Semua Bab The Rule: Bab 101 - Bab 110

The arrival of the royal caravan was celebrated throughout the Kingdom with great joy and overflowing delight.The ministers who had remained in Tziyonia, along with the priests and nobles, had all set their hearts on welcoming Ayman and the people returning with him.But above all, they eagerly awaited the return of their queen — Inayat — whom they had lost along with the king.Now, joy burst through the streets of the kingdom.Flags waved high in the air, and flower petals rained down in soft showers.The air of Tziyonia shimmered in pinks and golds under the brilliant blue sky.How beautiful it all looked.Among the crowd, Abhiman tossed rose petals at Aabroo when no one was looking, making her chuckle and respond with a mock glare.It was all done discreetly, behind the backs of the public eye.It wasn’t romantic.Or so they told themselves.And certainly, they didn’t want anyone to take it that way.But they couldn’t escape Ayman’s eyes.He saw everything.⸻❃༉‧₊˚.༄ ⸻Aabroo sat i

Aabroo's eyes widened the moment she realised how close they had been. She quickly rose to her feet, adjusting the dupatta over her shoulders, her gaze turning away in embarrassment.Meanwhile, Abhiman remained where he was, still lost in the remnants of a dream. He lay on her bed, his breath soft, and a strange regret beginning to settle in his chest. Why had she pulled away? He had cherished the warmth of her nearness — so much so that it now seemed to course through his very veins.With a frustrated breath, he sat up, awkwardly running his fingers through his tousled dark hair and turning his face away.Neither could meet the other’s eyes.At last, Abhiman broke the silence. “I’m sorry for—”But Aabroo didn’t reply. She walked past him without a word, her silence sharper than any scolding. He tensed at her coldness, but before either could speak further, a knock at the door interrupted them.The door, already ajar due to Abhiman’s earlier entry, revealed Ridhima standing on the thr

For the wedding function, Aabroo adorned herself in a lehenga of white and emerald silk. She stood before the mirror, her eyes tracing the reflection with quiet wonder. A thought flickered through her mind — how would Ayman appear tonight? What colors would he wear? Perhaps green, a lighter shade to mirror her own splendor? The mere thought drew a blush upon her cheeks. Yet she knew him well — he was more of a man of blues and blacks. Then maybe… sea-blue with layers of white or cream? Or perhaps his majesty would shine beneath the radiance of gold… Her daydream dissolved when a soft chuckle echoed behind her. “What are you dreaming of, My Lady? Is it Prince Ayman?” Aabroo’s heart skipped a beat, though her face remained calm — serene as the ocean. “Prince Ayman?” Her voice sharpened ever so slightly. She lowered her eyes to her emerald dupatta edged with gold, her jeweled fingers smoothing the pleats over her chest before fastening them with a gem-studded pin. “And why would

The next morning unfurled with the clash of steel striking the air, each blow sending invisible sparks up into the clear blue sky. The court filled with the sound of battle—Ayman locked in combat with his companion-at-arms. His sword, gripped in unwavering steel, moved mercilessly, each strike echoing with a force that demanded submission. Sweat traced glistening beads over his sun-tanned skin, gliding down like molten honey before vanishing into his collar. With eyes fixed, sharp as an eagle’s, he pressed forward, forcing his opponent to yield. One final, ruthless strike sent the man sprawling to the ground with a groan of defeat. Ayman had won. The sword slipped from the man’s hand and skittered across the stone floor. He lay back for a moment, chest rising and falling, eyes closed against the sting of exhaustion. The bout had been fierce. Ayman exhaled slowly, extending his hand. With effortless grace, he helped the man to his feet. As Ayman turned to leave, the man—s

The field of the royal grounds gleamed under the high sun, its earth leveled and its borders marked with silken banners that fluttered in the late morning breeze. Bright garlands of marigold and jasmine framed the grandstand, and petals floated in the air, sprinkled by eager hands as the royal procession made its way forward. The heralds, clad in scarlet and gold, lifted their trumpets. The long, sonorous notes rolled over the crowd, commanding silence before the first voice rang out with trained authority. “Make way for Her Majesty, Queen Inayat, sovereign of this land!” Cheers rippled across the stands as the queen appeared, radiant in a lehenga of white silk trimmed with gold. The crown upon her brow caught the sun like fire, her presence regal, unshaken, the very embodiment of power and grace. Behind her came Princess Aabroo, soft in shades of rose and blush. Her saree glimmered like dawn itself, and her dark braid, wound with strings of jasmine, swung lightly over her shoulde