Love, when it takes root in a woman's heart, is not a gentle thing. It is not the wispy, delicate waltz of petals on a spring breeze. No, it is something far more feral, something with teeth. It's a river slicing through ancient rock, stubborn in its mission, slow in its wreckage. It's the silent rage of the moon, dragging tides, shaking worlds, never begging, never bowing.

Samhita loves like this. Not in half-measures, not in borrowed light. Hers is the kind of love that does not bloom to be admired but to consume. It is both sanctuary and storm, the warmth of fire and the danger of flame. When she loves, it is with the certainty of the earth beneath her feet—taut, constant, boundless.

She checks her reflection in the mirror once more and smiles to herself. She is dressed in a white garb comprising an elegant blouse with golden embroidery and a full-flared skirt that moves like poetry with every step. Jewels kiss her wrists and ears. Every piece makes her feel just as royal as the stories she once lost herself in.

Just like Vikramaditya had described how women dressed back in those days.