Page 3 of Scars and Crowns

"I will."

The final whistle cuts through the station. Sharp. Merciless. People begin climbing into the train in a hurry. Porters shout. Doors slam. Someone calls out for their father.

Time, which had seemed frozen until now, lurches forward all at once.

Anamika looks toward the compartment before looking back at me.

Neither of us moves. Not immediately. Then she steps forward and wraps her arms around me.

The hug is quick. Far too quick. But it steals every coherent thought from my head anyway. She smells faintly of sandalwood soap and old books.

Home. That’s what she is to me.

"I could never forget you, Pretty Boy," she murmurs against my shoulder.

The nickname lands exactly where it always has.

Except today, instead of making me grumble, it breaks something quietly inside me.

I force myself to smile before she pulls away. "Go," I say.

If she waits another second, I don't know if I'll still be strong enough to let her. She nods once. Then she turns.

I watch her weave through the crowd, one hand gripping the duffel bag, the other still wrapped around the little velvet box.

She doesn't look back immediately.

She always looks back.

Just before climbing the steps into the coach, she pauses.

Our eyes meet across the chaos of the platform. She lifts the box ever so slightly.

A promise. A thank you. A goodbye.

Then she's gone.

The train jerks forward with a metallic groan. Slowly. Painfully. I stand where I am long after the last compartment disappears around the bend.

People brush past my shoulder.

The platform empties. Another train arrives. Another family reunites. Another goodbye begins somewhere behind me.

Life moves on with astonishing ease. Mine doesn't.

Because somewhere between the first whistle and the last glimpse of her disappearing through that train door . . . my heart left this station too.

THE HOLLOW THRONE

7 YEARS LATER

YUVAAN

There are days when this palace feels less like a home . . . and more like a museum where I'm expected to play the role of a man who's been dead for centuries.

The council chamber is the worst of it.

The room hasn't changed in my thirty years of life. The same carved teak table dominates the center—polished so often that its surface reflects the afternoon light pouring in through the tall arched windows. Portraits of my ancestors line the walls, each one wearing the same expression—stoic, regal, impossible to read. They watch every meeting in complete silence, as if judging whether I'm worthy of sitting where they once did.