to be hoisted again, shouting, “Baba, pretend to be a horse! I want to ride you instead!”

And just like that, the heaviness was masked beneath laughter and shrieks as Nakul bent down and swung his son over his shoulder, Anvi shaking her head and pretending she wasn’t amused at all—though her smile gave her away.

Nakul pressed a kiss on top of Anvi's head and murmured, almost to himself, “Come, let’s join your maa for lunch.” He let the words linger, holding on to the sound of them, the promise of a simple meal together. For now, he wanted only this—his children’s laughter, Abhijishya’s waiting smile—these fleeting, ordinary hours he could fold into his heart against the ache of leaving.

A.N. - 4000+ words. Wow. That was a lot. Lemme know what you think of this chapter. Time flew by as I wrote this and now I have procrastinated on everything else. 🫠

Anyways, vote and comment if you liked this chapter.

Until the next time,

Byeee ;')

P.S. I was trying to publish this for the last half an hour and wattpad was on my last nerve because it kept saying problem with story- just now modified elsewhere. *Eye twitching violently*