A chance

“Everything yours will be mine?” I asked, seeking confirmation.

“Yes,” he said. “Me, my family, this Chiryut Mahal, the kingdoms, and those black weapons — everything I possess will be yours, without asking for anything in return. We will be bound by fate.”

“If everything you own will be mine, then everything I own will be yours too?” I questioned.

“Not necessarily. Only if you want to, otherwise nothing,” he replied.

“You’re confusing me,” I said, unable to understand the true meaning of marriage. “Then how come everything of yours will be mine? Are you really willing to give it all to me?”

“Yes,” came his simple reply.

I looked at him in disbelief. What did he truly want? What was he even asking me?

“But what is marriage? And how do we do it?” I asked, unaware of the concept.

A small chuckle escaped his lips. He looked at me and smiled — a bright, warm smile.

Why do these humans always smile? I wondered for a second.

He got up from the bed, walked toward me, knelt down, and held my hand once again.

Uff… the constant urge of humans to hold hands.

We gazed at each other in silence. Why did he look so calm and composed?

“Who are you? And why are you willing to give everything you own to me?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said softly, eyes lowered, fixed on our clasped hands. “Your eyes… they remind me of someone — someone very close, very dear to me. I lost her. I couldn’t protect her. I kept calling her name, but my eyes never stopped shedding tears. I could do nothing to save her, and that grief still surrounds me. They took her away from me. And now, no power in the universe can bring her back. Not even me. Not even those weapons. All my power, all my strength… feel meaningless.”

His voice broke near the end. What was it that had made his heart so heavy? I couldn’t understand.

“So, what do you want from me?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“What if it’s your strategy to weaken me and keep me caged here forever?” I asked, suspicion lacing my tone.

“I promise, I will never hurt you or plot against you. If you ask me to die, I’ll do it happily,” he said, trying to assure me.

“But how can I believe you?” I pressed.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything you ask,” he replied.

“Take me to the world of black weapons,” I demanded.

He looked blankly at me for a moment — then smiled faintly. Humans do smile a lot.

This time, I smiled back, just a little. “You said you’d do anything,” I reminded him.

He rose to his feet, took my hands in his again, and asked me to walk with him. Humans and their habits of holding hands.

I matched my steps with his. Soon, we were outside the palace.

"Was that a secret door we came through?” I asked, realizing it wasn’t the same one we had entered from.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“But why did you show me your secret passage? What if I misuse it? What if I use it against you?”

The questions slipped from my tongue unguarded, without thought or restraint.

“Then use it,” he said, his tone calm — almost careless.

I stared at him, disbelief flickering across my face, though I hid it well. How could someone speak so easily of his own weakness?

“Are you not afraid?” I asked.

He chuckled softly, then stopped. Turning, he stepped before me. Only then did I notice — our hands were still entwined. I looked up at him. His eyes were smiling. Then, unexpectedly, he lifted his other hand and gently cupped my face. His touch was light, reverent.

“I can’t risk others seeing you,” he murmured. “Your wings are still visible. I’m not foolish enough to expose your secret when you’re fighting with all you have to keep it hidden.”

His voice — his words — settled deep within me. Why did he always leave me caught between belief and confusion, between trust and fear?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His voice carried the weight of sorrow. “I couldn’t protect your wings. Years of your sacrifice, your struggle… all burnt away like cloth in a careless flame.”

The pain in his tone stilled the world around us. Even the night seemed to listen.

He reached out and touched my wings — gently, as though touching prayer itself.

And then — it happened.

A shimmer spread beneath his fingertips. My wings began to heal, as if time itself reversed its cruelty. Burnt feathers mended; silver and gold light spiraled across them like rivers of dawn. New feathers unfurled, radiant and strong. A surge of warmth — of power — rushed through me.

I felt alive again.

Without thought, I spread my wings and rose — higher, above the forest canopy, the wind beneath me singing freedom. The sky embraced me like an old friend. For a heartbeat, I forgot everything — even him.

When I descended, he stood below, looking up. I landed beside him and, moved by something I couldn’t name, threw my arms around him. For once, I didn’t care what was right or proper. I just held him.

“You healed me,” I whispered, my voice trembling with joy. “Thank you.”

Yes — I had learned gratitude, and this time, it came from my heart.

After a long silence, we began to walk again. The forest stretched before us, dark yet beautiful, like a secret waiting to be told. He still held my hand — his touch steady, grounding.

Soon, two familiar shapes appeared through the mist — the brown and the white horses.

I approached the brown one, as before, while he mounted the white.

But unlike last time, they walked slowly — unhurried, graceful — as though even the horses wished to linger beneath the starlit sky, to savor the calm of this strange, enchanted night.

The horses walked side by side beneath the silver canopy of night. For a long time, neither of us spoke. I didn’t know what we were trying to grasp from this deep, silent darkness — the rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind, or the meaning of our quiet hearts. I didn’t know how far we had travelled, nor where we were. I simply followed him —the way a child follows its mother.

“We humans,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, “are not that bad.”

I glanced at him, caught off guard. “Hmm?”

“We humans are not that bad,” he repeated, this time with a faint smile.

“Why are you saying that so suddenly?” I asked.

“I don’t know who told you what about us,” he said, “but we’re not as terrible as the stories make us sound.”

I frowned. “But whoever knows of humans… never speaks kindly of them.”

He turned his gaze toward me — steady, unflinching — and I met it.

“Humans are simple,” he began. “The simplest creation of God. We have no powers. No magic. No hidden strength within our veins.”

“What?” I asked, surprised. Humans without powers? Without magic? That was something new — something I had never imagined.

“No,” he confirmed gently.

“Then how do you survive?” I asked.

He smiled faintly. “Everything eventually works out. We do our best, and we make sure not to leave behind regrets.”

“Explain,” I urged softly. “In simple words. I want to know about humans — from a human.”

He looked ahead, his voice growing calm, certain, deep.

“Humans are bound by one law — Humanity. No other power in the universe can command us. Humanity teaches us to be simple, calm, kind, and helpful.

When we see someone in trouble, we reach out — not because we expect something in return, but because helping is in our nature. That’s what humanity truly means.”

His words flowed like the river we once crossed together — slow, endless, pure.

“When we make a promise,” he continued, “we keep it — even if it costs us our lives. Breaking a promise feels like breaking our soul.”

I listened, captivated.

Humans — the powerless ones — speaking of strength greater than magic.

“When a child is born,” he said softly, “his innocence wins every heart. But as he grows, it becomes his choice — whether he wishes to be a good human or a bad one.” He paused, as though searching for the right truth.

“‘Bad human’— it’s only a saying,” he added. “No one is purely good or purely evil. Good and evil walk side by side.

A human lives in constant battle — not against the world, but against himself.”

The night deepened. The moonlight poured over his face, and his voice became the only sound I could hear.

“As we grow,” he said, “our parents, our surroundings, our learning, and the people we meet — they shape us. They decide how much light or darkness we carry within.

Innocence doesn’t stay forever. We begin to see truth and lies, and in time, we learn the difference between being good, doing good, and pretending to be good.

They are not the same.”

He looked at the road ahead, his tone soft but sure.

“There are people who are truly good — they neither speak nor think ill of anyone. Goodness flows through them naturally. They are gentle souls, but that also makes them fragile — the world often hurts them most.”

A breeze brushed my hair; his voice grew quieter.

“Then there are those who try to be good — their path is hardest. They choose to walk through fire rather than burn another. They could be cruel if they wished, but they refuse. They fight silent wars every day — battles within themselves — and still, they try to stay kind. These humans… they speak little. Their silence is both their armor and their prayer.” These kind of humans are little dangerous too. If you mess with them or cross your line, they will teach you a good lesson, making sure that you won't repeat it.

He exhaled, almost sorrowfully.

“And then,” he said, “there are the ones who pretend to be good. They wear masks of kindness — beautiful masks, but hollow. They are friendly when they must be, sweet when it benefits them, and indifferent when it does not. They neither care for others’ pain nor joy. They smile at your face and curse behind your back. They are the biggest enemies of any human — for they corrupt the meaning of goodness itself.”

His words lingered in the air, like mist refusing to fade. I looked at him — a human, without powers or magic, yet speaking of things even gods seldom understand.

“Do such creatures truly exist?” I interrupted. “Are they not mythological — mere tales from ancient books and bedtime stories?” I could almost hear my godmother’s voice, whispering those fables of fragile beings — creatures without magic, without power, yet living peacefully, with no grand purpose or dangerous ambition.

“That’s not true,” he said, when my voice faded into the night. “We humans do have a great purpose — just not one that seeks to conquer the universe or rule over creation.”

His eyes glimmered with quiet conviction.

“As God made us with love, our greatest purpose is to spread that love — to protect it, to keep it alive among one another.

We live for our loved ones, and for the responsibilities we carry — the duties of being a son or daughter, a brother, a sister, a friend, a husband, a wife, a father… a mother. These bonds — they weave meaning into our lives. They give us purpose, even without magic.”

“Love?” I asked softly.

He turned to me, surprised. “You don’t know what love is?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I’ve heard the word before, but I thought only gods could love — that love was something divine, a feeling that belonged to the heavens, not to us.”

I paused, searching for sense. “How can you humans love? How can something so sacred exist among you?”

He smiled then — a smile so bright, it seemed to warm the darkness around us.

“Then God truly blessed us,” he said gently. “He gave humans something so pure, so delicate, that it connects us directly to Him. He blessed us with love. That’s why I say — humans are His most beloved creation.”

His words silenced me. I could only listen — to his voice, and to the strange stirring in my own heart. “You know,” he continued softly, “love is the most powerful force in the universe.”

“No, it is not,” I said, my tone sharp with defiance. “Love makes one weak.” The words of Vasna(वासना) echoed in my mind, cold and clear.

He looked at me for a long moment — then shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, his voice steady. “Love makes us powerful.

When I lost my mother to those evils,” he whispered, “it was her love that gave me the strength to rise. Her love became my fire — the venom that burned through my veins, the force that awakened those black weapons. I was just a mere human once, fragile and powerless… but love made me brave enough to challenge the universe itself — to fight the gods, if I had to — for the justice she was denied.”

His words struck me like lightning — fierce, aching, undeniable. That fragile creature, born without magic, had wielded the greatest power of all — not of destruction, but of devotion.

“You lost your mother… to evil’s hands?” I asked, feeling something stir deep within me — something I couldn’t name.

He didn’t speak for a while. Then his voice came — hoarse, heavy, and yet unbroken.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“I lost her — my mother, the one who gave me life. And the woman you met in the palace… she is my mother too, the wife of my father’s younger brother. She raised me as her own. She fed me, taught me, loved me — and made me human.”

His voice faded toward the end, like a flame fighting the wind. Then he went silent.

So did I.

The night deepened around us —a silence thicker than darkness itself.

Marriage. Love. Humans.

There was too much to understand, too much to untangle. My thoughts spiraled — a thousand questions all whispering at once.

If humans truly had no powers, no magic, then why did the non-humans speak so ill of them?

Had they lied to me?

Anger rose inside — the kind that makes the air itself shiver. They know I despise lies. They know it drives me mad.

“What if you are lying to me?” I asked suddenly, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “All this talk — all these words about humanity and love… they can’t be true. How can a mere human live such a great life?” He looked at me — calm, unshaken.

“Then give it a chance,” he said simply.

“A chance?” I repeated, unsure I’d heard him right.

“Yes. A chance.”

He met my eyes. “You’re here among humans now. Stay, explore, see for yourself if what I said is truth — or lies. And if you ever need help… I’ll be there.”

His voice carried something strange — a kind of safety I’d never known before.

I held his gaze. “And how long will it take?” I asked. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But for now… we have time. Until I find your way back home — back to your Chiryut Mahal.”

“You’re finding my home?” I asked, startled. His words struck me cold. “How much do you know about me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You are Shivali — a queen. You live in Chiryut Mahal. You do not belong to this earth. That’s all I know.”

Relief swept through me like wind through fire. He didn’t know my truth. Not yet.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I’ll find your home soon.”

“You don’t have to,” I replied, my tone sharp but steady. “I’ll find it myself. Once I see those weapons, I’ll leave — and never come back. I have no time for earthly lessons, no interest in these human things. We can both return to our normal lives.”

When I finished, I looked at him — and something in him had changed. His face turned pale, his eyes emptied of light, his smile — gone.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said quietly.

“So you’ll return home… tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

“Thank you — for everything you’ve done,” I added, because expressing gratitude is the greatest habit of a leader, of a queen.

But deep inside, another voice rose — cold, determined.

Once I leave this place, I will uncover the truth about these humans. And whoever lied to me… I will make them remember it for the rest of their lives.