Royal Flames

The clash of flames and pride

The scent of desert winds carried through the grand Shekhawat Haveli as the golden sun began to sink into the horizon, casting long shadows over the sprawling estate. Rajasthan's timeless beauty was etched into every wall, every corner, every stone of the Haveli. With its towering arches, jharokhas, and carved marble fountains, it was a testament to the Shekhawat family’s centuries-old legacy — a legacy of power, wealth, and unyielding pride.

In the midst of this regal setting, Arya Shekhawat stood by the palace window, gazing out at the vast stretch of land beyond. The air was heavy with anticipation. Today was the day. The annual Rathore-Shekhawat polo match. The battle between the two ancient families, always fought on the polo field but never truly decided there. This year, however, something was different. The tension was thicker, sharper... more personal. It had been brewing for years, but now, it was about to explode.

Arya was no stranger to the fire that burned between her family and the Rathores. It was the kind of fire that heated every word spoken, every glance exchanged. But today, the fire felt different — hotter, more dangerous. And it was all because of one man.

Veer Rathore.

Just the thought of his name sent a rush of heat through her veins. Strong, powerful, infuriating. The man was as wild as the desert itself — untamed, unpredictable, and a force she couldn’t control. Arya’s sharp, intelligent eyes, the same ones that made her the pride of the Shekhawat dynasty, had always held their own against any man — but Veer? Veer had a way of piercing through her defenses like no other.

“Kaise log hai yeh Rathore,” Arya muttered under her breath, her hands tightening into fists. “Hamesha jeetne ki zidd, kabhi apni aukaat nahi samajhte.”

Outside, the sound of horses’ hooves echoed, and Arya knew it was time. She made her way down the marble staircase, each step deliberate, her presence commanding attention as it always did. The Shekhawat men, powerful and poised in their royal turbans and finely embroidered kurtas, turned their heads as she walked past, their gazes lingering on her. Arya had inherited every ounce of grace and fire her family name stood for.

As she reached the courtyard, she could already hear the shouts of excitement from the crowd gathered to watch the match. The sun was beginning its descent, casting an amber hue over the playing field. And there, in the distance, was Veer Rathore. The Rathore prince.

He was a sight to behold. Even from across the field, Arya could feel the pull of his presence. Dressed in a fitted white kurta and tight black breeches, he looked every bit the arrogant prince. His long, dark hair, swept back loosely, and his chiseled jawline made him look like he’d stepped out of one of the countless legends that surrounded the Rathore name. As he swung onto his horse with ease, the world seemed to quiet. He was a man who commanded attention effortlessly.

Arya felt a flicker of irritation as her eyes narrowed. "Yeh Veer Rathore bhi na... kabhi apni zidd chhodta nahi," she muttered to herself. The bastard had a way of making everything about him, even when he wasn’t trying.

But what irritated her the most was how he *knew* it. How he was fully aware of the effect he had on her.

He glanced toward her with a lazy smirk, and in that moment, their gazes locked across the field. Arya’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She hated that he could make her feel this way. He made her feel exposed, vulnerable — feelings she despised in a woman who had been raised to be untouchable.

Veer didn’t look away. The smirk on his lips deepened, and his dark eyes burned with something more dangerous than the blazing sun overhead. “Arya Shekhawat,” he called out, his voice deep, his tone mocking. “I was wondering when you'd grace us with your royal presence.”

Her pulse quickened. She bit back a retort. "Bas apni zindagi mein shaamil karne ka time nahi milta. Tumhaare jaise logon ke saath khubhsurat wakt guzarne ki zarurat nahi," Arya shot back, though the words felt hollow even as she said them.

Veer laughed, the sound rich and deep. "Zarurat nahi hai? Phir bhi hum sabhi tumhare khayalon mein hote hain. Aur tum hamesha humare baare mein sochti ho."

His words hit her like a bolt of lightning, sparking something wild within her. It took everything in Arya not to react, not to let him see how much he had affected her. Instead, she raised her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze with equal intensity. “Tumhare khayal bhi mere dimaag se kabhi nahi nikalte. Aur jaise tumne kaha, hum Shekhawat kabhi kabhi galat nahi hote."

The challenge in her voice was unmistakable. She turned on her heel, walking away with as much grace as she could muster, but her heart was beating far too fast.

Veer’s laugh echoed behind her, sending shivers down her spine.

The game began moments later, and Arya found herself completely distracted by the electric tension between them. With each pass of the ball, each swing of the mallet, she couldn’t ignore the pull of his gaze, always on her, always watching.

As the match neared its end and the Rathores held the upper hand, Arya’s mind wasn’t on the game anymore. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way Veer had looked at her, the way his presence had consumed her — something primal and intense that left her breathless. She cursed herself for even feeling this way.

When the final whistle blew, signifying Rathore’s victory, Arya was ready to leave, but she was stopped in her tracks.

Veer was there, right in front of her. He moved so swiftly, so silently, that she didn’t see him coming. His hand landed on her waist, pulling her closer with a force that stole her breath away.

“Leaving so soon?” he murmured, his voice a heated whisper that sent a thrill running down her spine. His other hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing her cheek with a touch so intimate, it made her pulse race.

Arya’s breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest. She tried to push him away, but his grip was unyielding, possessive. “What do you want, Rathore?” she managed to ask, though her voice faltered.

“I want you,” he whispered, so close now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “I always have.”

Before she could react, Veer leaned in, his lips brushing the side of her ear as he whispered, “This game may be over, but we’re far from finished, Arya.”

A shiver ran through her as he let go, leaving her standing there, breathless, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Fury. Desire. And something darker, something she couldn’t quite put into words.

Veer walked away, his back straight, his steps confident. But Arya knew that this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning. The fire between them would burn hotter, and she would not be able to outrun it.