The night air wrapped around Veer Singh like a second skin as he walked away from the Rajmata's chamber, his footsteps carrying him through the darkened pathways of the ashram with a steadiness that belied the storm raging within. The moon hung low, its silver light filtering through ancient trees, casting shadows that shifted with each breath of wind. He did not know where he was going. He only knew he could not remain still, could not lie upon his pallet and pretend the world had not shifted beneath his feet.

The memory of what had transpired burned within him like a brand. The touch of her hands upon his flesh, the weight of her presence, the moment of release that had left him shaken and hollow. He had performed as instructed. He had fulfilled the duty demanded of him. But the act itself had been devoid of the connection he craved, empty of the intimacy his soul yearned for.