Samhita runs down the corridor like a woman chased by her own shadow. Her legs won't obey her; they wobble, stagger, as if they belong to someone else. Breath tears through her lungs in ragged gulps, hot and stinging. The mist in her eyes makes the hallway swim. Fear—new, ugly and alien claws at her chest. She has never felt it like this before, and it is unbearable.

The guards shove the door open. She stumbles through and stops dead.

Vikramaditya is there, back bent, hands working. He is folding his silks, taking down ornaments, packing their life away as if it is nothing more than laundry to be shoved into a trunk.

"What are you doing, Arya?" Her voice cracks in the middle, though the answer is already written in the scene before her eyes.

He doesn't look at her. "I will be moving my belongings out, and we will no longer be living together."