She both liked and disliked being so known by him. She nudged Heer forward, but Heer had other plans. She went to nuzzle against the horse Asfandyar rode, and it was then Durkhanai registered which horse it was.

It was Heer’s mate, a strong horse with a chestnut coat and thick black mane. Ranjha was well known for his affection for Heer. The two horses had been raised together, and Durkhanai had grown up riding both, though she preferred Heer.

“You had to take this horse, didn’t you?” she said to Asfandyar, glaring.

“What?” he replied. “I’ve taken quite a liking to him.”

She reminded herself she was angry with him for more than simply taking her second horse and debated on what to say next.

Until a raindrop plopped onto her forehead and decided for her.

Durkhanai swore.

“Follow me,” she said, striking Heer with a kick to get her going. She made a sharp cut to the left, where a small village would be coming up in about a fifteen-minute ride. In the meanwhile, the occasional raindrops turned into a drizzle, which quickly became a downpour.

Sure enough, just as they were beginning to get soaked, they reached a stretch of farmland. They rode into the farmhouse, seeking shelter from the storm pouring away outside.

Chickens squawked in apprehension at their arrival. Other farm animals were fussing due to the rain, so she quieted them, calmed Heer, and got off. These storms were unpredictable. They could be stuck there all night.

Even longer if there was a landslide.

Durkhanai settled Heer and went to the open mouth of the farmhouse, leaning against the frame. The roar of rain bombarded her ears, the air filled with sweet petrichor.

Tentatively, Asfandyar did the same, standing on the opposite end of the frame. He watched her wordlessly.

After a few moments passed in silence, Asfandyar took a few steps forward and offered her his woolen loi. She still said nothing, turning her back, further soaking from the rain blowing into her. Even under the roof of the farmhouse, there was no relief.

“Durkhanai, take it,” Asfandyar coaxed, bringing in front of her again. She ignored him.

“Tch, chanda,” he said, touching her shoulder. Her heart warmed at the term of endearment, but she gave him a dirty look, throwing his hand off of her. He held his hands up in surrender.

“Your face is florid,” Asfandyar informed her, tapping her nose. Durkhanai fixed him a withering glare, then pressed her hands to his solid chest and pushed him from under the canopy into the rain. He gave a yelp, almost falling, then rushed back under the canopy, hair dripping.

“Happy?” Asfandyar asked, shivering.

Finally, she smiled. taking the shawl from him. The instant she wrapped the scratchy wool around her shoulders, she was warm. Drier, even.

“Quite,” she replied, twisting her lips. He held a hand to his heart, pretending to be shot by an arrow.