The moon hung full and heavy, bathing the port village in silver light, a stark contrast to the storm's chaos. Sonkeshika, the siren whose heart had wavered in marketplace, walked the cobblestone streets, her steps deliberate, her mind a tangle of anger and longing. Behind her, Chandramukha—poet, warrior, the man who'd haunted her thoughts since Eravati.
—kept pace, but his eyes avoided hers, a shift from the evening's stolen glances. The change gnawed at her, strange and unsettling.
Stranger still was his insight at the sweet stall, his guess piercing her guarded truth: she missed her father, the sweets his gift, a vow she'd kept since his death. She slowed, hoping he'd close the gap, but he lingered, pausing at stalls, greeting strangers with forced cheer. Is he dodging me? she wondered, stung by the morning's memory—a woman, her hair spilling from a shawl, stealing him at dawn. Was this another man's game, like those she'd played in her siren's dance of seduction?
She pressed on, refusing to look back, her heart warring with pride. He followed, close yet distant, as if fleeing her questions. Instead of turning toward the tavern, their refuge since delay, she veered toward the forest, its shadows beckoning under the moon's glow. Night was her domain—market or jungle, she roamed free, soothed by lunar light, a balm for her clan's pain. He was behind her, farther now, his presence a quiet ache.
He ran to catch up, breath sharp. "Where are you going?"
"The forest," she said, voice cool. "Why?"
"Are you mad, at this hour?"
"I go when I please," she snapped. "It's no concern of yours."
"But it is," he said, softer, confusion flickering in his eyes.
She stopped, turning, her gaze hard. "Why?"
His hesitation betrayed him—anger, perhaps, from her morning's dismissal, or guilt over the woman. "This morning," he began, "I was handling something… important." His voice faltered, secrets caging his words, a rebel's caution from undercover schemes.
She stepped closer, moonlight catching her eyes, her voice a siren's lure—soft, dangerous. "Listen, whoever you are," she said, inches from him, the street silent but for their tension, "don't think you hold power over me. I could break your heart without trying, but you're not worth my time. Why would I care who you met at dawn?"
Her words cut, masking hurt with venom, yet he felt her anger's pulse. Not worthy? he thought, pain tightening his chest. If not me, who? He'd crossed Tapti's war-torn lands to find her, fought for the motherland in feud, her face his anchor. Now, doubt shadowed him—did she love another?
"One question," he said, voice steady. "Is there someone in your life?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Answer me," he pressed, urgency breaking through. "It matters. I've done everything to stand here, to find you. If you've chosen another, I need to know."
Her confusion deepened. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm here for you," he said, courage faltering. "If that's pointless, I'll leave tomorrow. I can't bear thinking you're with someone else."
She'd had enough. "What you said at the sweet stall," she countered, "about me missing someone. Was that a guess?"
"A guess," he admitted, eyes locked on hers.
"A guess?" Her voice rose, cold now, emotion draining from her face. "I've heard men's pretty words—empty, like yours. You sneak off with a woman at dawn, then pry into my life, my feelings. If you're married, say it."
Silence hung heavy, their questions unanswered, despair mirrored in their stares. Words felt futile, yet their hearts demanded them, love's fragile spark flickering under the moon. Forbidden, she thought, her clan's history a warning—love between siren and human sparked wars, ended bloodlines, as her mother's had. Ascending. Don't, her mind screamed, but curiosity held her. Did he think she hid a lover in the forest, waiting to embrace her?
"Don't go there tonight," he said, voice low.
She wavered, tempted to defy him, but his plea piqued her. "Or what?"
"Take me with you," he added, earnest.
A bullock cart rumbled past, lanterns swaying, men with smirks she knew too well—hunters, seeking sirens for sport, bloodlust. Chandramukha pulled her behind a well, his grip firm. "Don't go," he said, urgent.
She froze. Her kind—naive ones, lured by prey—faced death in those woods. Raised human, she respected them, but not these killers, proud of slaying "luring whores." She'd saved sirens before, unable to watch them lynched, their eyes finding hers, knowing her truth. I must go, she thought, rage flaring.
"Don't," he repeated, softer. "Think of your father—he shielded you from this, not for you to risk it again."
The cart's bells faded, pebbles clattering into the well. "What do you mean?" she asked, standing, searching his eyes.
Distress creased his face. "Recognize me, Sonkeshika. It hurts that you've forgotten." His voice broke. "Your smile, your songs, your evenings by the ocean—I can't shake them. My song—didn't it stir anything?"
Shock gripped her, then doubt. The world was cruel—anyone could claim her past. But he recounted their days—conversations, skies, promises—before the fire and mob of Swarnpura. "You swore to marry me," she whispered, tears welling. "You forgot."
"Never," he said, smiling. "But hearing you remember—it's joy. I knew you held it all."
"My kind doesn't forget," she said, voice trembling. A cry—sharp, desperate—cut from the forest.
She turned, heart racing. "Don't go," he begged. "I can't lose you again."
"This won't be the first time," she said, recalling when he'd learned her siren blood.
"Make it the last," he pleaded.
Her heart swelled, fulfilled under the moon. Her mother's love—a human, a "filthy murderer"—had birthed her, sparking clan wars, a tale old as Tapti's histories. Love was bound by human laws, but hers defied them. Could she risk it? Losing him, her only family, was unthinkable—he deserved her love, yet morality's blade loomed, as it had for the young siren in the woods.
"Sonkeshika," he said, hand outstretched. "Come back."
Moments ago, she'd feared his love risked him; now, knowing him, she saw his choice. Sirens lured, but this was real—no spell, just him. The morning's woman lingered—her question burned.
"Who was she?" she asked, his hand waiting. "Where were you going?"
He smiled. "She's with my group—our work."
"What work?"
"I can't say—it endangers you, them. Look in my eyes," he urged. "It's righteous. I'm true—no other woman, only you."
Her gaze held, unyielding, but a cry—muffled, struggling—rose again, bullock bells nearing. Rage surged; she couldn't ignore her kind's peril. He gripped her hand, pulling her to a fountain-lined street, taverns quiet, lanterns flickering in windows. They stood, moonlit, her hand in his.
He'd chosen her, against folklore's warnings, ending her dilemma with a thrill that defied clans, wars, and laws. She was his, and he hers, under the moon's truth.