That night, the moon hung high in the sky, glowing softly like a silver jewel. The breeze carried the scent of blooming jasmine, mingling with the salty air from the distant sea. The palace was quiet, its grand halls resting under the embrace of the night, but in one chamber, sleep had yet to claim its occupant.

Subhadra sat by the open balcony, her gaze fixed on the luminous orb above. The cool night air brushed against her skin as she wrapped her arms around her knees, lost in thought.

It was not unusual for her to be awake at this hour. Ever since childhood, Subhadra had a habit of speaking to the moon—Chandradev, as she often called him in her private musings. Since she was a little girl in Dwarka, she would sneak onto the terrace, whispering her thoughts, joys, and worries to the moon, as if it were an old friend who would listen without judgment. It had become a quiet ritual, a moment of solitude where she could lay bare the emotions she couldn't always express in words.

“Chandradev,” she called out softly, as if the moon were an old friend. “Are you listening?”

The night answered with silence, save for the rustling of leaves outside.

“You always listen, don’t you?” she continued, her voice playful. “You sit there in the sky every night, watching over everyone, hearing all their secrets. I bet you know everything.”

She tilted her head. “Tell me, Chandradev, since you are so wise… what kind of man would love me?”

The moon, of course, did not respond, but Subhadra didn’t mind. She continued speaking, her tone light and teasing.

“Would he be serious and strict, always scolding me when I forget my lessons?” She wrinkled her nose. “No, that would be too dull. I’d grow tired of him in a week.”

She tapped her fingers against the windowsill, pretending to ponder. “Or maybe he would be someone cheerful, always making me laugh… But then, what if he’s so busy making jokes that he forgets to listen to me when I talk? That would be frustrating.”

She sighed dramatically. “I don’t want someone who is too quiet either. Can you imagine, Chandradev? If I talk and talk, and all he does is nod? I would go mad.”

Leaning back, she draped an arm over her forehead as if weighed down by her imaginary problems. “Ah, love is so complicated, and I haven’t even fallen in love yet! How do people choose, Chandradev?”

She peeked at the moon through her fingers. “You must have seen many love stories, haven’t you? Some happy, some tragic… Maybe you know the answer, but you won’t tell me.”

The wind picked up slightly, ruffling the sheer curtains of her chamber. Subhadra narrowed her eyes at the sky.

“Are you laughing at me?” she accused, pointing a finger at the moon. “I think you are! You must be thinking, ‘Look at this girl, worrying about love.’”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, it’s not my fault! Kanha bhaiya tells me all these stories about fate and love, and my bhabhis sometimes tease me about the man I’ll marry someday. How can I not be curious?”

Her pout softened as she rested her cheek against her arms. Her voice turned more thoughtful.

“Will he be someone who understands me, Chandradev?” she murmured.

“Someone who listens when I talk about my silly thoughts? Someone who will be patient when I am stubborn?”

She sighed. “Or maybe he’ll be just as stubborn as me, and we’ll argue all the time.” She smiled at the thought. “That doesn’t sound so bad either.”

The night air was cool against her skin, soothing and gentle. She reached out a hand, tracing the shape of the moon with her fingers.

“I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see, won’t I?”

A yawn escaped her lips, and she rubbed her eyes. “Fine, fine. You win, Chandradev. I’ll stop asking questions you won’t answer.”

She turned away from the window, wrapping her blanket around herself as she settled onto her bed.

“Goodnight,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut.

Her eyelids grew heavy, her body sinking into the warmth of her bed, and soon, sleep wrapped around her like a gentle embrace.

And then—

She was running.

The world around her glowed with an ethereal golden hue, as though the sun itself had come down to kiss the earth. The sky stretched endlessly, its colors shifting between deep amber and soft crimson, painting everything in warmth. A gentle breeze danced around her, tousling her long hair as she ran.

She felt… different. Taller, older. Her movements were fluid, graceful, as if she had lived a thousand moments in this place before. There was a lightness in her steps, a joy that made her laugh—

A laugh that was met with another.

Not hers.

A deep, rich chuckle, filled with warmth and amusement. It sent a shiver down her spine, not of fear, but of something else entirely. A presence was beside her, matching her pace effortlessly. She knew he was there, felt his energy, strong and unwavering, yet when she turned her head—

His face was blurred.

She frowned slightly, trying to focus, but the golden light concealed him like a veil, revealing only glimpses—a broad back, a strong stance, the way his dark hair shifted with the wind. He felt so familiar, yet so unknown, like a melody she had heard in a dream but couldn’t place.

And yet, she wasn’t afraid.

If anything, she wanted to run closer, to chase the laughter in his voice, to touch the presence that felt like it had always been a part of her.

Then, suddenly—

A hand.

It reached out, swift and sure, fingers wrapping around her wrist in a firm yet gentle grip.

She gasped, her breath catching in her throat as she stumbled slightly, but the hold on her wrist steadied her, grounding her. It wasn’t rough or forceful. No, it was deliberate. Protective. Certain.

A touch that held meaning.

The moment their skin met, something deep within her stirred—something raw, something ancient. The golden world around them pulsed like a heartbeat, as if acknowledging a truth she did not yet understand.

Heat spread through her chest, curling around her ribs and settling deep in her bones. His touch sent a shiver through her, not of cold, but of something dangerously close to longing.

She didn’t pull away.

She couldn’t.

Her gaze flickered down to where his hand clasped hers—large, strong, calloused from battle, yet incredibly careful. It held her with the perfect balance of possessiveness and tenderness, as if he had no intention of letting go, yet feared holding on too tightly.

Her pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips, her heart hammering in her chest.

Why did this feel so right?

Why did this feel like fate?

She swallowed, opening her mouth to speak—to ask who he was, to demand why her heart reacted this way—but before she could, the dream began to slip.

No.

Not yet.

She tried to hold onto it, to cling to the warmth of his touch, to chase the laughter in his voice, but the golden light was fading. The world around her blurred, melting into nothingness, and the fingers around her wrist slowly loosened.

No!

She reached out, desperate, but all she grasped was air.

The warmth disappeared.

The laughter became an echo.

The dream dissolved into darkness.

And then—silence.

Subhadra’s eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, she remained still, her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to gather herself. The dream still clung to her mind, lingering like a whisper she could barely grasp. The golden light, the laughter, the warmth—it had all felt so real.

She blinked, allowing the cool silver glow of the moonlight to bring her back to the present. The familiar sight of her chamber greeted her—her soft silk sheets, the intricate carvings on the wooden pillars, the scent of jasmine drifting in from the garden. And yet, something within her felt different, as though the dream had left an imprint on her very soul.

Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted them, staring at her open palms.

That hand.

The way it had held her, not as a restraint, not as a fleeting touch, but as something certain—unshaken, unyielding. It was as though it had known her before she had even known herself.

A shiver ran down her spine, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the night air or the strange feeling curling within her chest.

And then, as if guided by instinct, she moved.

She threw off the covers, her bare feet touching the cool marble floor as she hurried across the room. Her fingers found the edge of her painting tools, pulling them into her grasp with urgency. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts—just the overwhelming need to capture what she had seen before it slipped away completely.

She settled onto the floor, her brush dipping into the ink with practiced ease. And then, she began.

Stroke by stroke, the image in her mind took shape.

Not his face—no, that remained veiled in golden light, elusive, hidden from her no matter how hard she tried to recall.

But his hand—that she remembered with perfect clarity.

It was strong, defined, calloused yet gentle, fingers curled just enough to hold but never to restrain. The way it had wrapped around her wrist, firm yet tender, had left an imprint on her skin even in waking.

She poured herself into the painting, her hands steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. Every detail mattered—the shape of his knuckles, the veins beneath the surface, the faintest hint of a scar etched along the skin. She did not know why she remembered that particular detail, but it felt right. It felt true.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

She didn’t stop until she was satisfied, until the hand on the canvas felt as real as the one that had held her in the dream.

And then, finally, she set the brush down.

She sat back on her heels, gazing at the painting with wide eyes.

Her own hand trembled as she reached out, tracing the outline of the fingers she had so carefully painted.

A strange feeling settled in her chest.

She did not know who he was.

She did not know when—or if—she would ever meet him.

To be continued