The air in Mehrawan’s secret archives was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dry ink, and the dust of forgotten centuries. Unlike the opulent, brightly lit halls of the main palace, this chamber was a labyrinth of shadows, its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with towering shelves of scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and ancient clay tablets. A single, flickering oil lamp hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting an anemic glow that barely pierced the gloom, leaving most of the room in deep, oppressive darkness.
Iravika sat perched on a low, carved stool, a small, heavy scroll clutched in her hands. Her pale-green silk choli, mended hastily after the previous day’s brutal encounter in the corridor, felt like a fragile shield against the cold, silent judgment of the past. The torn fabric was a constant reminder of Raidant’s raw power, his possessive claim. But it was also a reminder of her own desperate, unthinking physical response, a confusing betrayal that gnawed at her.
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