The arena echoed with the clash of metal against metal. Maharaja Kathirvelazhagan stood atop the royal balcony, his arms crossed, his eyes scanning the battlefield. His soldiers were in the middle of a training session, but his focus kept drifting. It always did, these days.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Mullaividhura—his Mullaividhura, though she didn't know it. She walked with the confidence of someone who knew war, though in her time, she had likely never held a weapon. And yet, he knew who she had been. Fierce, skilled, a princess in every right. That same fire was still in her, buried beneath the layers of intellect and modernity. But it would surface soon, just as it had done when she first set foot in his court.
She moved to the training grounds, the warriors parting for her. She picked up a sword, testing its weight in her hand. The sight of it tugged at something deep within him—a memory of their past, of her standing beside him on the battlefield, unafraid of bloodshed, always by his side.
A commander approached him. "Maharaja, shall I intervene?"
Kathirvelazhagan raised his hand, silencing the man without a word. His eyes never left Mullaividhura as she swung the blade, each move precise, calculated. She was a natural. His natural-born warrior.
As she moved through the drills, the soldiers began to murmur in awe. Her form was flawless, her strikes lethal. And yet, there was something else there, beneath the surface—a kind of grace that only came from someone who had no need to prove herself.
He smiled faintly. She didn’t know who she was. Not yet.
When she finally finished, she glanced up, catching his eye. For a brief moment, time froze. He could see the question in her eyes, the silent request for approval, though she would never ask it aloud.
He nodded, a small gesture, but one that held the weight of their shared history. She didn’t look away. It was something he cherished—this unspoken understanding between them.
But then, his eyes flickered to the figure beside him. Princess Tharini. A woman who had come from a neighboring kingdom, under the guise of a diplomatic visit. In truth, she was a potential bride—a fact that seemed to amuse Mullaividhura, though she didn't admit it.
“Your Highness,” Tharini’s voice was soft, coaxing. She had seen the way he looked at Mullaividhura. “The lady is quite skilled in combat for someone so… unconventional.”
He smiled politely, masking the unease that settled in his chest. “She is more than skilled.”
Mullaividhura approached the stands, her gaze shifting between him and the princess. He saw it—the flicker of something in her eyes. Jealousy, perhaps? Or was it simply confusion? She wouldn’t allow herself to admit it yet. But that was alright. He was a patient man.
"Your Highness," Mullaividhura greeted him, inclining her head slightly, but not bowing like the others.
He gestured for her to come closer, ignoring the tension from Princess Tharini beside him. He had always given Mullaividhura more freedom, more space, even if she didn’t realize it. “How did you find the exercise?”
She tilted her head, her lips curving slightly. “Your warriors are impressive, but they lack... precision.” She paused, watching his reaction. “Perhaps a firmer hand in training might help.”
A ripple of laughter escaped him before he could stifle it. A firmer hand, indeed. He hadn’t heard such a remark since she last stood beside him on the battlefield, hundreds of years ago.
“And who do you suggest should offer that firm hand?” he asked, raising a brow.
Her eyes sparkled with something akin to mischief. “I would gladly offer my expertise.”
Princess Tharini stiffened, clearly uncomfortable with the casual banter. But Mullaividhura seemed oblivious—or perhaps she simply didn’t care. She had always spoken to him like this, even when others would have cowered under the weight of his authority.
“I shall keep that in mind,” he said, his voice softer than it should have been.
As the conversation lingered, Mullaividhura's eyes drifted toward Tharini, watching the way the princess’s fingers subtly lingered near his arm, the way her gaze clung to him. Something tightened in her chest, something she didn't understand. Her mind whispered that it was irrelevant, that her only goal here was to finish her mission and return to her time. But her heart had other ideas.
And Kathirvelazhagan noticed.
Later that evening, as the feast unfolded in the grand hall, Mullaividhura found herself restless. She had no appetite for the extravagant meal, nor for the company. From where she sat, she could see the way Tharini leaned close to him, her laugh light and tinkling, her hand touching his arm in a way that felt far too familiar. And yet, the king didn't seem to push her away.
She didn’t realize she was frowning until a voice broke her thoughts.
"Does the lady not enjoy the festivities?"
It was him. His deep voice cut through the haze of her thoughts, and when she looked up, she found him standing beside her, his expression unreadable.
“Festivities are not my concern,” she said, her voice sharper than intended.
The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Then what does concern you?”
She hesitated, unsure how to answer. Everything about him, about this time, about the way her heart sped up whenever he was near, concerned her. But she wasn’t ready to admit that.
“Your guest seems... fond of you,” she said instead, her eyes darting toward Tharini, who was still watching them from across the room.
Kathirvelazhagan’s gaze followed hers, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a slow, deliberate move, he reached down and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. The entire hall seemed to quiet as he led her away, out of the watchful eyes of the court, into a secluded garden where the moonlight bathed them in silver.
When he finally released her hand, she felt the absence of his touch like a physical loss.
“Tharini is here for political reasons,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “As a king, I must entertain such alliances.”
She swallowed hard, her emotions swirling. “And as a man?” The words escaped her before she could stop them.
He turned to her then, his eyes dark and intense, filled with something she couldn’t quite name. "As a man," he began, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming, "I care little for alliances."
She felt her breath catch in her throat. His gaze held hers, unwavering, and for a moment, she thought he might say something more, something that would break the careful distance they had both maintained. But instead, he simply reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.
“You have always been different, Mullaividhura,” he whispered, so quietly she wasn’t sure she heard him right. "That hasn't changed."
Before she could respond, he stepped back, his usual composed mask slipping back into place.
"Rest now," he said, his voice returning to its formal tone. "Tomorrow, we resume training. Your expertise, after all, may indeed be needed."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, her heart pounding in her chest, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between them.
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