2.The One Who Woke Up
637 Words
he woke with a sharp breath.
Stone pressed against her back.
Warm light filtered through carved windows.
The air smelled of herbs, ash, and rain-damp forest.
For a heartbeat she did not move.
This place was not hers.
The room was quiet, built of pale stone and dark wood. A small oil lamp burned near the wall. A low table held a bowl of water and folded cloth. Everything was simple. Careful.
Footsteps.
Slow. Controlled.
Her muscles tightened.
The door opened without a sound.
A man stepped inside.
He wore royal clothes of deep blue and silver, simple but noble. The fabric was handwoven, wrapped neatly around his broad frame. His dark hair was tied back with a thin cord. His eyes were calm, sharp, and dangerous in their stillness.
Enemy.
The word rose inside her without thought.
She moved.
She grabbed the dagger lying beside the bed and struck.
Steel flashed.
He barely blocked in time, shock crossing his face.
“Wait—”
She didn’t stop.
Her attack was fast and clean, like she had done this a thousand times. He stepped back, blocking instead of striking, careful not to hurt her.
“Enough!” he said, catching her wrist.
The touch froze them both.
Not from fear.
From stillness.
Beneath the loose cloth of her sleeve, the mark flared softly — golden light breathing under her skin.
Neither of them noticed.
“Let go,” she said.
Her voice was steady.
He released her immediately and stepped back, hands raised slightly.
Silence filled the room.
She stood there, breathing hard, then slowly lowered the dagger.
She looked at him properly now.
He stood tall and broad-shouldered, his jaw strong, eyes dark and thoughtful. Not cruel. Not kind. Controlled.
He studied her carefully.
Her long black hair fell in loose waves over a simple earth-coloured cloth. The fabric was coarse but clean, tied at her waist with a thin cord. Her skin glowed warm in the morning light. Her eyes were sharp, guarded, beautiful in their calm.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said softly.
“Then don’t walk like one,” she replied.
A small smile touched his lips — not mocking, but impressed.
“You truly don’t remember anything,” he said.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am Agnivardhan,” he replied. “Prince of this kingdom.”
She searched his face for lies.
“I don’t remember who I am,” she said quietly. “But I know I am not weak.”
Something unreadable crossed his eyes.
“I wouldn’t cage you,” he said.
They stood in silence.
Later, they walked through the kingdom.
Stone paths curved between tall trees. Pale buildings rose quietly from the forest, half hidden by vines and shadow. Guards moved silently, respectful but alert.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“In Aryavan,” he said. “A hidden kingdom.”
“Why hide it?”
“Because some things survive only when they are unseen,” he replied.
“Does anyone know about it?”
“Very few,” he said. “Some travellers. Most think it is only a story.”
“And me?”
“You were brought here by the river,” he said. “That is reason enough.”
She nodded, accepting the answer even if she did not understand it.
They stopped in the inner courtyard.
Sunlight filtered through leaves above them.
For a moment, the world tilted.
He caught her arm gently.
Again, unseen, the mark glowed and faded.
“You should rest,” he said.
She looked at him once more.
“I remember only my name,” she said.
“What is it?"
“Agnishka.”
Far away, in a cold cave, red eyes opened in the dark.
And watched.
- Writer
