Ishita's Perspective

The heavy emotional toll of the day finally caught up with me. I must have drifted off into a deep, restless sleep because the next thing I knew, a persistent knocking was echoing through the suite.

I sat up with a start, my saree** crumpled and my **hair** a tangled mess around my shoulders. I checked the clock—6:00 PM. The golden light of the Rajasthan afternoon had turned into the deep violets and oranges of dusk.

I opened the door to find **Ahana** standing there, looking both urgent and apologetic.

"Bhabhi, wake up! Kal ki **Kalash Yatra** ki tayari karni hai, phir mehndi bhi lagwani hai... chalo aa jao!" (Bhabhi, wake up! We have to prepare for tomorrow's procession, then apply henna... come on!)

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the faint sting of the marks my nails had left in my palms. "Haan... aati hoon. Bas woh..."

"Sorry na, Bhabhi," Ahana interrupted, her expression softening as she grabbed my hand. "Woh mazak ke liye... please, chhodo na ab. Chalo please!" (Sorry, Bhabhi. For that joke... please, let it go now. Come on!)

I couldn't stay angry at her. "Hmm... koi baat nahi," I whispered. Before I could say anything else, she was already dragging me toward the grand hall.

The hall was a riot of colors and sounds. The scent of fresh henna paste mixed with the aroma of festive sweets. Relatives were everywhere, and the younger girls were giggling as they compared designs.

"Kahan hai? Aaja!" (Where were you? Come here!) **Bebe** called out from her central seat, her voice commanding as always. She pointed to **Saanvi and Kriti**, who were already proudly showing off their stained palms. "Saanvi aur Kriti sabse chhoti kanya hain, toh isliye inke pehle lagwa di. Ab teri baari, aa jaa!" (Saanvi and Kriti are the youngest girls, so we had theirs done first. Now it's your turn, come!)

I walked toward the center of the room, my **payal** chiming softly, feeling every eye on me. I scanned the room, my heart thumping against my ribs.

He wasn't there.

As I sat down on the velvet cushion and the henna artist took my hand, a heavy realization hit me. Tonight, I was supposed to have his name—**'RUDRA'**—intertwined in the intricate patterns on my palms.

"Bhabhi, design kaisa chahiye?" (Bhabhi, what kind of design do you want?) the artist asked.

I looked at the doorway, hoping to see a him in an ivory kurta walk in. I wanted to see if the he is still wearing his mask, or if the evening rituals would finally melt the ice between us.

"Something traditional," I whispered, my voice thick.

I sat on the low velvet stool, my hands outstretched as the henna artist began to trace intricate, dark patterns from my fingertips up to my forearms. The cooling sensation of the paste was a sharp contrast to the heat of the guilt still simmering in my chest. I watched the swirling lotuses and geometric grids take shape, but my eyes kept darting toward the grand entrance of the hall.

The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of folk songs and the clinking of bangles, but for me, there was a glaring silence where **Rudra's** voice should have been.

"Kirti, idar aa," (Kirti, come here,) I whispered, gesturing with my head since I couldn't move my drying hands.

Kirti scurried over and sat on the carpet beside me, her own hands already stained a deep mahogany. "Haa bolo, di ?" (Yes, tell me?)

"Jiju kaha hai? Pata hai tujhe?" (Where is Jiju? Do you know?) I asked, trying to sound casual, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.

Kirti bit her lip, looking around the crowded room before leaning in. "Pooja ke time hi dekha tha... (I only saw him during the Pooja...) Haa, Jay Bhaiya study mein gaye the kisi kaam.se toh u.hone batya jiju vahi h tab se shayad bahar hi nahi aaye hain." (Yes, Jay Bhaiya went to the study for work, and since then he probably hasn't come out.)

My heart sank. He was avoiding the celebration. He is choosing spreadsheets and silence over sitting by my side while his name was etched onto my skin. I looked down at the engagement ring** peeking through the wet henna and felt a lump form in my throat.

He wasn't just working; he was staying away because I had made him feel unwanted in our own room.

"Artist ji," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Please add the letters **'R'** and **'U'** near my wrist, but hide them so well that only someone who looks with a lot of love can find them."

As the artist worked, **Bebe** walked past, eyeing my intricate design. "Sundar hai! (It's beautiful!) Lekin tera vo kahan hai? (But where is your 'Narayan'?) Coronation is tomorrow, he should be here to see this!"

I forced a smile, though it didn't reach my brown eyes. "Woh... business call pr hai, Bebe. You know him."

The grand hall was a blur of laughter and music, but I felt like a ghost moving through the palace. My hands were heavy with the weight of the drying henna, the dark patterns stretching up to my elbows. I desperately needed water, the day's stress finally catching up with me.

I crept toward the dining area, trying to be invisible. I reached for a heavy crystal glass, attempting to balance it between the dry patches of my palms. I managed a small sip, but my grip faltered. The glass started to slide.

I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the crash and the sting of glass against my bare feet.

The crash never came. Instead, I felt a familiar, powerful presence—a warmth that always made the world feel safe. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up. **Rudra** was there. He was leaned over, his large hand firmly gripping the glass just inches from my feet.

His **ocean-blue eyes** were fixed on mine, no longer icy, but filled with a pained sort of frustration.

"Har baar khud ko hurt karna shauk hai kya aapka?" (Is hurting yourself a hobby for you every time?) he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in my chest.

The wall I had built all day crumbled. A sob escaped my throat, and hot tears finally spilled over, tracking down my cheeks and threatening to ruin the **silk** of my saree. I just shook my head 'no,' unable to find my voice.

He didn't say another word. He let out a long, heavy sigh and brought the glass to my lips, tilted it gently, and made me drink the water I so desperately needed.

Once I had finished, he set the glass down and reached up. With the pads of his thumbs, he tenderly wiped away my tears, his touch as light as a feather. Then, he leaned in and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to my cheek

"I am so—" I started, my voice trembling with the weight of the apology I had been holding in since I talked to Papa.

"Shhh," he whispered, stopping me midway. He leaned forward, joining his forehead against mine, his eyes closing as he breathed in the scent of my jasmine and the fresh henna. "No need of it."

In that moment, the "Cold-Hearted Prince" and the "Rebel Princess" disappeared. There was just **Ru and Janna**, standing in the quiet corner of the palace while the rest of the world prepared for a coronation.

"Come," he whispered, his hand hovering near my waist, careful not to smudge the intricate art on my skin.

Rudra didn’t care that they were in the middle of the dining hall or that half the **Rathor and Sharma** clans were just a few hallways away. He knelt on the cold marble in front of my chair, his large, warm hands framing my face as he wiped away the last of my tears.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he murmured, his **ocean-blue eyes** searching mine with a raw intensity. "Don't ever cry, baby. It hurts me more than any lion’s scratch."

"Don't call me baby," I sobbed, my voice still hiccuping. "I don't like it."

A slow, playful smirk—one I hadn't seen since the disaster started—crept onto his face. "I also don't like your tears, but still you are crying. *To ab main bhi 'baby' bolunga.*" (So now I will also say 'baby'.)

I whined, shifting on the dining chair, careful of my drying **henna**. "Stop it! I won't cry, okay?"

"Okay," he relented, leaning in closer until I could smell the faint scent of his cologne. "Then I won't use 'baby.' Instead, I can use... *Sweetheart? Lovebug?*"

I stared at him in disbelief as the "Cold-Hearted Prince" of Rajasthan began to rattle off the most ridiculous list of nicknames I had ever heard.

"*Cupcake? Pumpkin? Honey Bunny?*" He pressed a light kiss to my forehead between each word. "*Boo Bear? Snugglebug? Cutie Patootie? Bubbles?*"

"Rudra, stop!" I giggled, my shoulders shaking as he moved to my cheeks.

"*Wifey? Beautiful? Beloved? My Queen? Precious? Darling?*"

He was showering my face with soft, butterfly-light kisses, avoiding my lips only because anyone could walk around the corner at any second.

"Ewww!" I squealed, a genuine laugh finally breaking through my tears. "So cringy, Ru! Where did you even get these?"

"What?" He pulled back slightly, looking offended in the most handsome way possible. "These are trending names. Very popular."

I narrowed my brown eyes at him, a playful smirk matching his. "You Googled them, didn't you? The President of **Eternity** searched for 'cute nicknames for wife' because he ran out of ways to tease me?"

Rudra cleared his throat, his ears turning a faint shade of pink that perfectly matched my saree**. "I may have done some... market research. A King must stay updated on all trends, Janna."

I laughed, the weight of the day finally lifting. "You are so lucky I love you, you dork."

"I know," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the intricate **henna** on my hands. "Now, let’s get you back to our room before I decide to test if 'Snugglebug' actually works in practice."

I let out a sharp hiss, my brown eyes darting toward the hallway where the faint sound of Ahana and Reet laughing could still be heard. "Nahi, nahi! Abhi nahi! Baad mein... (No, no! Not now! Later...) If someone sees us, they’ll think we’re doing... something."

Rudra didn't budge from his spot on the floor. He tilted his head, a mischievous glint in his ocean-blue eyes. "Toh kya? Pati-patni kar sakte hain. (So what? A husband and wife can.) It’s our palace, Janna."

"Abhi nahi! Chup karo aap!" (Not now! You shut up!) I whispered, my heavy silver earrings swaying as I shook my head at his audacity.

"Traitor," he muttered, using the English word with a playful pout that looked ridiculous on a 6'3" "Greek God."

"Zyada mat bolo," (Don't talk too much,) I warned, trying to keep a straight face.

"Achha? Kiss kar dunga... phir na main bolunga, na aap," (Oh really? I’ll kiss you... then neither I will speak, nor will you,) he threatened, leaning in just an inch closer. He smirked, clearly waiting for me to turn beet-red and hide my face in my saree

But I was done being the shy girl for the day. I leaned forward, closing the distance until I could feel the heat radiating from his chest, right over where my name was etched in ink.

"Chalo kardo phir jaldi se," (Go on then, do it quickly,) I challenged, intentionally pouting my lips toward him.

Rudra froze actually blinked in shock, his confident smirk faltering. He looked at my lips, then back at the door, then back at me.

"Besharam ho gayi ho," (You've become shameless,) he managed to say, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

"Aapne hi toh banaya hai na?" (You're the one who made me this way, right?) I teased, a triumphant grin spreading across my face.

And then, I saw it. The rarest sight in all of Rajasthan. A faint, dusty rose creeped up Rudra Singh Rathor's neck and onto his cheekbones. The man who faced down business rivals and panthers was actually blushing because his wife called his bluff.

"Haye! Look at that," I giggled, reaching out with the tip of a dry finger—careful not to smudge my henna—and poking his cheek. "The King of Rajasthan is blushing! Wait until I tell Jay that I finally won an argument."

"Don't you dare," he growled, though he was finally smiling. He stood up, towering over me once more, and gently tucked a stray lock of my curly hair behind my ear. "Come on, 'Besharam' Queen. Let's get you to the room before you decide to start a scandal in the dining hall."

Just as I was about to agree to head back to the privacy of our room, the sharp, cheerful voice of **Chachi** cut through the air.

"Ishu Beta! Idar aa! (Come here!) Kal yatra ke baare mein kuch baat karni hai." (I need to talk to you about tomorrow's procession.)

My heart skipped a beat. "A-A-Aaai Chachi!" (C-C-Coming Chachi!) I called back, quickly smoothing out my  saree**. I turned to **Rudra**, who was still standing there with that lingering, slightly frustrated blush on his face.

"Baad mein aati hoon... aap jao," (I'll come later... you go,) I whispered, giving him a cheeky wink before running back toward the main hall, my  payal** ringing out like a victory song

In the hall, the atmosphere had shifted from the playful mood of the **Mehndi** to the serious preparations for the **Kalash Yatra**. **Siya Maa** took my hands—careful of the drying henna—and led me toward the center of the room.

"Listen carefully, Ishu," Siya Maa said, her voice filled with maternal pride. "Tomorrow at dawn, the **Kalash Yatra** begins. You will have to walk from the palace gates all the way to the **Old Shiv Mandir**."

I swallowed hard. The Old Shiv Mandir was a trek, and the Rajasthan sun, even in the morning, was no joke.

"You will carry the **Gold Kalash** on your head the entire way," she continued. "It represents the prosperity of the Rathor clan. **Rudra** won't be walking with you; as the future King, he must already be at the temple to begin the **Rudra Abhishek Pooja** before you arrive."

I nodded, feeling the sudden weight of the responsibility.

"It’s a long walk, Beta," **Chachi** added, checking the weight of the ceremonial pot. "But it is the tradition for the Queen to bring the sacred water to her King while he prays."

I looked toward the door where Rudra had disappeared. Tomorrow, he would be standing before the deity he didn't even believe in, all for the sake of his people and our family. And I would be walking toward him, carrying the golden legacy of the **Rathors** on my head

👑 Rudra's Perspective

The soft, rhythmic chime of **silver payal** echoed against the marble floor of my private chamber, a sound I’d recognize even in the middle of a desert storm. I didn't turn away from the balcony; I kept my eyes on the iPad, my fingers mechanically scrolling through **Eternity’s** quarterly reports, though I hadn't processed a single digit in the last ten minutes.

I felt the air shift as she approached. Then, the familiar scent of jasmine and fresh henna enveloped me. Her small, soft hands slid over my shoulders, her touch light yet grounded. I felt the heat of her skin as she leaned her face beside mine, her ** hair** brushing against my neck.

A soft, lingering kiss landed on my cheek, right above my beard.

"Sorry for the fight," she whispered, her voice like velvet in the quiet of the night. "And for the decision to leave the room. I didn't mean it, Ru."

I felt the last of the ice around my heart finally shatter. I set the iPad aside and reached up, my large hands covering hers where they rested on my chest, I traced the skin of her palms; the henna was gone, the paste washed away to reveal the deep, dark mahogany stain that signified how much her husband loved her.

"Don't ever say it again, Janna," I rumbled, my voice thick with a mix of relief and lingering hurt. I pulled her hands down, drag her in front of me so I could look into those **brown eyes** that held my entire world. "You can yell at me, you can swing **Bebe’s** stick at me, but don't ever talk about leaving. This room, this palace... it’s all just cold stone without you."

I pulled her closer, my frame making her look so small as she stood between my knees. I looked at the dark patterns on her hands and found the tiny, hidden **'R' and 'U'** she’d had etched near her wrist.

"I went to your Papa," I confessed, my thumb stroking the back of her hand. "I shouldn't have made that joke. It was beneath me, and it was disrespectful to the man who gave me his greatest treasure."

"I know," she whispered, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. "Papa told me. You’re a terrible 'Cold Prince,' you know that? You’re far too soft for me."

I chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through both of us. "Only for you."

I pulled her into my lap, burying my face in the crook of her neck, obsessing over the **moles on her jawline** that always acted like a magnet for my lips.

"Tomorrow is a big day," I murmured against her skin. "The **Kalash Yatra**. It’s a long walk, Janna. Are you sure you can handle that heavy gold pot all the way to the **Shiv Mandir**?"

I felt her nod against me. "I'll be walking toward you, Ru. That makes the weight feel like nothing."

I tightened my grip on her, already dreading the hours we’d have to spend apart tomorrow during the rituals. But for now, the war was over, and the Queen was back in her King's arms.

The moonlight spilled over the balcony as I pulled her closer, the frame** of my body shielding her from the rest of the world. My resolve, which I usually held like a shield of iron, was melting under the touch of her "Sharma" warmth.

I buried my face in the curve of her neck, my lips finding the **moles on her jawline** that had driven me to obsession since our marriage. I felt her breath hitch, a soft, melodic moan escaping her lips that did more to crumble my "Cold person facade than any apology ever could.

"We shouldn't, Ru..." she whispered, her voice trembling as her fingers dug into the fabric of my ivory kurta. "Kal subha... Kalash Yatra... (Tomorrow morning... the procession...)"

"I know," I rumbled against her skin, the vibration of my voice making her shiver. "Just a little bit, Janna. Just enough to remind me that you're still mine."

I pulled back just enough to look at her. Her **brown eyes** were hazy with love, and her hair was a beautiful mess against my shoulders. The dark mahogany stain of the **henna** on her hands caught the light, reminding me of the **'R' and 'U'** she had hidden there for me.

I couldn't wait any longer. I leaned in, and our lips met—finally breaking the ice that had frozen between us since the breakfast table.

The kiss started soft and sweet, an unspoken apology for the harsh words and the bags packed in anger. But as the seconds ticked by, it turned desperate. It was the kiss of a man who had spent the night with a panther and a lion because he couldn't bear to sleep in a bed without his Queen. It was the kiss of a woman who realized that no matter how much her "Patidev" teased her, he was the only one who held her heart.

I held her as if she were the **Gold Kalash** itself—precious, sacred, and the only thing that mattered in the vast desert of Rajasthan.

I pick her up and take her on bed she broke the kiss and said no way I chuckled, the sound deep and low in the quiet of our chamber. The way she looked at me—eyes wide with suspicion even as she sat flushed from our kiss—was enough to make me feel like a teenager again.

"Haa, nahi kar raha," (Yes, I'm not doing anything,) I promised, my voice still a bit husky. I leaned over and pressed a final, lingering kiss to her forehead,

"Aapka kya bharosa," (There's no trusting you,) she muttered, though she didn't pull away. She finally let her guard down, her hair** fanning out across the silk pillows like a dark cloud.

I didn't let her move far. I pulled her small, frame back into my arms, spooning her from behind so that her back was flush against my chest. My hand rested naturally over her waist, my fingers brushing the dark **mahogany henna** on her skin. I could feel her heart slowing down, matching the steady rhythm of mine.

"You need to sleep, Janna," I whispered into her ear, my breath tickling her skin.

"I know," she sighed contentedly, snuggling back into the crook of my arm. "But promise me... no more jokes about Papa tomorrow. Not even a tiny one."

"I promise. Tomorrow, I'm just a man waiting for his Queen at the temple," I murmured.

I closed my eyes, the scent of her jasmine-infused hair finally lulling my restless mind to sleep.

MORNING

The pre-dawn light filtered through the balcony of the **Raj Mahal**, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the room. I looked down at **Ishita**, who was still deep in sleep, clinging to me like a koala. Her head was resting perfectly on my arm, her **hair** fanning out across my chest.

I checked the time—5:00 AM. I knew the **Kalash Yatra** wouldn't begin for another hour or two, and after the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on, she deserved every minute of rest. Very slowly, I eased my arm out from under her head, replacing my warmth with a soft silk pillow. She shifted slightly, murmuring something in her sleep, but didn't wake.

I took bath amd stepped into the dressing room, shedding the modern world  for the ancient traditions of my bloodline. I opted for a traditional silk **dhoti** and draped a heavy, hand-woven **shawl** over my shoulders, leaving my chest partially bare

I didn't need a mirror to know I looked the part of the "Prince of Rajasthan," but inside, I was just a man heading to a temple to pray for the woman sleeping in the next room.

As I stepped out into the corridor, the silence of the palace was broken by a muffled string of curses coming from the shadows. I walked closer to find **Jay** standing near a pillar, looking like he had just lost a wrestling match with several yards of unstitched fabric.

"Need a hand, model boy?" I asked, my voice a low, amused rumble.

Jay jumped, nearly tripping over the hem of his **dhoti**. "Bhai! This thing is a death trap. How did our ancestors conquer kingdoms in these? I can't even conquer the hallway without tripping."

I walked over and began expertly folding the pleats for him. "It’s about the tuck, Jay. Firm but not restrictive. Just like managing a business."

"Or a wife?" Jay teased, his usual cocky grin returning now that he wasn't about to be flashed by his own clothes. "Speaking of which, is Bhabhi ready? I thought the ladies were supposed to start the Yatra soon."

"She's sleeping. Don't wake her yet," I warned, my **eyes** narrowing slightly. "I'm heading to the **Shiv Mandir** now for the **Abhishek**. Make sure the security is tight for the walk. I don't want a single person getting too close to her

"Copy that, 'Cold Prince,'" Jay saluted. "Go do your God thing. I'll make sure the 'Queen' gets to you in one piece."

I gave him a final nod and headed toward the courtyard where the royal convoy was waiting. The desert air was crisp, and the stars were fading, making way for the most important day of my life

The courtyard of the **Rathor Raj Mahal** was a sea of tradition and power as the first light of dawn began to touch the sandstone walls. Every significant man in our lives was present, stripped of their designer suits and corporate titles, standing in ivory and gold-bordered **dhotis**.

My father, **Ram Singh Rathore**, and **Lakhan Chacha** stood at the front, their presence commanding respect. Beside them stood **Mohan Papa** and **Ravi**, representing the Sharma family with pride. Then there was the core of my world: **Akshat**, my co-CEO; **Vardaan**, the sharp-witted lawyer; and **Jay**, finally managed to look like a prince rather than a runway model.

My inner circle was complete with **Krishiv**, the mafia lord who looked surprisingly lethal even in traditional attire, and **Veer** and **Shiv**. Even little **Krish** were there, looking like miniature versions of the Rathor men.

As we prepared to leave for the **Old Shiv Mandir**, my eyes fell on **Laksh**, my head of security and my parsnol assistant who was standing at a respectful distance, coordinating the convoy.

"Laksh," I called out, my voice carrying the weight of authority. "Join us."

He paused, looking startled as he adjusted his earpiece. "Sir? But... my duty is with the perimeter and Bhabhi's security later."

"Your team can handle the perimeter for the walk," I replied, my eyes** steady. "Today is about family and the future of Rajasthan. You’ve bled for this family, Laksh. Come."

"Sir, but—"

"It's okay. Come."

Laksh offered a sharp, grateful nod and stepped into the line. For a man who usually lived in the shadows of security details, standing among the Rathors in a dhoti was a silent mark of the highest honor I could give.

"Chalein?" (Shall we go?) Ram Papa asked, looking at me with a pride that made my chest tighten.

"Chalein," I agreed.

We walked out of the palace gates in a formidable line—a brotherhood of the most powerful men in the region, heading toward the temple where my destiny had first collided with **Ishita’s**. Though I didn't believe in the mantras we were about to chant, I believed in the legacy I was protecting.

As we began the trek, I looked back at the high windows of our suite. I knew that in just an hour, my "Janna" would be waking up to a palace full of women, preparing to carry that  Kalash** through the dusty roads to find me.

**As the men arrive at the temple and the Rudra Abhishek begins, should the focus shift back to the bedroom where Ishita is finally being woken up by a very excited group of ladies, or should we stay with the men as the high priest begins the coronation prayers?

💖 Ishita's Perspective

The room was cold and quiet when the alarm finally cut through the silence My hand instinctively reached across the silk sheets for **Ru**, searching for that familiar, solid warmth, but the bed beside me was empty. I sat up with a start, the memory of last night’s balcony reconciliation and our midnight snuggles rushing back.

"He’s already gone," I whispered to the empty room, a mix of pride and a slight ache in my chest. I knew he was at the **Shiv Mandir**, preparing for the **Rudra Abhishek**, while I had a long, sacred walk ahead of me.

I didn't waste a second. I rushed into the bathroom, the steam from the shower waking up my senses. Today, I wasn't just Ishita; I was the future Queen of the Rathors, and every detail had to be perfect.

I sat before the vanity, my fingers tracing the **mangalsutra** and the **red chooda** i wipe water from them My **hair** was styled with precision, and I carefully applied the deep red sindoor, thinking of the man who had Googled "Honey Bunny" just to make me smile.

A soft knock signaled **Ahana's** arrival. She walked in carrying a silver tray, her eyes bright with excitement.

"Bhabhi! Maa has sent these for you," she said, revealing a stunning set of **heavy silver payal** and intricate **toe rings**. As she helped me fasten the payal, the melodic chiming filled the room. "Maa ne bola hai ki **Suhaag ka dupatta** bhi odh lena." (Maa said to also wear your wedding veil.)

I pulled out the **crimson and gold dupatta**—the same one I had worn during our *pheras* when I promised to stand by Rudra for seven lifetimes. Draping it over my head, the heavy embroidery felt like a protective embrace. The reflection in the mirror was no longer the girl who wanted to pack her bags yesterday; it was a woman ready to carry the weight of a kingdom for her husband.

"Chalein, Bhabhi? Sab wait kar rahe hain," (Shall we go? Everyone is waiting,) Ahana said, gesturing toward the door.

I took a deep breath, adjusted the heavy fabric of my wedding veil, and walked out toward the hall. My **payal** sang with every step, echoing through the corridors of the **Raj Mahal**.

As we approached **Maa**, I saw the **Gold Kalash** sitting on a bed of rose petals, gleaming in the soft morning light. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew that miles away, **Rudra** was waiting for me. He might not believe in the gods, but I knew he believed in us.

✨ Author’s Note: A King’s Duty, A Queen’s Devotion ✨

And just like that, the "Walking Stick War" is over! My heart melted when Rudra apologized to Mohan Papa, and seeing him blush because of Ishita's teasing was the highlight of the Mehndi night.

Now, the real test begins. The Kalash Yatra is a long, difficult walk under the Rajasthan sun. Will Ishita’s devotion carry her all the way to her King? And can Rudra handle the intensity of the Rudra Abhishek without his "Janna" by his side? The coronation is only hours away! 👑🚩🌅