Krishnapriya Devashree

107. Regret

The horse had been running for hours.

Krishna kept his hand steady on the reins, but his jaw was clenched tight, his mind replaying the same moments over and over like a curse he couldn't escape.

Her face. The way she'd looked at him that morning. The devastation in her eyes. He pushed the thought away, but it came back immediately, relentless.

She'd needed time. Space to process her hurt. He'd understood that. Had given her room to breathe, to think. And then, because he was apparently determined to destroy everything good in his life, he'd made it worse.

He'd brought the gopis with him to her father's palace. Not because he wanted them there—because they'd insisted on coming. She'd been walking toward him—finally, after days of silence, she'd been coming to talk to him. He'd seen it in her eyes, the softening, the willingness to try again.

And then she'd seen the gopis behind him.

The shutters had come down over her expression. The softness had vanished, replaced by something cold and hurt and furious. He should have gone after her immediately. Should have followed her, explained, begged forgiveness.

Instead, he'd waited. Had told himself she needed space. Had let hours pass. And now she was gone.

"Take me to her," he'd whispered, running his hand down the horse's neck, his voice breaking slightly. "Please. Take me where you last saw her."

And the horse had run. Through the city, past the gates, into the forest. 

Baldau rode beside him on his own mount, his face grim. His brother had tried to speak to him once during the journey something about how Devashree would be fine, how she was probably just taking a longer ride than usual but Krishna hadn't been able to respond. Because all he could think about was her face. The hurt. The way she'd walked away from him.

What if those were the last words he'd ever said to her? What if she'd ridden out here angry and hurt and distracted, and something had happened, and she'd been hurt thinking he—

No. No, she couldn't be—

The horse was slowing now, his pace dropping from a gallop to a trot, then to a walk. Krishna's eyes scanned the surroundings desperately, searching for any sign...a torn piece of cloth, a footprint, anything.

Please, he thought. Please let her be here. Please let her be safe.

The horse stopped.

Krishna dismounted immediately, his feet hitting the ground before the horse had fully stilled. He looked around, his breath coming faster, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Nothing.

They were in a small clearing surrounded by thick forest. Ancient ruins jutted from the ground, crumbling stone pillars, the remains of what might have once been a temple or fortress

But there was no sign of Shree.

"There's nothing here," Krishna said, and his voice came out strangled. Wrong. This was wrong. The horse had brought him here specifically, had stopped right in this spot, which meant—"She should be here. She has to be here."

The horse stamped her foot and tossed her head, moving toward the center of the ruins.

Krishna followed, and now his movements were frantic. He climbed over fallen stones, peered into shadowed corners, pushed aside vines and vegetation.

"Shree!" he called out, his voice echoing through the trees. "Devashree!"

Only silence answered.

"Devashree!" he called out. "Devashree, please! I know you're angry, but please—we need to talk!"