"She is destruction incarnate-everything she touches turns to ash."
Ishani, a sharp-witted and fiercely independent businesswoman from the modern world, trusts no one, least of all men. But fate has other plans. Thrust into a treacherous era of warr...
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The air in Kosala was thick with the scent of marigolds and simmering intrigue, a heady, intoxicating mix that spoke of impending change. The palace was a whirlwind of frantic energy, artisans gilding every surface until the stone seemed to glow from within, tailors drowning in bolts of silk the color of sunsets and emeralds, and soldiers drilling in the courtyard until their armor shone like liquid fire. At the center of the storm was Ishani, a serene, albeit exhausted, statue being measured, primped, and lectured. She moved through the chaos, her expression a mask of regal composure, while within her, a restless wildness yearned to break free.
Brihadbala and the venerable Sage Vashistha had taken it upon themselves to be her tutors in regal etiquette. The days were filled with lessons on posture, protocol, and the unbearable weight of expectation.
"A monarch does not slouch," Vashistha intoned, his voice like the rustle of ancient scrolls. "Your spine is the pillar of your kingdom. Your gaze must be steady, seeing all yet revealing nothing."
"And no rolling your eyes at visiting kings, Putri" Brihadbala added, a fond glimmer in his eyes softening the reprimand. "Even if they are as dull as a blunted sword."
Ishani sighed, the heavy weight of a ceremonial headdress already feeling familiar. "I am to be a symbol, not a person. I understand." But her mind, rebellious and untamed, scoffed at the notion. A symbol. A pretty bird in a gilded cage.
It was in a momentarily deserted corridor, a rare pocket of silence amidst the chaos, that the symbol was reminded of her humanity. A strong arm shot out from an alcove, pulling her into the shadows between two massive pillars. A gasp died in her throat as she was pressed against a solid, familiar chest, the cool of his breath a stark contrast to the heat of his body.
There you are. My darling. The chaos could not hold you.
"You are working too hard," Karna's voice was a low murmur, his body a solid, warm wall caging her against the cool stone.
Ishani's heart stuttered. "Someone has to. Unless you've secretly mastered the art of placating egotistical kings who will throw a fit if their seat isn't facing the right direction."
"Let them throw a fit. I will throw them out," he said, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. His gaze was intense, drinking in the sight of her—the slight flush on her cheeks, the determined set of her jaw. The gold of his armor seemed to absorb the dim light, making him look like a statue of a wrathful, beautiful god. "You need to rest. My goddess cannot have shadows under her eyes for her own coronation."
From the other end of the corridor, King Brihadbala paused, watching the tapestry sway. He saw the way Karna's broad shoulders curved protectively around his daughter, the intimacy of the moment. A father's instinctive protectiveness flared, a low burn in his chest. But as he watched, he saw the tension ease from Ishani's shoulders, a vulnerability she showed to no one else. With a grunt that was equal parts disapproval and reluctant acceptance, he turned away. Guru Vasishta's words echoed in his mind: "She is not a mortal to be earned. She is a force to be worshipped. And he, it seems, is her most devoted pilgrim." He secretly approved, even if the sight made his blood run hot with a father's fear. With a final, grunting sigh, he turned away.
