HIS RANI SAHIBA

12. MIRAYA

6th August, 2016

I asked him his name today. Not his title, not what the world calls him, but his name, the one he was given before power shaped him into something unyielding.

For a moment, he just looked at me. As if no one had asked before. As if his name was a relic of a past he no longer claimed.

And then, in that deep, measured voice of his, he spoke.

"Agastya."

The name settled into the air between us, heavy, unshakable. It suited him - sharp, commanding, ancient, like something carved into stone and left to stand against time itself.

I whispered it back to him, tasting it on my tongue.

Agastya.

His gaze darkened. Not in anger, not in warning, but in something else. Something I did not yet understand.

I wonder if anyone else dares to say his name. If it has ever been spoken softly, with wonder instead of fear. If it has ever been held like a secret, instead of a curse.

To the world, he is a beast, a man who bends men to his will. But to me, in that moment, he was simply Agastya.

And for the first time, I felt as though I had touched something real.

10th August, 2016

I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn't thinking at all.

One moment, there was silence - calm, controlled, deceptive. Next, chaos.

The servant had barely gasped when Agastya's hand was already around his throat, lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing. A splash of water darkened his white shirt, a tiny, insignificant accident. But to him, it was not insignificant. It was an offense. A mistake that required punishment.

And God help me - I moved before I could stop myself.

I don't remember stepping forward. I don't remember reaching for him. But suddenly, my arms were around him, my hands pressed against his back, my cheek against the warmth of his chest.

It was like an embracing stone.

He did not move. He did not breathe.

His entire body was coiled like a beast about to strike, every muscle rigid beneath my touch. I could feel the raw, terrifying power beneath my fingers - the kind of strength that could snap a man's neck like a twig.

The room was deadly silent. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe.

I held on, though my hands trembled. I had no plan, no words, nothing but the desperate hope that my presence alone would be enough to halt the inevitable.

For a moment, he just stood there.

Then, slowly, terrifyingly, his grip loosened. The servant crumpled to the floor, coughing and gasping for breath.

But I didn't move. I couldn't. Because he was still standing there, still silent, still impossibly still.

I was too afraid to look up, too afraid to see the expression I knew would be on his face.

I had touched him.

I had stopped him.

And now, I would have to face the consequences.

I don't know how long we stood like that - his body was rigid, mine trembling, my breath shallow against his chest. Seconds? A lifetime?

Then, without a word, he pulled away.