Udaipur woke up in gold.

The palace, with its domes kissed by the morning sun, came alive with the soft shuffle of servants, the scent of saffron chai, and the gentle hum of temple bells from the east wing.

Mayuri, draped in a light pink cotton saree and silver anklets, stepped into the garden courtyard — unsure of what to expect, but prepared for whatever the day brought.

What she didn't expect... was a flying mango hitting her arm.

Thump.

"Ow!" she yelped, turning sharply.

Behind a bush, a small head ducked.

Her brows raised. "Aryan?"

There was a suspicious silence.

She tiptoed closer — and just as she peeked over the hedge, a small figure tried to escape the other way.

Mayuri moved fast.

"Caught you!" she laughed, grabbing the little boy by the waist and spinning him gently around.

Aryan squealed — not with fear, but surprise. A sound almost like laughter escaped his lips before he quickly clamped his mouth shut.

They stood there — frozen for a second — her arms around him, his eyes wide.

Then she slowly knelt to his level. "That was a very sneaky ambush, young prince."

He blinked.

"But mangoes?" she added. "Very messy choice of weapon."

Aryan's lips twitched. Just a little.

Mayuri leaned in, stage-whispering, "Do you always attack guests with fruit, or am I special?"

This time, the tiniest giggle escaped him.

Progress.

⸻

The next few hours unfolded like a scene from a forgotten fairytale.

Mayuri let Aryan drag her to the royal cow shed where he introduced her to Gauri, a lazy white cow with bells on her neck.

Then to the pigeon coop — where, to her horror, he dared her to hold a bird (she screamed; he laughed silently).

Then to the palace kitchens, where he dipped his finger into the kheer being prepared for lunch, and she pretended to scold him — only to be caught doing the same seconds later.

They were a strange pair.

A woman carrying fresh heartbreak.

A boy carrying silent sorrow.

Yet somehow, between stolen mangoes and giggles behind pillars, they both began to breathe a little lighter.

⸻

At noon, they sat beneath the marigold tree in the garden, munching on roasted peanuts.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Mayuri asked gently.

Aryan shook his head.

"Is it because you don't want to? Or because you're afraid?"

He didn't reply. But his little hand found hers and held it.

That was answer enough.

She didn't push further. Instead, she told him a story — about a girl who once dreamed of dancing with stars, and how she learned to stand again after her wings were broken.

Aryan listened, head resting on her lap.

And for the first time since she'd entered this palace, Mayuri felt a strange warmth. Not love. Not yet. But something softer — something real.

Connection.

⸻

Later that evening, Veer found them in the same spot. Aryan had fallen asleep in Mayuri's lap, his little arms wrapped around her saree folds.

Veer said nothing at first.

He simply watched the scene — a woman who had once carried her pain like armor, now holding his son like he was treasure.

"You didn't have to spend the day with him," Veer said quietly.

"I didn't have to enjoy it either," she replied, just as softly. "But I did."

He walked closer. "He hasn't laughed like that in years."

"He didn't laugh," she corrected, smiling. "He giggled. Only once. But it was real."

Veer stared at her. "Thank you."

Mayuri looked up, her voice firm but kind. "Don't thank me. He's not broken. He just needs time. And someone who sees him, not just his silence."

Veer's expression shifted.

"Like you?" he asked.

Mayuri stood slowly, lifting the sleeping child into her arms. "No, Your Highness. Like someone who chooses to stay."

⸻

As she passed him, Veer watched her — the strength in her steps, the calm in her hands.

And he wondered:

Maybe magic didn't come in lightning bolts or royal bloodlines.

Maybe... it came in quiet women with broken hearts and gentle hands.

The sun had just begun to climb when Mayuri stepped into the palace stables, greeted by the scent of hay, the soft snorts of horses, and the unmistakable giggle of a certain little prince.

Aryan was already there — tiny boots on the wrong feet, holding a sugar cube up to a tall white stallion with more grace than expected from a seven-year-old.

"You're early," Mayuri said, surprised.

Aryan grinned. This time, with no hesitation.

He pointed to a smaller horse — dapple grey with calm eyes.

"Is that for me?" she asked.

He nodded proudly, then tugged her hand toward the saddle.

She looked down at her elegant kurta, sighed dramatically. "I am not dressed for adventure."

He crossed his arms, staring her down like a true prince.

"Oh fine," she laughed, mounting the horse. "But if I fall, you're catching me!"

⸻

The ride began slow.

They followed the trail behind the palace — past the lotus pond, through a grove of peepal trees, and onto the open plains behind the sandstone walls.

The morning breeze was cool. The silence between them was comfortable.

At one point, Aryan raced ahead on his pony, laughing — truly laughing.

Mayuri's heart clenched in the best way.

She nudged her horse forward, catching up to him. "You ride like a wild prince!"

He winked — the cheek!

They stopped by a hill, where the whole of Udaipur stretched below like a painting — lakes like mirrors, palaces like dreams, the horizon stitched in gold.

Mayuri dismounted, her legs shaky but exhilarated.

Aryan sat beside her on the grass, plucking wildflowers.

She spoke gently. "You remind me of my little brother. He live away from is now."

Aryan looked up, eyes soft with understanding.

"Do you miss him?" he asked — voice hoarse but audible. A whisper.

She turned to him in shock. "You spoke."

He nodded shyly. "Only when it matters."

Mayuri's eyes filled with tears — not of sadness, but awe.

She touched his cheek. "Yes. I miss him every day. But today... you gave me his laughter again."

Aryan leaned against her, his voice quieter this time. "You feel like home."

And just like that, something healed inside her.

⸻

Unbeknownst to them, Veer Singh Rathore stood at a distance, watching the pair from horseback.

He had been following them silently, a protective shadow.

He heard Aryan's voice — soft but clear — and something in his own chest shifted.

His son, who hadn't spoken in two years, had just called a woman home.

⸻

That night, as Mayuri walked toward the palace steps after dinner, Veer intercepted her.

He said nothing for a moment, just walked beside her under the moonlight.

Then he spoke, his voice gravelly.

"He hasn't said a word to me in years. Not a single one."

Mayuri looked up at him. "He's carrying grief he doesn't know how to name. But today... he chose joy. That's a start."

Veer nodded. "You've done more in two days than I have in two years."

She smiled gently. "Because I don't want to fix him. I just... love him as he is."

Their eyes met.

Something raw and unspoken passed between them.

Not love.

Not yet.

But a doorway.

A beginning.

A quiet possibility.