The Rathod summer palace in Udaipur stood like a dream carved in white sandstone and secrets. Turrets touched the sky, the scent of mogra hung thick in the air, and the halls echoed with centuries of power. But that morning, it echoed with something else.
Screaming.
Reewa Singhal’s voice, high and furious, pierced through the royal gardens like a lightning bolt. She stood in the middle of the courtyard, tiny fists clenched, eyes blazing with betrayal.
“You broke it, you devil boy!”
Across the fountain stood Rudraksh Singh Rathod—crown prince of Udaipur and mischief incarnate. Eight years old, dressed in an ivory kurta-pajama set that was already dust-streaked from running, and a wicked smirk curling on his face.
“I didn’t break it,” he said lazily, balancing a slingshot in one hand. “I improved it.”
“You tore my prince’s head off and glued a horse’s butt in its place!” Reewa cried, holding up the paper-mâché sculpture she’d made for her grandmother. Or what was left of it.
“You’re welcome,” he said with a mock bow. “Now it’s a royal centaur. Much cooler.”
“It was for Daadi! It was supposed to go in her puja room!” she screeched, tears of rage welling up.
Rudraksh’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. Reewa Singhal crying was… wrong. She didn’t cry. She threw mangoes, kicked shins, and insulted his intellect like a tiny empress. But cry? No.
“I didn’t know it was for her,” he muttered, suddenly avoiding her eyes.
“You don’t care!” she sniffled, voice wobbling. “You just love ruining everything I touch.”
He looked up at that. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do!” Reewa stomped her foot. “You’re a villain in my story, Rudraksh Singh Rathod!”
He tilted his head, his voice quiet now. “Then maybe you should stop writing me in it.”
That stilled her. For a moment, the storm cracked into silence.
Somewhere in the garden maze, peacocks cried. Inside the veranda, the adults continued sipping tea and reminiscing about politics and legacies. And at the farthest corner, Ira Rathod and Ishaan Singhal peeked from behind a pillar, holding their breath.
“This is gonna end in blood,” Ira whispered gleefully.
“Or a proposal,” Ishaan muttered, rolling his eyes.
—
Reewa bent to gather the broken pieces of her craft, her bottom lip trembling. Her daadi, Ishi Singhal, had loved her art projects. She'd called Reewa her “mini creator.” And Reewa had worked three whole afternoons to make the tiny prince for her—complete with a paper rose and a glitter-studded crown.
Rudraksh watched her silently, something churning in his chest he didn’t know how to name. Guilt? Regret? Maybe both.
“I can fix it,” he said gruffly.
She didn’t answer.
“I have glue. And golden sparkles. And a new brush.”
Still silence.
He crouched beside her, poking a fingertip into the dirt. “I’m sorry.”
Her head snapped up. “You what?”
“I said I’m sorry, okay?” he grumbled. “I thought it was just another one of your stupid princess things.”
Reewa blinked. He’d never apologized. Not when he pulled her braid. Not when he put lemon juice in her juice. Not even when he wrote “Drama Queen” on her kite during the Republic Day race.
She wasn’t sure what to do with it.
So she said the only thing she could. “You’re still a devil.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yeah, but I’m your devil.”
Her eyes widened. “What?!”
“I mean—! Your devil to fight! Not, like… your devil-devil,” he said quickly, ears turning pink. “Don’t be weird, Reewa.”
She folded her arms, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face now. “You like me.”
“I hate you.”
“You like me.”
“I loathe you.”
“You like me, Rudraksh Rathod, and now I have proof.”
“What proof?!”
“You blushed,” she said, smug.
“I DID NOT.”
“I’m going to tell Ira and Veer and even Veer’s scary tutor who bites when she’s mad.”
Rudraksh stood up, growling. “You are pure evil, Reewa Singhal.”
She stood too, standing on her toes to pat his head like he was a misbehaving puppy. “And you’re my little villain. Now go get that glue, soldier.”
He stomped off dramatically.
And Reewa smiled to herself, the sun catching her glittering clip, hair tousled by the wind.
She didn’t know yet that this boy—this enemy who called her sunshine to her face and his in his mind—would one day move heaven, hell, and kingdoms just to keep her.
But he knew.
He’d always known.
----
That evening, the palace glittered in golden silence as the adults gathered in the royal courtyard for cocktails and legacy talk. Men in bandhgalas and women in chiffon sarees sipped wine beneath carved jharokhas while the younger generation played among the jasmine vines.
Except for two.
Reewa sat cross-legged in the Rathod royal library, supervising the emergency “Prince Restoration” operation. Rudraksh sat beside her, brows furrowed in monk-like focus, glue smeared across his cheek, gold sparkles sticking to his elbow.
“No, no! Not there,” Reewa snapped, snatching the brush from his hand. “The crown goes on the prince’s head, not the horse butt!”
“Your prince is confusing,” he muttered, frowning.
“He’s regal and artistic and a perfect gentleman,” she declared, carefully pressing the crown on.
“He’s boring and wears too much glitter,” Rudraksh shot back.
She looked at him pointedly. “Like you wear too much attitude.”
He grinned. “That’s not a bug. It’s a feature.”
Reewa rolled her eyes but the edge of her lips twitched. She hated how his smile made it harder to stay mad. It was the same smile that once charmed a palace cat into sitting on his head like a crown. The same smile that made Ira sigh and call him “dangerously charming,” even at eight.
And right now, he was using it to make her forget he’d ruined her art project. Again.
“You owe me ice cream,” she said abruptly.
He looked up. “What?”
“For emotional damages. I cried.”
“I said sorry!”
She sniffed. “I accept your apology. But healing requires sugar.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “You want vanilla?”
She made a face. “I’m not ninety.”
“Chocolate?”
“Boring.”
He groaned. “Then what?”
She leaned in, whispering like it was classified military intel: “Kesar pista with rose crumble and saffron threads.”
Rudraksh stared at her like she’d spoken in alien tongues. “You’re not eight. You’re eighty.”
“I’m refined.”
“You’re weird.”
“And you’re obsessed with me.”
He choked on air. “Excuse me?”
“You’re always near me. You mess with my projects. You follow me around like a bodyguard with attitude.”
“I do NOT!”
“You so do. Ask Ira. She says you glared at her math teacher because he told me I was clever.”
“That man was creepy,” Rudraksh muttered, avoiding her eyes.
“And last week, you snatched my report card to ‘make sure it was authentic.’” She raised a brow. “You’re obsessed, Rudra.”
He scowled. “I’m not obsessed. I just don’t trust anyone around you.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he couldn’t.
Because even at eight, his brain had already wrapped around the idea of Reewa Singhal being his—his rival, his headache, his heartbeat.
He didn’t know what it meant yet. Only that if anyone else made her smile, he wanted to punch a wall. That when she cried, something in his chest cracked. And when she laughed, it felt like winning a war he hadn’t signed up for.
“You’re weird too,” she said finally, softly.
“I know.”
“Maybe we’re both weird.”
“Maybe.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the glue dry.
Outside, the sun dipped below the Aravallis, bleeding orange and crimson across the sky. The palace domes glowed. Somewhere near the lake, a flute played an old Rajasthani lullaby.
It should’ve been a normal summer night.
But fate had other plans.
Later That Night
Reewa tiptoed into the garden with Ira, both girls barefoot, clutching a jar with tiny holes poked in the lid.
“Ready?” Reewa whispered.
Ira nodded, eyes gleaming with adventure. “Operation Firefly begins.”
Behind them, Rudraksh watched from his terrace, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
“What is she doing out there barefoot at night?” he muttered.
Beside him, Veer Singh Rathod, his cousin, shrugged. “Catching bugs? You gonna join or glare her into submission?”
“She should’ve told someone she was going out there.”
Veer snorted. “You’ve got it bad, bro.”
Rudraksh didn’t respond. He was too focused on the wild tangle of jasmine and fireflies where Reewa now danced, spinning with the jar in her hands, laughter echoing through the darkness like bells.
He should’ve looked away.
Instead, he memorized the moment—the way her hair glowed in the moonlight, how her dupatta fluttered like wings, how she cupped the jar with such tenderness.
She was light in a world that had already taught him shadows.
And one day, he promised himself, that light would belong to him.
Even if he had to burn the world to claim it.
-------------
The firefly jar sat between them now, softly glowing.
They’d returned from the garden with muddy feet, mosquito bites, and giggles echoing behind them. Now Reewa and Rudraksh sat under the old mango tree behind the east wing—hidden from the guards, from the watchful eyes of royalty and rules.
The moonlight made her look like something out of a folktale.
He hated it.
He hated how everything about her shimmered.
“Did you know,” Reewa whispered, tilting the jar slightly, “fireflies glow to attract love?”
He rolled his eyes. “They glow so they don’t get stepped on.”
“No,” she argued. “They glow because they’re calling their match. It’s like, ‘Hey, are you out there too?’”
“That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
He grinned. “Did your grandma tell you that?”
“She told me that even stars fall in love. And if you stare long enough, one will fall for you.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“She said the best things always are.”
They sat quietly after that. The kind of silence only kids with history can share.
They weren’t strangers. They were raised in the same summers, the same palaces, the same whispers of family legacy. Their grandfathers had built empires together. Their fathers still smoked cigars on the same balconies. Their mothers traded sarees and temple gossip.
But Reewa and Rudraksh?
They were a war waiting to happen.
She poked his shoulder. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
He thought for a second. “King.”
“You already are a king,” she said, unimpressed. “Your name literally means ‘prayer flame,’ and you live in a freaking palace.”
“Okay then. Mafia King.”
She blinked. “That’s… very specific.”
He grinned, eyes wicked. “I want to run the kind of empire that no one sees coming. Royal on the outside. Ruthless beneath. Like a cobra in a crown.”
Reewa laughed. “You’re going to be on India Today one day. Rudraksh Rathod: Royal Menace or National Mystery?”
“What about you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
She beamed. “Food.”
He blinked. “You want to eat when you grow up?”
“No, silly.” She spun a dream into the air with her hands. “I want to build the biggest luxury restaurant chain in India. With fairy lights and rooftop gardens and menus that change with your mood. I’ll name it Dewdrops.”
He tilted his head. “That’s not a restaurant. That’s a therapy retreat.”
She shrugged. “Food is therapy.”
He stared at her dream with unexpected respect. “You’ll do it.”
She glanced at him. “How do you know?”
“Because you’re annoying and stubborn and crazy enough to make it happen.”
Her smile softened. “Thanks, Rudra.”
He didn’t smile back.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny red thread.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A promise.”
She raised a brow. “That’s a friendship thread.”
“No,” he said, tying it around her wrist. “It’s a claim. I saw it in a movie. You tie it, and now the person belongs to you forever.”
She gaped. “You can’t just tie me to you!”
“I just did.”
“That’s not how claiming people works!”
He leaned in, dark eyes glittering. “Maybe it is in my world.”
She should’ve snatched it off. She should’ve argued. Kicked him in the shin like always.
But she didn’t.
Because for one breathless second, Reewa Singhal felt something strange bloom in her chest.
Not friendship.
Not rivalry.
But the very first pulse of something terrifyingly… fated.
-------
The next morning came with disaster.
And this time, it wasn’t Reewa’s doing.
It happened in a split second.
The children were in the palace stables. Rudraksh had just dared Reewa to climb onto his royal horse—Ashwa, the tempest-black stallion trained for ceremonial rides.
“She’s too small,” Veer warned. “That horse is trained for cavalry routines.”
“I’m not small,” Reewa hissed. “And I’m not scared either.”
Rudraksh smirked. “Go on then, Princess Firefly. Ride my horse.”
And she did.
Because if there was one thing Reewa hated more than glitter accidents, it was losing to him.
But something went wrong.
The moment she swung her leg over, the saddle slipped. The horse, spooked, reared up violently. Reewa screamed—then fell.
The crack of her head hitting the stable floor silenced everything.
Blood bloomed.
Screams followed.
Rudraksh didn’t remember running. Only falling to his knees beside her, shaking her shoulders, his voice hoarse. “REWA! Wake up! Stop messing around—this isn’t funny—Reewa—!”
But she didn’t move.
He remembered her hand twitching. The red thread he’d tied around her wrist stained with blood. He remembered shouting for the doctor. Shouting at himself.
He’d dared her.
He’d put her up there.
And now she was broken.
Ishaan pulled him back. “Let the doctor—Rudra—she’s bleeding, just—let go—!”
But Rudraksh didn’t let go.
He sat there holding her hand until they carried her inside, whispering over and over again like a prayer.
“Don’t you dare leave me.”
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