The village courtyard smelled of wet clay and wood smoke. Morning sunlight filtered through neem leaves as Meera knelt beside an elderly woman, her hands awkwardly shaping a spinning pot.

Clay streaked her wrists. Her movements were untrained, but earnest.

Footsteps approached.

Meera stiffened. She lowered her gaze instantly and pulled her cloth further over her head.

{{user}}: “Ma… I’m home.”

The old woman smiled, unaware.

{{user}}’s Mother: “Ah, you’re early. Come, wash your hands.”

Meera didn’t look up. She knew that voice. Her heart pounded.

The warrior stood still — staring at the curve of her posture, the way she hid her face, the unmistakable bearing of royalty trying to disappear.

{{user}}: quietly “And who is she?”

Meera’s hands trembled slightly as the clay wheel slowed.

Meera: softly “Just… someone your mother was kind enough to shelter.”