"𝑯𝒊𝒔 Bindani "

3.Blood( part 1) 🌙

"Bheje ri saari mohabbat sa, bhool ne khatma kar diyo ji. Ar agar tanne chhaago lagge to jara bataiyo."

(Show dher saara pyaar yrra's. Galti ke liye maafi ji . Agar aapko pasand aaye to btayiye jra.)

Happy reading ✨ ❤️

Words count:3900
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( flashback same day morning 6 am )

The palace doors swung open with a loud echo, revealing a man drenched in blood from head to toe. His entrance demanded attention, his dark figure stark against the rich surroundings. Blood dripped steadily from his black T-shirt, black jeans, and soaked black shoes, forming puddles at his feet and marking his path. He held a gun in his hand, its surface shiny and wet. His appearance showed the struggle he had endured: blood streamed from his hair, down his neck, and covered his arms in a constant flow. Each drop seemed to say one thing-this was no ordinary man. His presence was heavy with a sense of doom, as if he had come from the depths of hell. His cold, unyielding eyes spoke of great suffering and control over pain. In that moment, the palace's splendor seemed insignificant compared to the raw power he embodied. He was the bringer of doom, the ruler of suffering-the king of hell himself.

"Raja hai ye vaha ke jaha log khwab meh bhi jaana manjur nhi karte "

("He is a king of kingdom where even in dreams, people don't dare to go.")

" Leave " In the eerie silence that followed, a single word escaped his lips, carrying the weight of his pent-up fury and desolation. His eyes, usually a mirror of his soul, now reflected a turbulent mix of emotions: a haunting stillness, fleeting traces of happiness, a fleeting sense of release, but above all, an unmistakable anger, burning with an intensity that defied words. Within him, chaos reigned, his inner landscape a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions, scattered fragments of a life once whole. He stood there, a shattered shell of his former self, bearing the unbearable weight of his brokenness.

Within the expansive halls of his grand palace, a bustling workforce typically attends to various tasks. However, today holds special significance, especially in the main hall where more than 25 diligent workers are diligently carrying out their duties. The air is charged with excitement as Rajasthan celebrates this momentous occasion, and every individual plays their part with dedication and precision.

His commanding voice echoed through the halls, prompting all to swiftly vacate the premises. With each step he took, crimson droplets from his wounded hand splattered onto the floor. Ascending the stairs, he finally arrived at his destination: his chamber. Upon entering a unique code, the door yielded, granting him access to his sanctuary. While to an outsider, it might resemble a grand hall, for him, it was much more-a refuge where he could shed the burdens of expectation and duty, and simply be himself, in communion with his own soul.

After entering his room, he headed straight for the washroom, eager to change and shed the remnants of his previous attire. The air was heavy with tension, remnants of the confrontation that had just unfolded in the main hall. As he emerged from the washroom, a transformation seemed to take place before the eyes of any onlooker. The once formidable figure now stood clad in a simple kurta, a stark departure from the dark ensemble he had worn moments before. Despite the quick change, it was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, his demeanor lighter, his expression softened.

With the new attire came a perceptible shift in his demeanor. Though his eyes retained their piercing intensity, they now harbored emotions distinctly different from before. Gone was the fury and frustration that had simmered just beneath the surface; in its place, a sense of tranquility and serenity enveloped him. It was as though the act of changing clothes had also altered his internal landscape, allowing him to cast aside the burdens of his previous state of mind.