84. Union of Hearts and Mide

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting hues of amber and gold across the sky. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut flowers and burning incense. The entire capital was alive with festivities—music rang through the streets, and laughter echoed from the crowded alleys. Children danced with garlands in their hands, and vendors called out sweetly, offering fruits, spiced nuts, and fragrant oils to passing guests.

Today was not a day of war, nor politics.

Today was Harsh's wedding day.

For months, the people had waited for this moment. It was not just a wedding—it was a symbol. The union of their leader with a woman who had stood beside him through blood and fire. For the people, it was a celebration of hope. For Harsh, it was the beginning of a promise he intended to keep for a lifetime.

---

In the great hall of his palace, Ishani stood before the polished bronze mirror, her eyes calm and focused. The handmaidens worked with swift precision, draping her in layers of silk dyed in deep crimson and gold—the colors of royalty, power, and passion.

Gold bangles clinked softly on her wrists as they slid over her slender arms, and her delicate feet were adorned with anklets that chimed softly with each step. Her eyes, lined with kohl, gleamed with a mixture of anticipation and defiance.

She had made her choice.

To stand beside Harsh was to stand against the world.

And she was ready.

Behind her, her mother and a few noblewomen fussed over the final touches, adjusting the intricate embroidery on her veil and smoothing the hem of her lehenga. But Ishani's gaze remained fixed on her reflection. Her lips curved slightly—not in vanity, but in determination.

"Are you nervous?" one of the handmaidens asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ishani's eyes hardened slightly.

"No," she said with unwavering certainty.

"I have never been more sure of anything."

---

In his own quarters, Harsh sat before the large, gilded mirror. The reflection staring back at him was no longer the young man from a small village who had once been unsure of his place in this ancient world.

His face was sharp and resolute, his eyes hard with the weight of battles fought and victories earned. His broad shoulders bore the markings of countless scars—a reminder of the cost of power.

He wore a simple but elegant sherwani, dark indigo trimmed with silver, embroidered with subtle patterns of swirling vines and mountain motifs. A crimson sash was tied firmly around his waist, symbolizing the strength of his house and his promise of protection.

As he fastened his bracers, he glanced at his reflection and took a slow breath.

The door creaked open.

Rohin stepped in, clad in his finest ceremonial armor, but with his usual mischievous grin.

"You look like a man heading into battle," Rohin teased. "Should I bring you a sword instead of garlands?"

Harsh snorted softly, shaking his head.

"I might need one if her family changes their minds," he muttered dryly.

Rohin chuckled but then grew more serious. He walked over, placed a hand on Harsh's shoulder, and gave it a firm squeeze.

"You've earned this happiness, my friend. Let yourself have it."

For a moment, Harsh's eyes softened.

He nodded silently.

---

The courtyard was filled with the clamor of celebration. Horns blared, drums rolled, and conch shells sounded, announcing the arrival of the groom.

Harsh rode at the head of the procession atop a magnificent black horse, its mane braided with golden threads. His eyes scanned the crowd, locking eyes with the people who cheered for him.

But unlike other noble weddings, there was no arrogance in his gaze. No entitlement.

He dismounted before reaching the temple gates.

And as he walked the final distance toward Ishani, he carried no sword, no symbol of power.

Only his bare hands and his heart.

The people watched in awe. The leader they had once seen as a distant figure now stood before them as one of them—a man, not a lord.

At the temple gates, Ishani waited.

When their eyes met, neither spoke.

But the emotion in their gaze spoke volumes.

She extended her hand.

And he took it without hesitation.

---

Under the grand canopy of silk and gold, they stood before the sacred fire. The priest's voice rang clear and steady, reciting ancient vows.

Their hands were bound together with a red and gold cloth—a symbol of unity, trust, and devotion.

Ishani's voice was steady as she made her vows, her eyes unflinching.

"I vow to stand by you, through victory and defeat. To offer counsel when you seek it and wisdom when you do not."

Harsh's voice was low but firm.

"I vow to honor you as my equal. To give you my strength in times of battle and my heart in times of peace."

The priest circled them with a garland of jasmine, their hands still bound.

"You are now one soul," he declared.

"In joy and in sorrow. In fire and in water. You are bound by the heavens and by the earth."

They walked around the sacred fire seven times, their hands never parting.

And when it was done, Harsh leaned down slightly, his forehead brushing against hers.

No words were spoken.

Only the slight trembling of their hands betrayed the storm of emotion beneath their calm exteriors.

---

The celebrations continued into the night. The palace was filled with music and the clinking of goblets. Nobles, villagers, and soldiers alike ate and drank together.

But in the dim candlelit chamber, away from the festivities, Harsh and Ishani stood before each other—alone.

Her hair was undone, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. The heavy bridal jewelry had been removed, leaving only the simple bangles on her wrists. The henna on her hands was still fresh, and her bare feet barely made a sound as she approached him.

Harsh's eyes softened as he took her hands in his.

"You are beautiful," he murmured softly, his voice low and reverent.

Ishani's lips parted slightly, but she did not speak.

Instead, she stepped closer and placed her hands on his chest.

The warmth of her touch sent a shiver through him.

Slowly, he reached for her face, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, and for the first time in what felt like years, he allowed himself to breathe freely.

They did not speak.

There were no grand declarations, no poetic words.

Only the touch of his lips against her forehead.

Only the slow, deliberate meeting of their hands.

And the unspoken promise held in their embrace.

For that night, there was no kingdom.

No war.

No noble or peasant.

There was only them.

And for the first time in years, Harsh allowed himself to feel peace.