The palace had grown quieter by the time Aksh returned to his room. The distant sounds of conversation downstairs had dulled into an indistinct murmur, muffled by stone walls and long corridors. For the first time all day… he was alone. Aksh shut the door behind him softly and stood there for a moment without moving. The room felt strangely unfamiliar tonight. Or perhaps he did.
Slowly he walked toward the washroom mirror, loosening the cuff of his kurta with his good hand. His injuries protested immediately, exhaustion finally catching up to him now that adrenaline had nowhere left to go. But even the pain felt distant. Muted beneath the noise inside his head. The Rajguru’s words echoed viciously.
For the Flame to Burn, It Needs a Spark These words—these poems, musings, echoes of soul—they are pieces of me, offered to the void. If they’ve ever stirred something in you, made silence feel understood or chaos feel poetic… Then let your support be the wind beneath this fire. A small gesture. A mighty impact. Because art survives on love—and the occasional coffee. ☕✨
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