Page 67 of Scars and Crowns

Back then, it almost did. The crowd adored him. I was far more interested in the boy standing beside me. Yuvaan never looked at the spectators.

He watched the match with an intensity that didn't belong on a ten-year-old's face. His hands would remain tucked neatly behind his back, his posture perfect enough to satisfy every tutor in the palace, but I always noticed the tiny things no one else seemed to.

The way he'd lean forward almost imperceptibly when the ball raced toward the goal. The way his jaw tightened whenever his father's team fell behind. The way his fingers curled into his palms whenever a rider made a particularly difficult shot. "Are you excited?" I'd asked him once, nudging his shoulder after one of the goals.

He hadn't even looked at me. "No." The answer had come too quickly. "It's just a game." I never believed him. Not once. I asked him some version of the same question before every polo match after that, and every year he answered differently with exactly the same lie.

"It's fine."

"It's nothing."

"I don't really care."

But I knew him. Even then. He wanted it. Not the applause. Not the attention. The game itself. He loved watching it with the kind of quiet longing only children who are told no too often ever learn to hide. His father never allowed him to play. Too dangerous. Too much risk for the future Maharaja. The heir couldn't afford broken bones. Couldn't afford accidents. Couldn't afford wanting something that wasn't duty.

Kairav, on the other hand, being the younger son, rode whenever he pleased. Yuvaan stood beside me instead. Watching. Always watching. Which is why, standing at the edge of that same field after so many years, something shifts quietly inside me as I watch him swing effortlessly onto a chestnut mare.

He's actually playing. Not watching. Not pretending he doesn't care. Playing. The thought settles somewhere deep in my chest with surprising warmth. I don't think I've ever seen him do something simply because it made him happy. Not once. He's beautiful on horseback.

The realization arrives before I can stop it. The afternoon sun catches against the polished leather of his boots as the horse surges forward, and he moves with an ease that feels completely different from the composed Maharaja I see every morning over breakfast.

There is nothing restrained about him here.

No council meetings.

No careful expressions.

No invisible crown pressing against his spine.

Just a man and a horse moving together with effortless confidence.

There's something almost boyish about him. Something wonderfully familiar. I find myself smiling without realizing it. Kairav tears across the field moments later, shouting something unintelligible toward Samrat that earns the rarest thing in the world—a genuine grin from Samrat. Even from here it's obvious how different all four of them are. Kairav plays entirely with his heart, charging into impossible angles simply because they look entertaining.

Samrat is precise, calculating every movement before he makes it, treating the match the way he'd probably negotiate a business acquisition. Amish spends more time loudly commenting on his own shots than actually taking them, somehow managing to narrate the game for everyone within fifty feet whether they asked him to or not.

And then there's Yuvaan. Quieter. Steadier. He never wastes movement. Every strike is controlled. Every turn is deliberate. The ball seems to obey him. Each clean shot draws appreciative murmurs from the spectators gathered around the field, and I catch myself smiling every single time.

I don't even realise I've been watching only him. Until everything goes wrong. It happens so quickly my mind refuses to process it at first. One second the horse is galloping cleanly.

The next—Something changes.

A stumble.

A wrong step.

Yuvaan's balance shifts. For the briefest fraction of a second his body hangs suspended in the air before gravity wins. He hits the ground hard. The sound seems impossibly loud. The horse bolts away riderless. Around me the crowd gasps as one.

My own heart seems to stop. I don't remember making the decision to run. One moment I'm standing behind the rope barrier. The next I'm already pushing past it. Someone calls after me.

I don't hear who.

Grass slips beneath my shoes as I run across the field, every heartbeat crashing painfully against my ribs.

Please.

Please just be okay.

By the time I reach him, two members of the ground staff are already helping him to his feet. He's brushing them away with visible irritation. There's dirt across one shoulder. His left arm hangs just slightly differently than the other. And a thin line of blood has begun trickling down from a graze near his jaw. Then he sees me. Something flickers across his face. Surprise first. Then something softer. "I'm fine," he says immediately.