The first clash of steel broke the silence of the dawn like thunder cracking the sky. Veer stood beneath the sandstone archway of the fort, sword in hand, his breath shallow, his stance wide. The dust rose in swirls as the first of the soldiers dismounted, eyes gleaming with ambition and steel.
They had come for blood and glory.
And he would give them neither.
Meera, her heart pounding like war drums, crouched behind the temple wall, clutching the small bundle Veer had given her the night before. Her fingers trembled around the carved flute he had pressed into her palm—their promise in polished wood. The last thing she saw before fleeing into the corridors of the fort was Veer turning to face the storm alone.
The soldiers advanced with the confidence of those who believed their victory assured. Veer, once a mere poet, moved with the deadly grace of one forged in purpose. His blade flashed in wide arcs, catching the morning light like fire. Two men fell before they had even raised their swords.
But he was one against many.
The clash was brutal. Blades screamed as they met, and dust churned beneath stomping boots. Veer dodged and struck, his every movement echoing with precision. Yet for every opponent he felled, another came forth, fueled by the scent of coin and conquest.
Meera ran.
The corridors whispered around her—the ghosts of the fort seeming to mourn as she passed. Her veil tangled in branches of a dying tree, her steps uneven in the shifting sand. The weight of the bundle grew heavier with every stride. Her tears blurred the path ahead.
She reached the crumbling eastern wall, scaled it with scraped palms and breathless gasps. The world beyond was a sea of golden dunes. The path to the mystic grove lay just ahead—half a day's journey by foot, or longer if the wind turned cruel.
But she could not go.
Her feet moved, but her soul remained at the fort, tethered by memory and fear. Every clang of metal, carried faintly on the wind, stabbed at her heart. She knew Veer was still fighting. Knew that if she hesitated, he would die for nothing.
But love anchors the heart even when the body flees.
She paused at the edge of a dry ravine and turned back. The fort was just a silhouette now, its towers blurred by heat and distance. Smoke coiled faintly into the sky. Meera collapsed to her knees, clutching the flute to her chest, and wept.
Back in Kuldhara, Veer's arms ached. His tunic clung to him, soaked in sweat and blood. Five men now lay still behind him. He was breathing hard, wounds blooming red across his shoulder and thigh.
But he smiled.
Every breath he took meant Meera had another moment to run. Every sword he deflected bought her more time.
From behind a column, the captain of the guards stepped forth, heavier than the rest, his armor glinting like a serpent's scales. "You fight well… for a fugitive."
Veer steadied his blade. "I fight for love. That's stronger than your gold."
The captain circled. "And what will love buy you when your heart's been cut out?"
Veer's smile did not falter. "Immortality."
They charged. Veer ducked the first swing, drove his blade toward the captain's ribs, but the man was swift—parrying with brutal force. The sound rang through the courtyard. Sparks flew.
They clashed again. Dust rose around them like a curtain. Veer's strength began to fade. Pain pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
At last, he was disarmed—his sword knocked from his grip, skidding across the stone floor.
The captain raised his blade, but Veer—unflinching—reached for the dagger hidden in his boot.
Then came a whistle.
A sweet, sharp note.
The flute.
From the distance.
The captain hesitated.
Veer seized the moment. His dagger flew, striking true—into the gap between plates of armor. The captain staggered back, choking on blood, before collapsing like a broken idol.
Veer didn't wait. He limped to retrieve his sword, turned toward the western gate. Soldiers still blocked his escape, but their captain was dead, and their morale shattered.
He raised his sword one last time.
"For Meera."
And he charged.
Behind the dunes, Meera lowered the flute from her lips, tears still tracing her cheeks. She didn't know if he had heard. But she had played.
She had kept her promise.
The wind shifted.
Somewhere behind her, fate held its breath.
To be continued...