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The courtroom, once a theater of impassioned arguments and legal jousting, now settled into a quieter rhythm-the rustle of paper, the scratch of pens, and the hushed murmur of ministers and writers came from one end of the room, At the long table, Anya and Varun, their faces etched with determination, led the proceedings.
On the other side, the doctors had entered with a different kind of authority. Clad in traditional attire, they moved with grace, their eyes keen and compassionate. Their purpose was not to argue legal points but to assess the king's well-being. His brow furrowed, lines etched by the weight of his responsibilities. The doctors approached, They checked his pulse, felt the rhythm of life within him.
Their whispered consultations held ancient wisdom-the balance of doshas, the flow of prana. As they comforted him, the courtroom walls seemed to soften. The rigid boundaries blurred and eased-.Finally, the doctors nodded, satisfied. They helped the king rise, supporting him as he walked toward the chambers. There, behind closed doors, they would continue their work-the herbs, the chants, the ancient rituals.
The ministers resumed their paperwork. Everyone settling to their original roles now the the threat had been diffused.
The palace corridors echoed with urgency-the shuffle of footsteps, the hushed conversations, and the occasional groans of wounded soldiers. The once pristine marble floors bore the weight of blood and sacrifice. Arjun and Aditya Singh, their faces etched with pain, lay on makeshift cots, their injuries tended to by skilled hands.
Nimit, the stoic commander, stood guard. Arjun's rebellion seemed to have no end and Nimit's resolve wavered. He clenched his fists, torn between duty and sympathy. The doctors worked methodically, their hands stained with antiseptic. They stitched wounds. Aditya Singh winced as they probed his shoulder.
Ivaan looked around at the environment, finding the calmness enjoyable In the Long hallway the soldiers-both of Virata and. Rana-awaited their turn. The Ayurvedic healers moved seamlessly between them, their touch gentle yet firm. They saw not enemies but wounded souls, their duty transcending borders. And then, amidst the sea of turmoil, he saw Princess Indu, Her sari, once vibrant, now bore smudges of dirt and blood. Her hair, usually immaculate, hung loose, tendrils framing her face. She moved with purpose, her gaze unwavering.
The wounded soldiers stirred, their pain momentarily forgotten. For in her presence, hope bloomed-a fragile flower in a war-torn garden. Ivaan, watched her with suprise she seemed to be placed in a completely odd location, her beautiful attire smudged and heavy followed her every move yet her grace defied the chaos. Her hands, worked with compassion, touched fevered foreheads. Her eyes, pools of empathy, met theirs
It was fascinating-the way she worked the bandages with expertise as she has been doing it for a long time , the way her lips curved in a half-smile when pain eased. Her beauty was not the polished allure of courtly ladies; it was raw, unyielding-a reflection of her spirit.And her disheveled state? It only heightened her allure. Stray tendrils clung to her cheek, and a smudge of dirt adorned her delicate face.
Ivaan smirked as he stepped toward her, Upon being close to her, he could see her hands stained with the aftermath of battle.
"Didn't think of you as a Kind person," Ivaan drawled, his voice a velvet blade. "Not a trait I associate with you, Princess. Especially towards my soliders"
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Burning Red Of Wrath - ✨🪭
Historical FictionIvaan's eyes narrowed, looking at the kit in his hand "Perhaps, I should... just maybe.......... listen to you" he murmured, " but what can I say.......I prefer tending to wounds that cut deeper than flesh." Indu stood her ground. "You're trying to...
