By the time dawn painted pale gold across the fort's domes, Meera could still hear his voice echoing through her thoughts like water over stone. She sat in the women's pavilion wrapped in a shawl of pale lilac, her tea untouched, gaze unfocused as the scent of cardamom drifted from the cup. Chanda's voice cut through her silence.
"You should rest, Rajkumari. You have court at noon."
"I dreamt the song again," Meera murmured.
Chanda blinked. "The same one?"
Meera nodded, lifting the cup to her lips but not drinking. "But this time... he was there. Veer."
Chanda frowned. "Princess, the man is a poet, a slave—"
"Do you believe dreams come from nothing?" Meera interrupted softly.
The handmaiden hesitated. "No. But they can deceive. And you're to be wed in spring."
Ah yes. The marriage. Political, of course. A prince from a far-off desert kingdom, one whose face Meera had never seen and whose name she only remembered when forced. It was duty. And she had always been dutiful. Until now.
In the training grounds near the eastern walls, Veer practiced sword forms in secret at dawn. The rusted blade was stolen from a soldier's castoffs, its balance uneven, the grip worn — but it was familiar. Like an old scar.
He swung not for rebellion, but remembrance. Of who he was. Of the brothers he'd buried. Of the queen whose eyes haunted him now — though he dared not think her that. She was royalty. He was chained breath.
But the look she had given him the night before — it had struck like lightning.
He sang again that night, but the song was different. He did not know why until she came to him once more, veiled, her eyes rimmed in kohl, her steps hesitant but drawn.
"You changed the tune," Meera said.
"I woke with a new verse," he said.
They stood in silence for a while, the night deep around them, jasmine heavy in the air. Above them, the stars spun quietly.
"What do you see when you look at me?" she asked suddenly.
Veer turned to her, his voice low. "A mirror. Of something I've searched lifetimes for."
She exhaled, her posture unraveling like silk in the breeze. "You shouldn't speak like that."
"But I do."
Meera stepped closer. "I am not just a princess. I am property of the state, a coin in the treasury of diplomacy. They say my worth lies in my womb and how many heirs it might yield."
Veer looked down. "Then they are blind."
She reached out, hesitated, then touched his wrist. His skin was warm. The point of contact sparked like fire. He flinched, but did not move away.
"I know this is madness," she whispered. "But I feel as though we were not meeting for the first time."
Veer's voice was hoarse. "Perhaps we never said goodbye."
She let out a soft laugh, broken. "You speak like you were born with a poet's heart."
"I was born with a soldier's grief. The poetry came after."
A hush settled between them. Then Meera whispered, "I want to know you. Not just the singer under the banyan tree. But the man."
"Then come again tomorrow. And bring questions."
She did. And again the day after. And the next.
They spoke of books, of lost cities, of constellations and the gods' cruelty. Veer told her of his mother, a healer slain during the siege. Meera told him of her younger brother, killed in a hunting accident — or so the official tale went.
He showed her how to write couplets in the Malwa tongue. She showed him the secret inscriptions behind the temple shrine, left by queens long dead.
With each night, their bond deepened, delicate and dangerous. Beneath the banyan's boughs, time became a myth. Only stolen moments existed.
But in the palace, whispers had begun.
"Have you noticed how often the princess vanishes?"
"The slave-poet sings differently these days."
"It reeks of folly. And scandal."
One dusk, Meera came with her veil drawn low. Veer could feel her tension.
"They know," she said.
His jaw tightened. "Then I should flee."
"No." She gripped his arm. "They've not named you. Not yet. But they will. You must be careful."
"Why do you come, Meera?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Why risk your name for a man with nothing?"
She looked at him, fierce. "Because I am more than my name. And you are not nothing."
For a moment, she was not a princess. He was not a slave. There was no war, no walls, no death-songs in the sand. There was only this — the burning echo of recognition. Of something older than this life.
He kissed her hand.
She closed her eyes.
And the desert wind howled like it had seen this before.