Of Thrones and Thorns

The sun hung low over the twin spires of Veergadh, casting gold over white-stoned courtyards and intricate palace carvings. Banners fluttered in the breeze, bearing the emblem of a lion-hearted falcon—the symbol of House Veergadh. The palace brimmed with festivity, yet tension coiled beneath every gilded word and practiced smile.

For the first time in years, Veergadh was hosting a royal summit. A delicate dance of diplomacy, it brought together rulers and representatives of the strongest realms across the southern empires. But today, the air felt heavier. Rumors had spread like wildfire. The cursed princess. The mark. The prophecy. And now—whispers of a warrior from the east.

Devira, cloaked in the reds of her homeland, sat upright on her ornate seat beside her father's throne. Her gaze was steel. Her fingers, gloved in gold-threaded silk, tapped silently against her knee. The mark on her wrist itched beneath the bandages, though she gave no sign. She wore her war face today, and no one—no prince, no pompous emissary—would see her weakness.

"Announcing the representative of the Kingdom of Ishvakra," the herald called, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

The doors opened.

And the moment he walked in, silence fell.

He wasn't clad like a noble. He wore no crown, no rings. His armor was forged black with hints of dark crimson, molded to the frame of a man who had tasted every corner of war. Tall, poised, shoulders squared as if he bore the weight of nations without flinching. The only ornament he wore was a single leather cord at his neck, and a steel band on his wrist.

Ekaksh, they said his name was. The Iron Fang of Ishvakra. The king's most trusted. The man whose sword had never once missed its mark.

Devira's eyes narrowed.

He did not bow.

Instead, his gaze swept over the royal assembly with all the detachment of a predator. Until it found hers.

A heartbeat passed.

Fire.

It was not familiarity. It was not recognition. It was something far worse—undeniable magnetism. Like flint and steel. Like a clash fated not by affection but by force.

The hall around them dulled to a hum. Ekaksh's storm-gray eyes locked with Devira's, both unreadable, both simmering.

The king of Veergadh rose. "Welcome, Warrior of Ishvakra. Your kingdom's honor speaks through your presence."

Ekaksh offered a respectful nod—not to the king, but vaguely in his direction. It was the smallest act of diplomacy he could manage without lying. His focus never left the princess.

Devira straightened in her seat, her jaw tight. He was exactly what she disliked. Stoic. Sharp. Dangerous. The kind of man people praised without ever knowing him.

The kind of man her curse would never touch. Or so she thought.

The council began. Talks of land boundaries, water treaties, ancient trade disagreements resurfaced. But between the lines, all eyes shifted to the young princess and the famed warrior. Even as both sat in stillness, a storm was brewing.

He wasn't the prince.

He wasn't even noble.

But something about him made the ancient seers murmur behind closed veils. The cursed mark on Devira's hand had reacted subtly the moment he entered the room—tingling under layers of gold.

And somewhere, in the dark corners of the palace temple, the High Oracle muttered:

"When the fire meets the flame, the threads of fate will twist. And neither blade nor blood will undo what destiny binds."

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Outside the Hall…

Devira stepped out to breathe. The evening air was cooler. Her red thread bracelet shimmered faintly under the moonlight.

She paused by the marble column, only to find him there—Ekaksh.

His arms crossed, sword against his back, moonlight cutting his silhouette into something too precise, too regal for a mere warrior. He said nothing. Neither did she.

Until that cursed thread on her wrist snagged.

Caught.

On the jagged steel of his vambrace.

Their eyes clashed again.

Neither moved to untangle it. The string stretched taut between them, glimmering in the pale light like a blood pact.

It wasn't recognition.

It was the spark of something ancient, not remembered—but destined.

And neither of them knew yet… that this was only the beginning.