The panicked attendee flew back into the kitchen, gasping for breath as she grabbed Aishwarya’s arm. Within minutes, Aishwarya found herself walking down the silent, heavily guarded corridor, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She pushed past the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the dimly lit royal chamber, looking down at her own feet like a scared kitten. Her hands were cold, and her breaths came in short, shallow puffs as she prepared to face the wrath of the monarch.
Thwack!
A sudden, terrifying rush of wind sliced through the air right in front of her nose. Before she could even scream, a sharp, polished dagger embedded itself deep into the intricately carved teakwood pillar just inches from her right shoulder. The steel blade vibrated violently, its high-pitched hum echoing off the stone walls. The raw terror inside her flashed instantly into a spark of hot, defensive anger. Her head snapped up. Through the faint haze of the burning incense, she glared across the room.
King Arvin stood a dozen paces away, his arm still extended from the throw, his dark eyes locked onto hers from the distance. He didn't look like a furious tyrant; his face was a mask of cold, unreadable evaluation, waiting to see how the person who understood his mind would react to his steel.
"Why would you do that?" she asked, her voice trembling with a volatile mix of residual fear and sudden, sharp anger. She didn't drop her gaze. She stood her ground by the vibrating blade, her chest heaving as she glared at the young monarch. Arvin slowly lowered his arm. The cold, unreadable mask on his face suddenly cracked, melting into a roguish, mischief-filled grin. He stepped out of the shadows of the canopy, walking with light, effortless steps across the cool sandstone floor until he stood just a few feet away from her.
"To see if you are as quick on your feet as you are with your spices," Arvin said, his voice dancing with an amusement that completely caught her off guard. He reached out and plucked the dagger from the teakwood pillar with a dramatic flourish. He flipped the blade in the air, catching it expertly by the hilt, before sliding it safely into his waistband.
"Five master chefs, men who have cooked for my father for three decades, sent up meals fit for a palace. They failed," Arvin continued, looking down at the simple clay bowl of khichdi on his table, then back to her. Arvin continued, a playful spark in his eyes as he looked down at the simple clay bowl of khichdi.
"But a young under-chef knows the exact flavor of a Gurukul evening. You've managed to read my mind. And frankly, it's a bit unfair that you have all the advantages tonight."
Aishwarya blinked, her anger temporarily derailed by his sudden shift from terrifying tyrant to absolute troublemaker.
"Advantages, Samrat? You just threw a lethal weapon at my face!"
"Exactly. An unforgivable royal insult," Arvin said, his grin widening as he walked over to a heavy teak chest in the corner of the room.
He flipped the lid open and retrieved two wooden practice swords, the exact weight and balance of the ones used by young disciples in the ashrams. He turned around and tossed one toward her. Aishwarya’s instincts kicked in; she caught the wooden hilt cleanly out of the air.
"You look furious, and a king should always allow his subjects to settle a grievance," Arvin said, stepping into a flawless, light footed combat stance, his practice sword held low. His eyes gleamed with the boyish energy of his school days, entirely shedding the suffocating weight of his crown.
"Consider it a challenge. If you want your revenge for the dagger, take it now. First touch to the neck wins."
"That dagger too, like the one you threw at me moments ago, a challenge is fair, no?" Aishwarya demanded shocked by her own bluntness. Arvin nodded smirking tossing the dagger towards her.
Aishwarya stared at the wooden weapon in her hand and the dagger by her waistband, then looked at the mischievous king waiting for her to strike. The residual fear inside her completely evaporated, replaced by a sudden, competitive fire. She tightened her grip on the hilt, shifting her weight into a balanced stance.
"Let's see what you-"
Aishwarya didn't wait. She lunged forward, her wooden blade whistling through the cool air. Arvin’s laugh echoed through the chamber as he deflected the strike with effortless precision, immediately taking control of the duel with the fluid grace of a true warrior. His wooden sword became a blur, forcing Aishwarya into a desperate retreat as he moved left and launched a rapid combination toward her shoulders. She skipped backward, her breath catching as his blade grazed her sleeve, pinning her against the sandstone wall. With a sudden twist of her wrists, she redirected his weight downward and slipped out from under his guard.
The tables turned instantly as she unleashed a fierce, rhythmic barrage of strikes. She drove him back across the rugs, cracking her blade against his side and forcing him into a desperate parry. Arvin ducked under a vicious horizontal slash, his eyes widening in genuine surprise as his amusement turned into a fierce, competitive fire. Grunting, he planted his back foot and stopped playing defense. He launched a brutal, overwhelming counter offensive, his strikes coming so heavy and fast that the impacts numbed her fingers. Panting and struggling to keep up, Aishwarya was driven back toward the low teak table.
"Yield!" Arvin called out, stepping in for a decisive final thrust. Pressed to her absolute limit, Aishwarya refused to back down. As Arvin bore down on her with dominating strength, she summoned every ounce of power left in her body. With a sharp, desperate cry, she drove her weight forward, using a fierce leverage technique to shove him back. The sheer, unexpected force of her struggle caught him off balance, briefly dozing his momentum and sending him staggering a step back. But Arvin was a trained warrior, and his reflexes were lightning quick. Instantly recovering his footing, he lunged back into the space before she could reset her guard. His wooden blade whipped through the air in a swift, calculated arc. It didn't strike her body, but the tip precisely clipped the hair tie holding her loose bun together. The fabric band snapped cleanly. In an instant, her long, dark hair tumbled down, flowing luscious and free over her shoulders like a cascade of silk in the warm light of the oil lamps. The sudden rush of her hair falling brought the frantic duel to an abrupt, breathless halt. Arvin froze, his wooden sword extended, his gaze locking onto her as the playful mischief in his eyes shifted into something entirely unexpected.
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