The sun had set on the royal palace of Aryagarh, and the evening festivities were about to begin. A special occasion had been called by the Maharaj to celebrate the return of his son, Vivaan Vikramasena, as Crown Prince. The palace buzzed with anticipation. The royal court had gathered, dressed in their finest, eager to witness the prince's first formal engagement since his return. But one unexpected guest would steal the attention — Sitara.
Sitara, the young woman from the red-light district, had long captured the curiosity of the court with her beauty, her mysterious past, and the rumors that swirled around her. She was a known performer, though she had made it clear she would never entertain the royal court in the way they expected. Sitara was not a courtesan in the traditional sense. She had no interest in offering her body for gold. Instead, she demanded respect for her art, her voice, and her unmatched talent in dance.
As Maharaj Vikramasena greeted his guests and prepared to announce the evening's festivities, his eyes fell on the girl he had invited. He had heard whispers of her reputation — how her performances could hold an audience in rapturous silence. He wanted to test her in front of his son, to see how Vivaan, with all his experience and cold demeanor, would react to this enigmatic girl from the streets.
The heavy palace doors creaked open, and Sitara stepped inside, her presence commanding attention the moment she entered. Dressed in a deep crimson silk robe, embroidered with gold thread, she exuded both grace and strength. Her dark hair was pulled back into an intricate braid that cascaded down her back, and her eyes — sharp and cold — scanned the room, taking in the faces of the courtiers, the noblemen, the foreign diplomats, and, most importantly, Vivaan.
The instant their eyes met, it was as if the world had paused.
She knew him. Vivaan Vikramasena.
Her heart skipped, the inexplicable feeling from their encounter in the garden returning with a rush. There was something about him she had never been able to shake. And here he was — tall, imposing, silent — meeting her gaze with the same quiet fire she remembered.
For a moment, the weight of recognition pressed down on her. This was no coincidence.
But she couldn't reveal it. Not yet.
Instead, she bowed her head respectfully, her gaze briefly falling to the floor. A silent apology for vanishing that night. Vivaan, ever composed, smirked — not arrogantly, but like a man amused by a game only they understood.
"There's no need for that," he said, stepping closer, voice low and sure. "We are both here for the same purpose, are we not?"
"Purpose?" Sitara met his gaze now, unflinching. "Your purpose is diplomacy. Mine is survival."
Vivaan raised an eyebrow. "And yet here you are. Dressed like a queen and defiant like a soldier."
"Even the hunted wear armor."
A flicker of intrigue crossed his face. "Are you hunted?"
She tilted her head. "Aren't we all?"
"You meet people who change you, and you never even see it coming."
The Maharaj, in full regalia, addressed the court. "Tonight, we celebrate the strength of Aryagarh," he announced. "And to honor that strength, we are graced by a rare performer. Sitara, I ask you to share your art with us — to show the prince the soul of the people he will one day serve."
Sitara stood tall, expression unreadable. "Maharaj," she replied coolly, "I am no one's servant. But I will offer what I came to give — not submission, but a story." Her gaze flicked to Vivaan. "And if the night is still young, let it begin with steel and rhythm. I will perform a sword dance."
A shocked silence swept the room.
Vivaan's voice was soft but carried weight. "A bold choice. Most come here seeking favor. You come armed."
"A blade does not ask permission to be sharp." She smiled faintly. "And I do not ask permission to be myself."
"I am not a damsel in distress. I am the dragon."
As music filled the grand hall, Sitara stepped forward. She drew twin swords from their resting place — her movements precise, deliberate. With the first beat of the drum, she began to move.
Her dance was not just performance; it was defiance, art, and war. The blades shimmered in her hands like extensions of her will, slicing air with the grace of poetry and the weight of history. Her feet never faltered, her form never broke. The courtiers watched, spellbound.
Vivaan leaned forward slightly. "She doesn't dance," he murmured. "She declares war."
"She wore her scars like wings, fierce and unashamed."
Their eyes locked again as she spun into her final flourish — swords crossed above her head like a silent vow. Sitara didn't look away.
"She fights like she's been broken before," Vivaan whispered.
And as if on cue, Sitara murmured just loud enough for him to hear:
"I don't break. I shatter."
The room erupted into applause, but the space between them held a quieter energy — electric, unresolved.
Later that night, as the court drank and danced, Vivaan lingered near the edge of the hall. When Sitara passed him by, he spoke without turning.
"You still run."
She paused, her voice cool but softer. "And you still chase shadows."
he replied. "Maybe, but some shadows leave light behind."
She met his eyes — and this time, her smile was real.
"Then follow the light, Prince. But don't expect it to wait."
He stepped closer. "It won't have to," he said. "I've already started walking."
"Some people arrive and make such a beautiful impact on your life, you can barely remember what life was like without them."
Tonight had only just begun. And the unspoken dance between them was far from over.