Aariv and Saarya lowered themselves to the ground, knees touching the soft carpet. Their foreheads touched the floor—a gesture of humility. Not just before the gods, but before the crown, the throne, and every soul who called this land home.
Then, slowly, they rose. Together, they turned to face the King and Queen.
The royal couple stood without hesitation.
The Queen stepped forward, her expression composed but cold. Her eyes—sharp, calculating—lingered on Saarya. Not with affection. With disapproval.
She didn't smile.
"You stand here today… not by name, but by Aariv's will."
Saarya met her gaze without flinching. "And I will stand here till my last breath… for him."
A flicker passed through the Queen's eyes. She nodded once and stepped aside without another word.
The King remained still, watching Aariv. His shoulders were tense, the lines on his face deeper than they had ever seemed.
"We spoiled you," he said, tone flat. "But this… this was not the path we chose for you."
"I know," Aariv replied calmly. "And I still chose it."
A heavy silence hung between them, stretched and loaded with unsaid things.
"She's not royal blood. Not from any strong line," the King said, voice low but firm. "You risk the safety of the kingdom."
Aariv didn't flinch. "Father, I know. And sometimes… It's a risk worth taking."
The King exhaled slowly, the fight draining from his stance. "You were always more like your mother than me."
The King reached up, fingers brushing the weight of the crown he had borne for decades. He removed it and handed it to the old man, who placed it carefully in a bronze plate held by the old woman. For the first time, his head was bare.
Aariv and Saarya approached the thrones and sat. Not as heirs. As rulers.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
The old man took the crown from the plate. Holding it aloft, he turned slowly to each direction—north, east, south, and west. The black stones embedded in the crown shimmered under the sky, reflecting moonlight. His chants were whispers.
Drums began to echo in the distance.
Low at first, like thunder across the land.
Then louder. Sharper. Their rhythm matched the beating of hearts—each pulse resonating through the ground.
From palace gates to the outer fields, people rose. All of them. It was instinctual. Subconscious. As though the land itself demanded their witness.
The chants continued.
The old man stepped forward with slow, deliberate reverence. Each step carved through centuries of tradition. His voice never faltered.
He stopped before Aariv.
"Son of Sagnik," he said. "Blood of the land. Will you wear this crown, knowing its weight is more than gold?"
Aariv met his eyes. "I will."
He turned to Saarya.
"Daughter of Varahi. Will you share this burden, and rule not behind—but beside your King?"
Saarya's voice was clear, unshaken. "I will."
The old man lifted the crown. His hands trembled—not from weakness, but reverence. Slowly, he lowered it onto Aariv's head.
"By the will of the Gods… and by the voice of the people… the crown finds its head."
And the sky answered.
A thunderous crack split the air, and fireworks burst open above them. The silver trails lit the faces of the people—illuminating the awe, the joy, the pride.
Aariv sat still. Composed. Crown resting like it had always belonged to him.
Beside him, Saarya was radiant.
Then Aariv stood. Saarya rose beside him.
The drums silenced.
There was a pause. A breath held by thousands.
Then it began—soft, scattered voices turning to a storm.
"Long live King Aariv!"
"Long live Queen Saarya!"
"May they reign in light!"
The field erupted. Cheers thundered across the land. The sound rolled like waves, crashing against the palace walls.
Aariv turned. Without looking, he reached for Saarya's hand.
She took it.
They stepped down from the stage, together. Not ahead. Not behind. Equal.
Behind them, the King and Queen walked, not as rulers, but as parents.
They entered the palace through the great arched doors. The carvings above told stories of old kings. From tonight, those stones witness another tale.
The grand hallway was lined with guards and attendants, heads bowed.
A servant approached, eyes downcast.
"Your Majesties," she said softly, "your chamber is prepared."
Aariv nodded. "Thank you."
They were led through the palace corridors, now alive with torchlight and the distant echoes of music. Every footstep sounded sacred.
Their chamber awaited. The scent of jasmine and rose clung to the air. A breeze slipped through the tall open windows, carrying whispers of celebration from the city below.
Inside, Saarya removed her earrings, her hands trembling slightly now that the weight of the ceremony had lifted.
Aariv stepped behind her.
"You are beautiful," he whispered, his voice low and soft.
She turned. Her eyes searched his.
"So were you," she replied, slipping her arms around his neck. "You looked like a king tonight…"
Aariv smiled faintly. "I waited for this day. Not to rule. But to show them how much you meant to me."
"But now I want that boy I fell in love with."
She pulled him closer. Their lips met in a kiss.
Outside, the palace pulsed with light. The city was alive with joy. Families shared meals. Children lit sparklers. Strangers toasted to a future they now felt part of.
Stories were already being told—of the princess who stepped from moonlight, of the prince who stopped ceremony for his love.
And in a quiet home, children started to think how to boast themselves in school, "I was there… when the King was crowned."
In the heart of the palace, beneath the stars, the kingdom found a new rhythm.
And that rhythm beat through two souls—Aariv and Saarya.
A new era had begun— the new era of King Aariv Vayansar and Queen Saarya Vedhira.