The throne room had grown colder — not from winter winds, but from the weight of truths finally unearthed.
At the center, the scroll once sealed in holy gold now lay torn across the marble like an accusation. The fragments of the prophecy—long regarded as divine—glistened like broken promises under the stained-glass light.
Vivaan stood still. Silent. The wind hissed through the narrow windows, rattling the glass like the palace itself trembled with dread.
From behind the dais, Minister Ravindra stepped forward, his voice sharp as a drawn blade.
"You have built kingdoms on a lie."
Gasps rang out like arrows loosed from invisible bows. Whispers followed — uncertain, dangerous. Eyes turned to Sitara, but her face remained unreadable. Only the storm in her gaze betrayed her rage.
Vivaan didn't kneel. Not now. Not when everything that had crowned him was unraveling like a broken coronation chant.
Instead, he stepped forward, eyes burning.
"Then let it burn."
No one breathed.
And yet, in the farthest corner of the hall, where shadows touched ancient stone, some swore they saw a figure watching — veiled in silk, eyes like embers.
That night, Sitara wandered alone into the temple ruins, the sanctum where her mother once prayed.
Her hand traced the cracked mosaics, fingers trembling.
Then the vision struck.
Cold. Violent.
She saw Padmavati, radiant once, now weary and disheveled, standing at the palace gates — pregnant, rain soaking her shawl, begging to be heard.
"Please," Padma had cried, voice breaking. "You know the truth. The child… she is the fire the prophecy spoke of!"
But behind the barred gates, in velvet robes and a cold smile, the second brother stood — already holding a new scroll. A forged truth.
"Love makes terrible heirs," he whispered. "But war... war crowns them."
Sitara collapsed to her knees in the real world, her breath ragged, tears cutting down her cheeks like ink on parchment.
"They rewrote us," she choked. "They erased love and called it treason."
Days passed. Silence grew between her and Vivaan like ivy on crumbling stone.
She found him in the old observatory, under the sky's relentless stare. Alone, again.
He turned — and her resolve crumbled.
Tears fell. From her right eye. From his left.
Vivaan stepped forward, voice hollow.
"Why one eye?"
Sitara's voice was barely a breath.
"Aren't only one of us meant to wear the crown?"
He looked shattered. "So we're only ever... half. Incomplete unless we're together."
She didn't respond.
Vivaan's hands curled into fists. He turned and punched the mirrored wall — glass exploding, blood running down his fingers like petals in the wind.
"Why do you hurt yourself for me?" she cried, rushing forward.
"Because you never let me carry your pain!" he shouted back, voice breaking.
Her hands trembled as she cleaned the wound, blood blooming across the cloth like the truth she kept trying to hide.
He studied her — the dark beneath her eyes, the weight in her bones.
"You're dying from the inside out, Sitara," he whispered. "Don't you see it?"
She couldn't speak. But he didn't wait.
His hand found her waist, the other tangling in her hair. She gasped, the air caught in her throat.
Their lips brushed — once, hesitantly. Again, deeper. Then collided, fierce and frantic.
"Stop— I can't breathe—" she managed between kisses.
Vivaan smirked, breathless.
"You have a nose for that, don't you?"
She swatted at him, cheeks burning, but couldn't suppress the smile curling at the edges.
He leaned in again, eyes darker now. Serious.
"You pretend you don't crave this. But you do. The darkness. Me."
She trembled. Not with fear. But with knowing.
He leaned closer, breath warming her neck.
"You're not the shadow, Sitara. You're the fire hidden inside it."
Then —
The air shifted.
Smoke curled beneath the observatory door. Not from fire. From something else.
Slow. Serpentine. The scent of ancient incense and old blood.
The mirror behind them pulsed. Then cracked.
A voice — inhuman, cold — filled the chamber:
"The throne bleeds. The past awakens."
Sitara froze. The warmth between them evaporated. Dread crawled over her skin like frost.
Vivaan's body tensed. He reached for her.
She stepped back.
Her eyes burned — not soft now, but blazing.
Love. Terror. Fury.
"They made us enemies," she whispered.
Silence.
Then her voice, sharp and unflinching:
"But I swear on the ashes of my mother… I will burn them all before they rewrite us again."
The mirror cracked once more — deep, final.
And from the smoke, something moved.