Ishan stood frozen near the bangle stall.

His heart was still racing from Shubman, leaving abruptly.

Then—

Two familiar voices behind the silk tent.

Soft. Urgent.

Shanvi.

And Aarav.

Shanvi

Aarav

Their love had always been hidden.

Because Sitapuram and Devi Puram were rivals.

Sitapuram

Devi Puram

Politics demanded hatred.

But love does not obey borders.

Ishan knew about them from the beginning.

He had protected their secret silently.

He was about to step toward them—

To warn them.

When it happened.

A flash of steel.

A sharp sound.

A choked gasp.

The blade plunged into Aarav’s stomach.

For one second, no one understood what they were seeing.

Then—

Blood.

Aarav collapsed to his knees.

Shanvi screamed.

The sound tore through the fair.

Music stopped.

Crowd parted.

Panic began.

Ishan’s breath stopped.

Ishan: “Aarav ji !”

He stepped forward—

But before he could reach them—

Pain exploded through his side.

A knife.

Cold.

Merciless.

He didn’t even see who held it.

His body weakened instantly.

The ground rushed up to meet him.

Across the crowd—

Shubman saw him fall.

Shubman: “Ishan!”

He ran.

Forgetting crown.

Forgetting kingdom.

Forgetting everything.

On one side—

Shanvi held Aarav, her hands soaked in blood, sobbing.

On the other—

Ishan lay on the earth, red spreading beneath him.

The festival lights flickered wildly as chaos erupted.

Shubman dropped to his knees beside Ishan.

He reached out—

But a firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

Veerendra: “Rajkumar!”

It was his father.

King Veerendra

Veerendra: “durr rahiye is paapi se”

Shubman:  “Chhodiye mujhe!”

Shubman shouted, trying to pull away.

Guards surrounded them.

And then—

Across the royal platform—

Two figures stood watching.

The King of Devi Puram.

King Rudransh

And Shubman’s father.

Their expressions were calm.

Satisfied.

This was not chaos.

This was planned.

The fair was a stage.

The knives were scripted.

Aarav — heir of Sitapuram.

Ishan — the symbol of gay love.

Both were removed.

A silent warning to the kingdoms:

Enemies remain enemies.

Love that crosses lines is rebellion.

And rebellion is punished.

And boy love and dare to love enemy.

Is death.

The villagers watched in horror.

Not understanding the politics.

Only seeing blood.

Shubman broke free for a second and crawled toward Ishan.

Shubman: “Ishan… aankhen kholo…”

Ishan’s vision blurred.

Ishan smiled at Shubman in pain.

Tears rolled from eyes.

The lights above him looked like stars.

He tried to speak.

But blood filled his mouth.

Somewhere in the chaos—

A strange wind rose again.

It's stronger than before.

The torches bent violently.

The air grew unnaturally cold.

From the edge of the crowd—

A shadow watched.

Unseen.

Unshaken.

Amarjevan eyes were no longer calm.

They were burning.

The melody of Pasangmarag echoed faintly in the wind.

Something ancient had been awakened.

The kings thought this was the end.

But storms do not begin with thunder.

They begin with silence.

And tonight—

The silence had been shattered.

The air changed before anyone understood why.

A sharp, bittersweet fragrance drifted across the blood-soaked fair.

Saptapari.

The scent was ancient. Ritualistic. Forbidden.

It was said that whenever that fragrance filled the air, a divine presence was watched.

High above the trembling torches—

She was there.

Unseen by kings.

Unseen by guards.

Unseen by the crying crowd.

But seen by one.

Amar jevan.

Madhuri Sundari Devi and  Her laughter moved like wind through dry leaves.

Soft. Amused. Cruel.

Two lovers bleeding.

Two kingdoms trembling.

Two fathers are playing war.

To her, it was only a game.

A punishment to love so deeply someone.

At the edge of chaos stood Amarjevan.

Amarjevan

He did not look shocked.

He did not cry.

He looks like he knows this is going to happen.

He closed his eyes.

And began chanting.

The mantra floated into the air, steady and powerful, challenging something unseen.

The wind twisted violently.

For a moment—

It felt like time would bend.

Like death might hesitate.

But nothing happened.

The blood kept flowing.

Aarav lay lifeless in Shanvi’s lap.

Ishan lay still in Shubman’s trembling arms.

The goddess laughed once more—

And the scent faded.

---

Guards dragged Shanvi away from Aarav’s body.

She screamed.

Her father gripped her wrist so tightly it bruised.

Shanvi

Rudransh: “baas !” he roared.

The crowd fell silent.

The King of Mahabaleshgarh stepped forward beside him.

King Veerendra

King Rudransh: “kal subha ”

Shanvi’s father declared,

Veerendra: “Shubman and Shanvi ki shaadi kar wahi jayega,  sab ko mimantran rahe ga ”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

King Rudransh: “kuch nahi badle ga ,” he continued coldly.

King Rudransh: “na waade, na niyaam.”

It was not a wedding announcement.

It was a warning.

To villagers.

To everyone.

To anyone who thought love was stronger than power.

Shubman did not respond.

He was still kneeling beside Ishan.

His hands stained red.

His world is silent.

---

The Next Morning

The palace was unnaturally quiet.

No wedding music.

No celebration.

Only forced preparation.

Then—

A scream echoed through the royal corridors.

Servants ran.

Doors were broken open.

Two rooms.

Two bodies.

In separate chambers.

Shubman.

Shanvi.

Both are lifeless.

No struggle marks.

No poison cups overturned.

Just stillness.

Between Shubman’s fingers—

A small container of sindoor.

The same sindoor he had once hesitated to use.

The same sindoor he had secretly thought of placing on Ishan’s forehead.

Not as politics.

Not as duty.

But as a choice.

It lay spilled beside him.

Red against cold marble.

In Shanvi’s room—

A folded cloth stained with tears.

And a letter unfinished.

---

The kingdoms did not change.

The kings did not apologize.

The laws did not bend.

The fair was declared “tragic misfortune.”

But whispers began in villages.

Of betrayal.

Of forbidden love.

Of a prince who chose death over obedience.

And somewhere in the forest—

The wind carried that same faint melody.

Pasangmarag.

Soft.

Unfinished.

Amarjevan stood beneath the trees once more.

Amarjevan: "agar ap sab ko lagta hai ki ap jeet gaye toh galat hai Sab, ab nahi toh baad mein, niyam ke door mein kab tak band enge  sab ko."

His face is calm.

But his eyes are no longer patient.

The game was not over.

The goddess had made her move.

Now—

Someone else would.

Because while power had silenced four beating hearts—

It had awakened something far more dangerous.

Memory.

प्रीत की लत मोहे ऐसी लागी

हो गई मैं मतवारी

बल बल जाऊँ अपने पिया को

हे मैं जाऊँ वारी वारी

The end

( to be continue....)

Bonus :

National Library, 20th Century India

The ceiling fans hummed lazily above rows of wooden tables.

Dust floated in golden beams of afternoon light cutting through tall colonial windows. The air smelled of paper, ink, and something older—like forgotten stories refusing to die.

At the far end of the reading hall, a boy sat alone.

A thick historical volume lay open before him.

Its final chapter described four deaths.

Two princes.

Two forbidden lovers.

A fair that became a massacre.

A wedding that became a funeral.

Power had survived.

Love had not.

The boy’s fingers rested on the last line for a long time.

> “Nothing changed. Only four innocent hearts stopped beating.”

He closed the book slowly.

The thud echoed louder than it should have.

For a moment, something stirred inside him—an ache he couldn’t explain.

As if he had not just read the story…

But remembered it.

He stood up, sliding the chair back quietly.

Turning around—

He bumped straight into someone taller.

Books nearly slipped from both their hands.

A calm, deep voice spoke.

“Second year?”

The boy blinked.

“Haan…”

“Name?”

He swallowed.

“Ishan.”

The man adjusted his spectacles slightly.

“Professor Shubman.”

For a second—

The world felt strangely still.

As if somewhere far away—

A forgotten melody had started playing again.

_________________________________________