Chapter: The Morning After the Dream
The clinking of silverware echoed through the long breakfast hall, softened only by the golden light that spilled across the polished floors and sandstone walls. Arav sat at the far end of the table, dressed in a soft ivory kurta, the collar still loose, his usually sharp hair tousled from sleep. His grey eyes were sharper now, though rimmed with the residue of restlessness. He stared into his untouched saffron tea like it might offer answers.
"You look like you fought ten wars last night and lost nine," Raza announced as he strolled in, helping himself to a slice of bread from the table without permission—he never asked.
Arav raised a brow. "Why would you assume I won one?"
Raza smirked, his icy green eyes flashing as he pulled out a chair beside him. "Because that one was probably your ego."
"I hate you in the mornings," Arav muttered, finally tearing a piece of paratha.
"Only in the mornings? I must be losing my touch."
The servants began placing copper bowls filled with dates, honey-glazed figs, and soft cheese between them. A bowl of steamed dumplings from the northern kitchens followed, and Arav reached for one absentmindedly.
Raza tilted his head. "Still thinking of her, aren't you? The girl from bazar… the one from your dreams?"
Arav paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.
Raza leaned back with a knowing grin. "Ah, I knew it. You get this look—like you've misplaced something precious and you're too proud to admit it."
"She was taken," Arav finally said, voice low. "Again, in the dream. I couldn't save her."
There was a stretch of silence between them. Raza, usually flippant, looked at him now with a seriousness rare in his tone.
"Your highness, with all due respect," he said, sipping his tea like it were wine, "maybe you need less sleep."
Arav rolled his eyes. "Thank you for your wisdom, Raza Baba."
"Anytime. I'm considering opening a dream interpretation centre. 'Raza & Ridicule', catchy name, yes?"
But Arav wasn't smiling.
"You know what's strange?" he muttered. "I never see her face clearly. Always her eyes. Always her voice. Always her running from me. Or towards me. And I—" He stopped. "I never reach in time."
Raza's voice lowered. "Maybe you weren't meant to reach her. Not yet."
"And if I'm already too late?"
"You're Arav Rathore. You're never too late," Raza said with a smirk, but there was something in his eyes—sincerity, concern, and something heavier. "Unless breakfast's at stake. Then, maybe."
Arav exhaled through a weak laugh, grateful for the break in tension.
"Eat. Worry about dream girls after you don't faint from hunger," Raza said, nudging a honey-drizzled date toward him. "Or better—leave that saving nonsense to me. You're far too pretty for danger."
"I could kill you," Arav mumbled.
"You've tried."
They shared a look—one that held years of blood, loyalty, battles fought side by side—and now, perhaps, a new war neither of them quite understood yet.
In another life, maybe this morning would have been simple. But for now, it was the quiet before everything else would begin.