𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧

72⚚ Her King

Author POV:

The sacred mantras of the priest flowed like an ancient river... steady, deep, timeless. The flames in the havan kund flickered, casting a golden glow on Amaira's face, painting her in the light of divinity.

Viraj sat beside her, their hands joined, not loosely, but firmly, as if that bond itself was a vow. Every now and then, their eyes would lift toward the priest when they had to repeat a chant, but more often than not, they glanced at each other, silently communicating more than words ever could.

Behind them, the brothers sat with still shoulders, eyes glistening.

They had seen everything, the dizzy heights of Amaira and Viraj's joy and the brutal lows of trials that would have shattered anyone else.

They had seen betrayals disguised as loyalty, nights when wounds... emotional and physical, bled together, and moments when the two could have walked away... but didn't.

Because their love was never made of convenience.
It was forged in storms.
Tested in fire.
And crowned in trust.

And now, under the open sky, with the fire between them and the blessings of their ancestors above, it was being sanctified.

When the priest's chants slowed and his voice rose, signaling the next step, Viraj's gaze flicked briefly to Amaira. Without a word, he rose, slow, steady, and turned to her, offering his hand.

His movements were deliberate, protective.

Amaira accepted it, her small fingers curling into his. She rose with grace, one hand cradling her belly, the other still firmly in his grip.

Ruhi stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly but her face glowing with joy. As per tradition, she took the edge of Amaira's bridal dupatta and Viraj's shawl, tying them together in a secure, sacred knot.

The knot was not just fabric—it was lineage, promise, and eternity.

Viraj's lips quirked into the smallest smile as he slid his pinky finger against Amaira's, looping it around hers. He gave it the lightest squeeze.

His eyes said, "I'm here. Every step."

Amaira's lips curved into a soft, luminous smile, her gaze locking with his. She tilted her head just slightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her nod was subtle but full of love—her silent reply.

"I am fine, Vijulu."

Viraj gave her a small smile and gently ushered her in front of him. Everyone looked at him in confusion, wondering why the groom would let his bride lead.

Amaira, still holding his hand, leaned in and whispered softly, "You have to lead the first four rounds, hubby." Her voice was meant for him alone.

But Viraj's heart swelled, and instead of agreeing, he reached his free hand up to gently pat her head. His voice was low but clear enough for those near the mandap to hear, rich with emotion.

"In every life I could ever live, my place will always be behind you, my love."

"You are my path, my light, my purpose. Leading you is not my wish... following you is my devotion. The fire may be our witness tonight, but my soul has always known that my dharm, my vow, is to walk wherever your feet take me."

"My crown may call me king... but in truth, I am only your mere worshipper. And all I do in this lifetime is follow you, I will die a fulfilled man."

Amaira's eyes shimmered instantly, her throat tightening. She know her lovesick man was hopelessly, unshakably hers—but every time he bared his soul like this, it made her heart ache in the most beautiful way.