Veeran’s blade crashed against the post again.
And again.
And again.
The training ground echoed with the sound of wood cracking, the cries of soldiers training, and the deep breath of a prince who had not slept since the moon last waned.
The *bracelet* was gone.
His mind should have been on form. Balance. Battle rhythm.
Instead—his thoughts spun around one thing:
*A boy in a moonlit garden.*
His hair loose.
His voice like riverlight.
His hands trembling when they touched Veeran’s.
---
“Prince,” a voice said gently.
General Senkathir stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms folded, face unreadable.
“You’ve struck the same post twenty-seven times.”
Veeran said nothing.
“You’ve been silent for two days.”
Still silence.
“You’re bleeding.”
Veeran looked down. His hand was cut. His grip had been too tight around the hilt.
“…It doesn’t matter,” Veeran finally said.
But Senkathir walked closer. “Your father will announce your engagement soon.”
Veeran stiffened.
“He waits for your approval,” the general added, softer this time. “You still have time.”
Time.
As if that word hadn’t already shattered when he saw Arjunan turn and walk away from his outstretched hand.
---
Veeran left the field just before dusk.
He needed silence. Not a court of whispers. Not a father’s eye.
He walked toward the shrine corridor, one hand wrapped in cloth.
The corridor was empty.
Or it should have been.
He saw **a blur of white and gold vanish behind a column**.
He stopped.
He didn’t call out. He just stood there, chest rising slowly.
The air smelled of jasmine and dried ink.
He didn't need to see the face.
He knew that **Arjunan** had passed this way moments ago.
He wanted to run after him.
He didn’t.
He walked the other way, heart loud in his ears.
---
Later, in his chambers, Veeran bathed in silence.
Servants came and went. He dismissed them all.
He stared at his sword leaning against the wall.
Not touching it.
Just breathing.
*“I am not supposed to feel this way.”*
*“He is not mine to want.”*
He touched his wrist where the bracelet used to be.
The skin there felt colder.
He remembered Arjunan’s voice under the rain.
> *“I’m sorry.”*
> *“For what?”*
> *“I don’t know.”*
Veeran had said he wasn’t sorry.
But now... he was.
Not for the feeling. But for the *world* that made him bury it.
--
He fed the palace tiger himself that night.
Its golden eyes watched him quietly, as if it knew what gnawed at his ribs.
He sat beside the beast, fingers stroking its fur absently.
“If I touch him again,” he whispered, “I won’t be able to stop.”
The tiger’s tail flicked.
Veeran closed his eyes.
“I don’t think he wants me to stop.”
---
Just before the moon rose, **Thamizhi** came to him.
She didn’t bow. She didn’t smile.
“I saw how you looked at him,” she said, her arms folded.
Veeran said nothing.
“I saw how he looks when you’re not there.”
Still nothing.
“I’m not here to stop you,” she said. “But I am here to say—don’t make him wait if you’re only going to break him.”
Veeran finally spoke.
“I don’t want to break him.”
“Then don’t stand still while he burns.”
She turned to leave.
“Thamizhi.”
She paused.
He swallowed. “Does he… Does he say anything? About me?”
She didn’t turn around. But her voice was soft.
> “He doesn’t have to. He carries you in his silence.”
Then she was gone.
---
That night, Veeran stood at his window.
Across the garden, through the veil of moonlight and trees, he saw **a figure moving softly**—barefoot.
Arjunan.
Alone.
Veeran placed his hand on the cold glass between them.
And whispered his name.
> “Arjunan.”
He didn’t shout it.
Didn’t open the door.
Didn’t run to him.
But for the first time, he said the name aloud.
Like a confession.
Like a surrender.
The moon didn’t answer.
But the ache in his chest did.
---
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