Chapter Text
The auditorium buzzed long before the ceremony began.
Kiran had expected nerves—first day of university and all that—but this was something else entirely. This was electricity, humming through marble floors and gold-inlaid pillars, alive in every whispered conversation.
Khansaar University wasn’t just prestigious.
It was myth.
The gates outside bore a plaque that students touched for luck every year:
43 scholarships awarded in 500 years.
That was the number carved into history.
Forty-three.
No one knew the names of the thousands who donated billions to enter.
But everyone knew the names of the scholarship students.
They were legends.
Prodigies.
National treasures.
And there hadn’t been a single one in the last five decades.
Until now.
“It’s because the heirs are coming,” his brother murmured beside him, sounding far too entertained for someone who had already survived a year here.
Kiran blinked. “Heirs?”
Raghav grinned, leaning back in his seat among the seniors. “Of the two giants. Mannar and Shouryanga. Didn’t you read anything about this place?”
Kiran opened his mouth, then closed it again as a ripple went through the crowd.
Someone near the aisle hissed, “There he is.”
Kiran followed the direction of their gaze.
A group of students stood near the entrance, confidence radiating off them like heat. In the middle of them—
A man.
Tall, striking, smile easy and warm. He was listening to three people at once and somehow making each feel like the only one that mattered.
His posture relaxed, hands casually tucked into his pockets, sunlight catching on the faintest hint of gold at his wristwatch.
Everything about him felt effortless.
“That’s Devaratha Shouryanga Raisaar,” someone whispered reverently behind Kiran. “Only son of the Shouryanga empire.”
“Got into Khansaar University on merit,” another added. “Scholarship and entrance rank one.”
“No way,” Kiran breathed.
“Believe it,” Raghav said. “Kid’s a prodigy. Business, diplomacy, sports, you name it. Son of the empire and still humble. Everyone loves him.”
As if on cue, Devaratha laughed—head tipped slightly back, eyes crinkling—and half the room melted.
“And the girl?” Kiran asked, noticing the girl practically attached to Devaratha’s arm.
The seniors exchanged knowing looks.
“Aadhya Krishnakanth,” someone supplied. “CEO’s daughter. Rumor says they’re dating.”
“They’re not public yet,” another added gleefully. “But look at them—they just make sense.”
Kiran studied them.
Devaratha leaning slightly toward her, Aadhya glowing, fingers brushing his sleeve. Even Kiran had to admit—they looked like a perfect couple.
“So it begins,” someone whispered dramatically. “The Raisaar reign.”
Raghav snorted. “Not so fast.”
Heads turned as another senior spoke up.
“Devaratha isn’t the only scholarship student this year.”
Silence.
Then:
“Varada Mannar got one too.”
Kiran blinked. “Who?”
Raghav’s tone changed—sharp, respectful, wary.
“Varada Mannar. Raja Mannar’s son. From the other empire.”
“That family?” Kiran whispered.
“The very one.”
“And he got a scholarship?” someone scoffed. “Impossible.”
“He did.”
“First time in history,” someone whispered behind Kiran. “Two scholarships in one year.”
“And they’re rivals.”
“Catastrophe incoming.”
Kiran’s eyebrows shot up. “Sounds pleasant.”
“Oh, you’ll see,” a girl near the front said, voice almost giddy. “He’s the complete opposite of Devaratha. Ice to his fire.”
Before Kiran could ask more, the whisper spread through the hall like wildfire:
“He’s here.”
Kiran looked instinctively toward the main doors.
And then—
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Varada Mannar walked in.
No entourage.
No smile.
No hesitation.
Just silent confidence and an expression that could frost glass.
He moved with the ease of someone who had spent his entire life walking into rooms where people wanted him dead—and winning anyway.
His posture screamed control.
His gaze swept the room once—clinical, assessing, bored.
People flinched when it passed them.
Kiran swallowed.
This was not someone trying to impress.
This was someone who expected the world to rearrange itself around him.
“This is him,” someone whispered. “The ruthless one.”
“God, look at him,” someone breathed. “He thinks everyone is beneath him.”
“He knows everyone is beneath him,” another corrected.
“The emotionless bastard.”
“The Mannar heir.”
“He looks like he’s attending a funeral.”
“Probably ours.”
Bets started flying.
“How long before he and Devaratha kill each other?”
“Two weeks.”
“Three days.”
“First class.”
Kiran stayed quiet.
Because while everyone focused on Varada’s expression, he saw something else.
When Varada’s eyes brushed past Devaratha and Aadhya—
Just for a heartbeat—
Fire.
Sharp, burning, furious.
Not cold.
Not empty.
Something raw and painful flickered there.
And Devaratha—
The golden boy's smile faltered.
His attention, so flawlessly distributed moments ago, snapped to Varada like a magnet.
Their eyes met.
Kiran felt the air tighten.
Devaratha looked away first, head turning sharply as if the gaze burned.
No one else seemed to notice.
But Kiran did.
Emotionless?
He wasn’t so sure.
The ceremony began.
Kiran tried to listen.
He failed.
His attention remained on the two legends seated apart but aware of each other’s every movement.
Then:
“Would the scholarship recipients please step forward? Mr. Devaratha Raisaar and Mr. Varada Mannar.”
The auditorium surged with anticipation.
Two scholarships.
First time in fifty years.
First time ever together.
The heirs of empires.
Devaratha stepped forward first—smooth, charming, offering the audience a practiced smile.
He took the podium.
“Thank you for this honor,” he said warmly. “I hope this year teaches us not just business and leadership, but also restraint. After all—true power doesn’t need to announce itself.”
Polite.
Graceful.
But everyone heard it.
A jab.
Directed at someone who walked in like thunder.
Murmurs rippled.
Then Varada moved.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Predatory.
His voice was cool and precise when he spoke.
“Khansaar University has always valued merit,” he said. “It is refreshing to see that tradition upheld. Especially when some achieve greatness without needing…external cushioning.”
Silence.
Oh.
OH.
That wasn’t subtle.
That was a scalpel.
Aadhya stiffened.
Devaratha’s smile sharpened.
He stepped forward slightly.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly, voice dripping honey over steel, “support is not a weakness. Many empires would crumble without…proper foundations. Some families know that better than others.”
Gasps.
A few choked laughs.
Someone whispered,
“He just called the Mannars unstable.”
“Varada implied Raisaar needed cushioning.”
Varada tilted his head, lips curving—not a smile, a threat.
“Foundations matter,” he agreed softly. “But without substance, even the tallest structure collapses. We should all be careful not to lean too heavily on appearances.”
Silence sharpened.
Everyone understood.
He meant:
Your reputation is nothing without actual talent.
Devaratha’s eyes flashed.
The auditorium vibrated.
“That was a hit!”
“This is war.”
“Tie again!”
Kiran stared.
Their voices were steady.
Their faces calm.
But their eyes—
Those eyes held years.
History.
Hurt.
Maybe they really did hate each other.
Maybe.