Chapter 2 - Yuvaan

                                        

                                              
The forest had teeth. It didn't bite—not right away. It chewed. 
Slowly.
Patiently.
And it sure enjoyed the taste of him unravelling.
Yuvaan clenched his fists. His jaw locked tight with frustration.
 He'd been walking in circles.
Hours? 
Days?
 He no longer knew.
But he cared.
Time mischieved in that place. The sun filtered through the canopy, wrong — silver instead of gold, cold instead of warm. Shadows dripped in the wrong directions, larger than they should be.
He pressed his palm against the bark of a twisted tree. The old scar on his skin caught against the grooves.
 A reminder. A stale one. 
Some reminders do not need to bleed to sting.
He inhaled once. Then again.
Still no wind. Still no direction.
Only the voice in the back of his head—not loud, not cruel. But constant.
Focus, Yuvaan. Finish what you started. Finish what you owe.
He longed for her voice, though he loathed the weight it carried.
His boots were soaked, ruined. His clothes were ragged. His shoulders ached—not from armour, but from a heavier kind of burden. The kind no one could see. The kind that never left.
And then he saw her.
Not a glimpse. Not a shadow.
He saw her. He followed her.
He saw when her companions left. One after another.
He saw when she continued. One step after another.
She hadn't noticed him at first, and he should've walked away. Should've stayed hidden. Should have followed silently.
Holy gods! There were millions of things he could do.
 But he spoke.
He didn't know why.
He didn't want to know why.
What he knew was that she commanded her men to leave.
Like this was her journey alone.
A girl—no, a woman—alone in a place built for ruin. He felt she was his ruin.
She moved like the forest owed her something. She hadn't flinched when he stepped into view. That alone had earned his attention. His respect. 
But her face—gods!
She was noble. He had figured, but there was something untamed about her beauty. 
Not the polished beauty of a court darling. Hers was sharp. Fierce. Regal in the way of wolves, not crowns.
And when she spoke—
 She had expected danger. She'd seen him reach for her, and yet, she hadn't stepped back.
 Her fingers had twitched toward her weapon. He noticed. She was trained. Or angry. Or both.
 He'd met enough warriors to recognise one. The precise, hard-earned kind.
 She wielded her control like a sword. She reminded him too much of himself. But something about her was... steadier. As if the world had tried to break her and she'd refused to bend.