The silence of the palace was always a deceptive thing.

Rhea had lived in it long enough to understand that silence was not the absence of sound—it was the weight of waiting.

The palace did not rest. It watched. It listened. It whispered.

And tonight, it was doing all three.

She exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face as she shut the door behind her.

The weight of travel had not yet left her bones. Dust still clung to her skin, the scent of the road still lingering in her hair. She had returned.

But Hastinapura was never the same after you left it.

It was alive, shifting, always changing—and yet, utterly still in the places that mattered.

She had barely stepped out of her cloak before the uneasy sensation settled over her.

A weight. A prickle along the back of her neck.

A presence.

Her fingers stilled.

Her heart did not.

She did not turn. Not yet.

She listened.

The air in the room had changed. It was thicker, heavier, charged with something almost electric.

And then—

A whisper of movement.

So faint, so deliberate that most people would not have caught it.

But she was not most people.

Someone was here.

Rhea was not alone.

She turned swiftly, eyes searching the shadows—and then she saw him.

A shape in the dim glow of the dying lamps.

No. Not a shape.

A man.

Standing at the far end of her chambers, half-shrouded in darkness, watching her with the ease of someone who had been there long enough to know she would eventually notice him.

A slow, deliberate invasion of space.

He was tall—broader than she expected. A figure carved from shadow and quiet power, standing in a place he had no right to be.

Rhea did not startle.

She did not reach for a weapon.

She met his gaze—challenged it.

"You have three seconds," she said, voice low, steady, dangerous, "to tell me why you're here before I scream loud enough to wake the entire palace."

A pause.

Then—a chuckle.

Deep, low, almost amused.

"As if that would stop me."

The quiet confidence in his tone sent a slow pulse through her veins.

Rhea's jaw clenched. "You seem very sure of yourself for a man who has just walked into a death trap."

He hummed, stepping forward. "A death trap? That's dramatic, even for you."

"Then you haven't been paying attention."

His movements were slow. Purposeful. Measured.

Not cautious. Assured.

Like a man who had walked through fire before and had no fear of getting burned.

"You shouldn't be here," she bit out.

"And yet," he murmured, "here I am."

Another step.

A shift in the air—like the slow pull of a bowstring drawn just to the point before release.

Her pulse was steady, but she could feel the way her breath hitched.

Not fear. Something else.

"You followed me," she said, voice careful, measured.

He tilted his head. "Did I?"

"Yes."

His smirk was slow. "Or maybe I was already here, waiting."

Her fingers twitched. "For what?"

His gaze flickered. Once.

"Do you really want to know?"

The way he said it—it was not a question.

It was a dare.

Rhea exhaled through her nose. "You're playing a dangerous game."

His smirk widened, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "I do love danger."

The tension coiled, wrapping itself around them, pulling tight.

Her back hit the edge of the table.

She hadn't even realized she had moved.

Or—more accurately—that he had made her move.

His hand came up—too fast, too sure.

Fingers curling around her wrist, gripping, steadying.

Not rough.

Not gentle.

Just... firm.

The contact sent a bolt of heat through her skin, sharp and unwelcome.

Her breath stilled.

She should have pulled away.

Should have demanded answers. Should have fought.

Instead—she held his gaze.

And that—that was the real problem.

Because he let her.

His grip did not tighten, did not loosen.

Just held.

Waiting.

A silent challenge.

Her pulse thundered against his fingers.

"You don't know who you're playing with," she warned.

His smile was slow, dark. "Neither do you."

And then—he moved.

Fast.

Her wrist was snatched from her control, spun in an instant—

and suddenly, she was caged.

His arm came up, pressing her against the edge of the table—not hard, not painful, but controlled.

His other hand braced beside her, fingers resting lightly on the wood, trapping her in a way that was unmistakably deliberate.

Heat radiated from his body, the scent of sandalwood and steel thick in the air between them.

Her breath hitched.

Not from fear.

From awareness.

He leaned in, just enough that she could feel the shift of his breath.

"You're not afraid of me," he murmured.

It wasn't a question.

It was fact.

Rhea swallowed, hating how her heart slammed against her ribs.

She should be.

But she wasn't.

Her fingers curled into fists. "If I were afraid, you wouldn't be standing."

He laughed. Soft. Dark.

"That's what I like about you."

She gritted her teeth. "Let. Go."

His fingers flexed against her wrist—just for a moment.

Then—a knock.

Sharp. Loud. Immediate.

Rhea's eyes darted to the door—only for a second.

When she looked back—

He was gone.

Vanished like a breath of wind.

Not a whisper of movement. Not a sound.

Nothing but the lingering heat on her wrist and the fading scent of him in the air.

Her breath came quick, sharp, uneven.

What the hell had just happened?

Her fingers pressed against her wrist where his hand had been—feeling the warmth, the phantom imprint of his touch.

She had felt him.

And now he was gone.

The knock came again.

Louder.

More impatient.

She exhaled, dragging a hand down her face.

The game was not over.

It had just begun.