Samraat sits alone in the farthest corner of the lawn, away from the palace lights, away from the noise, away from the world he does not belong to. The grass under him is cool, but the burning inside his chest is hotter than fire

His palm is bleeding badly, a long cut from the knife still fresh and wet, but he stares at it without blinking. His breathing is uneven, his jaw locked, his shoulders stiff as if he is holding the entire weight of his emotions