Hooves thundered against dry earth as dust clouds rose behind him.

Vishu or whatever this cursed world called him now pulled the reins with a strength that didn’t match his delicate wrists.

“Abe chal re!! Fast!!” he hissed at the terrified white stallion beneath him.

The horse neighed like it regretted being born.

Behind him, dozens of soldiers yelled:

“MAHARANI!!”

“Aap bhaag nahi sakte!”

“Kripya vaapas aaiye!”

Vishu rolled his eyes so hard he nearly fell off.

“Maharani…?” he muttered.

“Sun mere bhai, main mafia ka gang leader tha not some timid royal ome...”

His voice cut off as the horse tripped slightly.

Vishu swore loudly.

“Abe dhyaan se, tu bhi author ke saath mile hua hai kya be ?”

Another soldier shouted breathlessly:

“Maharani Yashasvi!!! Maharaj krodh mein hain!”

Vishu barked a laugh.

“Accha? Toh usko bol, maine order nahi diya gussa karne ke liye.”

The soldiers gasped like he’d insulted God.

This world…

This stupid book world…

The system voice chimed cold and emotionless:

“Warning: Host’s behavior is destabilizing the storyline.”

“Storyline meri jooti,” Vishu snapped, leaning forward as the wind whipped his hair across his face.

His heart raced not fear, but thrill.

Running.

Defying.

Breaking rules.

This felt familiar.

His old life.

His old freedom.

Until

A massive black stallion appeared ahead.

A wall of power.

The white horse skidded, rearing slightly.

Vishu grabbed the reins to control it, jaw clenched.

The rider blocking him was impossible to miss

Tall. Broad shoulders. Bronze skin. Heavy sharp jaw. Dark mustache.

On his forehead a black tilak like a strike of war.

King Prithviraj Singh.

Pure-blood alpha.

War machine.

Terrifying in silence.

His gaze was unreadable, but sharp enough to cut.

The soldiers finally caught up and stopped behind Vishu, panting.

No one dared speak.

Only Prithviraj moved his horse stepping closer until they were face-to-face.

Then, his voice — deep, controlled, unshaken:

“Maharani… bhaag rahi hain aap?”

It wasn’t a question.

It was judgment.

Vishu lifted his chin, refusing to be smaller even if this body was.

“Bhaag nahi raha,” Vishu muttered, glaring.

“Bas… exit dhund raha hoon.”

The King stared.

Then:

A slow, dangerous exhale.

“Aapko yeh sab shobha nahi deta.”

“Aap Maalva ki rajya maharani hain. Dar nahi maryada rakhni hoti hai.”

Vishu wanted to laugh.

Maryada?

Respect?

Submission?

In his world, respect was earned...And submission was a currency no one ever forced out of him.He clenched the reins tighter.he remembered the moment he woke in this body confused, furious, trapped in a palace and a pregnancy he never asked for.

“Listen, Maharaj,” he muttered under his breath, eyes sharp, voice steady:

“Main woh Yashasvi nahi hoon jise aap ignore karte the.”

A breeze passed between them tense, electric.

Prithviraj’s expression finally shifted......Not anger....Not confusion...Something colder...Something curious. Like a hunter noticing prey had suddenly grown fangs.