The incident changed everything.

Anamay had seen many storms in his life, internal and external, but nothing compared to the silence that followed your departure. When he brought you back, trembling and desperate, it was not anger that lingered in his chest. It was fear. A hollow, aching fear that he had hurt the very soul he had vowed to protect.

He saw the way you looked at him now, guarded and distant, and it shattered him.

So he did the only thing he could. He cut out the poison. His mother, once the towering figure in court, was exiled to a distant estate with no power or voice. The whispers died, but the wound remained. And Anamay knew this was not enough. Healing had to come from him.

And so, he began again.

He found you where you sat in solitude, sometimes in the gardens, sometimes by the window, a book in your lap but your gaze far away. He did not try to fix it with apologies or grand gestures. He simply showed up. Every day. Sitting beside you in silence. Waiting. Listening. Letting you be.

At first, your heart resisted, afraid to believe. But he was patient. He brushed your hand gently when passing the scrolls. He brought you jasmine garlands, remembering how you once wore them in your hair. He played his veena again, not in court or in prayer, but for you in the quiet of twilight, the notes soft as breath.

And slowly, you softened.

The walls around your heart began to melt, one moment at a time. His fingers lingered longer on yours. His eyes held you a little more deeply. And then, one morning, you laughed, truly laughed for the first time in weeks. Anamay turned to you, stunned, and you saw it. The love in his eyes had never left. But now, it was joined by awe, as if he had fallen for you all over again.

You felt yourself return. Not just as queen or wife, but as the girl who once danced barefoot in palace courtyards, the woman who once stirred a pot of kheer just to make him smile.

One day, without ceremony, you slipped back into the kitchen. The staff froze when they saw you. But you only smiled and asked for milk, saffron, and rice. You stirred the pot slowly, your fingers moving by memory, the fragrance rising like a memory. When the kheer was ready, you set it aside, not for the court, not for show, but for him. It was quiet, private, sacred.

And then, the change came.

You woke each morning heavier than the last. Drowsy. Breathless. And the world seemed a step slower. You paid no mind, until one afternoon, your hand slipped from the loom and the world tilted. The physician was called immediately.

His hands were gentle as he examined you. Then came the pause. The quiet joy in his eyes.

You are with child, he said softly, reverently.

Time stopped.

Your lips parted. Your hands flew instinctively to your belly. A gasp escaped you, one part joy and one part disbelief. Then tears, unbidden and pure, welled in your eyes.

But you did not run.

You turned to your maidens, voice shaky with wonder. Tell him, you whispered. Tell him he is going to be a father.

They fled like birds released from a cage.

Moments later, heavy doors burst open at the far end of the corridor. You heard his footsteps before you saw him. Fast. Desperate. Anamay was running, his robe flying behind him, crown forgotten, hair windswept.

When he reached you, he did not speak. He only stared, at your face, your tear-filled eyes, your trembling hands pressed to your stomach.

He fell to his knees.

His arms wrapped around your waist, his forehead resting where your child now grew. His breath was uneven, his shoulders shaking as if he were trying to hold back a storm of emotion.