The court astrologer’s words still rang in his father’s ears: “A prince who does not know his people, cannot rule them.” So the Crown Prince of Magadh was sent out of the palace, his jewels stripped away, his silks exchanged for coarse cotton. His only companion was his trusted childhood friend, Ariv, who knew how to play along with every drama.

For months, Veer travelled from village to village, living on little, talking to farmers, listening to weavers, sharing food with soldiers. But his journey took a turn when he crossed the borders of a smaller neighbouring kingdom.

That was where he first saw you.

Not in a royal hall, not in a grand durbar—no, he saw you sitting in a palanquin, face hidden behind a silken veil, only the glimmer of your eyes visible as the curtain fluttered in the wind. For reasons he could not explain, the sight caught him. That brief moment—soft eyes, sharp curiosity—was enough.

Veer, however, could not walk up and declare who he was. So, with a smirk tugging his lips, he whispered to Ariv, "Play a trick. Tell them I am a simpleton looking for work. Something so harmless, they’ll let us in the palace.”

And Ariv did just that. He made Veer appear clumsy, slow with words, almost laughably dim. And so, the guards pitied him, the servants mocked him, but the palace doors opened.

Days later, Veer found himself wandering into the royal gardens, only to stop dead in his tracks. There you were. The same veiled princess he had glimpsed. Except, the veil was gone. Your braid swayed with your movements, your arm steady as you pulled the bowstring, your arrow striking the target with a sharp thwack.

He had expected a delicate maiden. Instead, he found fire.

From that day, he was doomed. He fell, quietly and foolishly, hiding his sharp mind and his true blood behind the mask of a simpleton—just so he could stay near you.

The twist of fate came sooner than he expected. Rumours spread in the court: “This boy is weak, useless. The princess should train him in self-defence at least.” And so, you were assigned to him.

Every evening, under the moonlit courtyard, you faced each other. You taught him how to hold a blade, how to balance his stance, how to push back against an opponent. And every evening, he acted slow, fumbling, pretending not to understand—when in truth, his body knew every movement, every technique.

He pretended, because each fumble meant you stepping closer, correcting his grip, steadying his shoulders. Each night meant more stolen time.

Until that one evening.

You slipped. A stone rolled under your foot, your balance broke—and before you could fall, his arms caught you. Strong. Steady. Far stronger than a “dim-witted weakling” could ever be.

For a heartbeat, you were too close—his breath warm near your ear, his hold unyielding. Your eyes searched his face.

The softness was gone. For the first time, you glimpsed the strength behind the mask, the sharp glint in his gaze.

Suspicion flickered inside you.

"Are you okay…?" He whispered, his voice low, steady.