The palace of Surajgarh had learned to wear silence like a veil these past weeks. Conversations softened, footsteps faded before echoing, and laughter — once as common as the temple bells — seemed to hesitate at thresholds as if unsure whether it was still welcome within these walls shadowed by the King's illness.
But there were still pockets where life refused to dim.
One of those pockets was named Rajkumar Aarav Pratap Singh.
He was the youngest son of the royal house — last light of a long line of princes — and mischief seemed to have been stitched into his destiny at birth. Where his elder brothers were burdened by duty and their thoughts bent forward toward thrones, treaties, and swords, Aarav bent toward laughter the way rivers bend toward the sea.
It was not that he lacked seriousness entirely. Beneath the pranks and the spark of rebellion lay a mind quick as lightning and a loyalty that ran deep as subterranean wells. But outwardly, the palace knew him as the one who stole mangoes from the royal orchard, taught monkeys to untie turban knots, and had once smuggled a goat into the council garden simply because he believed the roses "looked lonely."
He was seventeen — not yet a man by the standards of battle-scarred generals, but certainly no longer the small boy who used to hide under banquet tables and tie silk tassels together so fathers and ministers stood up and fell back down like startled puppets.
He was tall already, with the reckless grace of youth. His eyes — large and bright — always seemed to be laughing at some secret he had not yet decided whether to share. A lock of dark hair forever escaped his turban or headband, dangling over his forehead as if it too refused discipline. He wore princely garments, yes, but he wore them as if they were suggestions rather than obligations, sleeves rolled, sashes loosened, anklets sometimes mismatched.
Yet the palace had begun whispering something new.
The boy of mischief was becoming the man of consequence — and he did not entirely know how to feel about that.
The morning began with shouting.
Not dignified royal shouting — not echoing down marble halls with words like "edict" or "treaty" — but chaotic shouting punctuated by clattering armor and the unmistakable shrieks of animals.
Aarav grinned before he even reached the courtyard.
He had not caused this.
Not directly, at least.
Three royal guards were currently chasing an enormous white peacock through the armory yard, their spears tipped respectfully away so as not to harm the bird, who clearly regarded the entire event as a game invented for its personal entertainment. The peacock darted, fluttered, dodged, and screamed triumphantly.
Perched on the stable wall, laughing so hard his shoulders shook, was Aarav.
He did not even bother to hide.
"RAJKUMAR AARAV!" bellowed Captain Devraj, whose patience was known throughout the kingdom as both vast and perpetually tested.
Aarav hopped off the wall in one easy movement and bowed theatrically.
"Yes, honorable Captain of Royal Order, Supreme Commander of Common Sense, Guardian of Shoes Left Outside the Door, and Terror of New Recruits?"
Devraj closed his eyes for one brief, anguished moment.
"What," he asked slowly, "is the royal armory courtyard currently… full of?"
"Joy," Aarav said instantly.
"Birds!" shouted a guard as the peacock swooped past his face.
Aarav clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Ah yes, that too."
Devraj took a breath. "And why, may the gods grant me patience, is there a peacock wearing the King's ceremonial anklet?"
The bird in question proudly lifted one foot, displaying the golden anklet adorned with tiny bells.
Aarav clasped his hands behind his back, looking up innocently at the sky.
"It insisted."
"It insisted," Devraj repeated hollowly.
"I told it the anklet was not appropriate for casual wear," Aarav continued seriously, "but it made persuasive arguments regarding personal expression and the right to fashion freedom. Who am I to deny a peacock its destiny?"
One of the younger guards choked trying not to laugh.
Devraj pointed a trembling finger. "Remove. The anklet. Return. The bird. Stop. Breathing. Mischief."
"Yes Captain," Aarav said with military crispness and then immediately whistled.
The peacock paused mid-scamper, turned its iridescent head, and strutted toward Aarav like an offended dignitary. Aarav crouched, murmured something in its ear — or perhaps pretended to — and gently removed the anklet. The bird preened, flicked its tail in disdain at the guards, and wandered away as if disgusted by everyone's lack of appreciation.
Aarav tossed the anklet back to Devraj, who caught it with reflexes honed in battle and resignation honed by parenthood that was not technically his responsibility.
"You will be the death of me," Devraj muttered.
Aarav slung an arm companionably over the stern soldier's shoulders. "Impossible. You will live forever fueled entirely by frustration with me. It's basically immortality."
Devraj did not smile, but his eyes softened, despite himself.
He had seen the boy grow. He had taught him to ride, to shoot, and once dragged him by the ear out of a tiger's enclosure after Aarav attempted to "befriend" it by giving it a stolen sweet.
He knew the truth others forgot:
Mischief was sometimes a shield.
By mid-morning, the palace returned to a semblance of order. The peacock resumed normal peacock duties. The guards resumed pretending they did not like Aarav while secretly adoring him. And Aarav resumed his favorite past-time — exploring places people told him not to go.
Today that place was the royal archives.
He was not barred from them exactly — but he was certainly discouraged from unsupervised entry ever since the incident involving spilled ink, two sleeping archivists, and a misfiled genealogy record claiming the founder of Surajgarh had been a mango tree.
Aarav slipped silently along the cool stone corridor until he reached the heavy doors. He cracked them open and peeked inside. Dust floated lazily through beams of filtered sunlight. Tall shelves towered like ancient trees loaded with scrolls and palm-leaf manuscripts.
He loved this place.
He loved that the walls smelled faintly of age and sandalwood.
He loved that every rustling page seemed to whisper.
He loved that knowledge slept here and he could poke it awake whenever he felt like it.
He tiptoed between racks.
He was looking for nothing in particular.
Which meant he would probably find something important.
He dragged a small ladder across the floor, climbed, and tugged out a scroll tied with faded red silk. The knot came loose with ease. The scroll unrolled halfway — then completely — then dramatically tumbled off the other side of the ladder, wrapping him like a snake.
He flailed.
The ladder wobbled.
Somewhere a god, a librarian, and two ancestral kings sighed in unison.
A pair of hands caught the bottom of the ladder.
"Aarav," said a voice, dry as parchment and twice as unimpressed.
He grinned upside-down.
"Mrinalini Didi!"
The Scholar Princess looked up at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation uniquely cultivated by younger siblings and their chaos. Mrinalini's calm wisdom contrasted sharply with Aarav's vibrant energy, yet the two shared a deep bond that grew in the quiet spaces between arguments and shared secrets.
"You are going to break your neck because you refuse to consider gravity as a serious principle," she said.
"Gravity is merely a suggestion," he countered cheerfully. "Also, this scroll attacked me first."
He freed himself finally, clutching the scroll victoriously.
Mrinalini raised a brow. "Do you even know what you reached for?"
"Not yet, but life is full of delightful revelations," Aarav said, hopping down.
She sighed — but she stayed.
He spread the scroll on a nearby table, fully prepared for something thrilling — some secret code, forbidden prophecy, or treasure map.
It was a tax ledger.
From ninety-three years ago.
Aarav stared at it.
Mrinalini folded her arms. "Delightful revelation?"
"Incredibly," he said gravely, "I have discovered that goats were taxed higher than chickens that year. A miscarriage of justice, truly."
She chuckled despite herself.
He watched her carefully then, mischief dimming just a fraction.
"You haven't slept," he said quietly.
Her smile faltered.
The King.
His illness hung between them unsaid.
Aarav broke eye contact first because if he didn't, the lump forming in his throat might betray him. So he reverted instinctively to trickery — not to avoid caring, but to keep caring from overwhelming him.
"Come on," he said, rolling up the pointless scroll. "You need a break."
"I have work."
"You always have work."
"You always have trouble."
"Yes," he said proudly. "We both nurture our callings."
He pulled her by the hand before she could protest, dragging her out into the sunlight streaming into the palace gardens. Wind ruffled tree leaves. Bees hummed lazily among blossoms. The world seemed almost normal.
They sat beneath a banyan tree.
For a time, neither spoke.
Then Aarav said softly, "Do you think he'll…?"
His words evaporated.
Mrinalini rested her head lightly against the trunk. "I don't know."
Silence swelled between them — the kind that feels like waves pulling back before breaking.
Aarav's jaw tightened.
Everyone expected him to be the prince of laughter.
Very few remembered that laughter leaks from cracked places too.
He picked up a fallen stick and started drawing random shapes in the dust — horses, swords, a suspiciously fat peacock. Then, almost unconsciously, he traced the shape of the royal crest.
He stared at it for a long moment.
"I don't know how to be serious like them," he admitted.
Mrinalini looked at him gently. "You are serious — just not in ways people expect. You care more fiercely than most."
"But kingdoms don't run on jokes."
"No," she said softly. "But neither do they survive on fear alone. You bring breath where walls stiffen."
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
He flopped backwards dramatically into the grass instead.
Leaves shivered.
A squirrel threw a disapproving nut at him.
He yelped.
"See?" he said, rolling over with exaggerated agony. "Even wildlife conspires to keep my humility intact."
She laughed — a real, unguarded laugh that broke some of the heaviness clutching the air.
And for a moment he felt victorious, as if he had personally defeated sorrow in one duel.
If the palace hoped Aarav would remain calm and contemplative for the remainder of the day, it was profoundly mistaken.
By afternoon, he had:
smuggled sweetmeats from the kitchen
taught three younger pages how to whistle extremely inappropriately
convinced a guard that the Queen's parrot spoke prophetic riddles
and organized an impromptu race between two palace cows (which he immediately cancelled upon realizing cows have no interest in ambition)
He was chaos with good intentions.
But something else stirred beneath the antics: a restless energy he could not shake. It fluttered under his ribs. It made stillness dangerous. It made corridors feel too narrow. It made silence roar.
He avoided the King's chamber.
He wanted to be there.
He could not be there.
He had never learned how to watch strength fade.
So instead, he did the only thing he knew how to do when the world frightened him:
He went looking for trouble.
He found it in the training arena.
Two noble youths — sons of minor lords — were boasting loudly while new recruits practiced archery nearby. Their voices carried arrogance like perfume.
"I heard the youngest prince does nothing but wander," one said dismissively. "He will inherit nothing and deserves nothing. Playful like a stray cat."
"Leave him," the other laughed. "Every court has a jester."
Aarav was halfway across the yard before his mind even processed that his legs had moved.
He did not shout.
He smiled.
Which was more dangerous.
"A jester?" he said sweetly, appearing behind them.
They stiffened.
He looked utterly relaxed, hands loosely clasped, expression bright as summer fruit — and yet the air shifted subtly around him.
"Wonderful. I have always admired jesters," he continued cheerfully. "They speak truths that cowards wrap in silk."
One boy flushed. "Rajkumar, we meant no—"
"Of course not," Aarav said pleasantly. "Words often walk out of mouths without permission. Fascinating how they always insult downward though, never upward. Gravity of cowardice, perhaps."
He picked up a bow in one smooth motion.
The recruits paused to watch.
Aarav looked far less disciplined than his elder brothers — but weapons liked him. They always had. They sensed something wild and alive in him, something that took joy not in violence but in movement.
He nocked an arrow lazily.
One of the arrogant youths smirked. "Archery practice, Your Highness?"
"Conversation practice," Aarav replied.
He turned — not to the main stationary targets — but to the small moving wooden discs rotating further down the field. They were used only by seasoned warriors.
He didn't even square his stance properly.
He released.
The arrow sung through the air — and split the spinning target's center.
The yard fell silent.
Aarav's eyes no longer laughed.
"I wander," he said softly. "Yes. I laugh. Yes. I do not sit in corners whispering about others like mice afraid of their reflections."
He handed the bow back to a stunned recruit and flashed a grin once more — light returning like sunrise.
"Peace to you both," he said brightly. "And better aim next season."
He walked away whistling.
Behind him, respect bloomed where mockery had stood.
Evening came draped in orange and crimson.
Aarav climbed to the rooftop terrace above the east wing — his secret sanctuary where roofs sloped gently and wind always carried trace scents of chapatis from distant kitchens. The sun slipped toward the horizon like a molten coin.
He sat on the parapet, arms around his knees, cheek resting against stone warmed by the day.
He could see everything from here.
The sprawling courtyards.
The temple bells swinging.
The faint shimmer of the river reflecting fire-colored sky.
He imagined leaving.
He imagined staying forever.
He imagined both and felt dizzy.
A rustle of fabric sounded behind him.
He didn't turn.
"I know that footstep," he said softly. "Only one person in the palace walks as if the floor owes her gratitude."
Charumati smiled faintly as she approached and sat beside him.
They said she was gentle.
They forgot that gentleness sits comfortably beside strength.
He didn't look at her right away.
"I made Devraj angry," he said, because it was easier than saying other things.
"You make Devraj angry every week," she replied calmly.
"I frightened two noble boys."
"They needed frightening," she said simply.
He sighed, finally turning to face her.
"Charu Didi… what happens if he dies?"
Her hand found his instinctively.
His bravado collapsed.
All the jokes, the grins, the whistling — they dissolved, leaving behind a boy who still remembered climbing into their father's lap and falling asleep to stories of warriors and comets.
"I don't know how to live without him watching."
The words spilled raw and unpolished.
Charumati did not try to answer philosophically. She did not soothe him with empty assurances. She simply squeezed his hand.
"That is grief," she whispered. "It is the shadow love casts."
He swallowed hard.
"I should be brave."
"You are," she said firmly. "Bravery is not pretending you are not afraid. It is loving anyway."
He closed his eyes.
A wind stirred.
Prayer flags fluttered from a nearby rooftop.
"I always thought I had time," he said in a small voice. "Time to tell him I'm not wasting everything he gave me."
Charumati smiled sadly. "He already knows."
"How?"
"Because he knows you."
They sat in long silence.
Day yielded to evening, evening to dusk, dusk to the first bold stars pricking through the sky. Below them, palace lamps flickered to life one by one, as if the earth were mirroring those unblinking lights in the heavens.
Finally Aarav exhaled.
"Tomorrow," he said. "I will go to him tomorrow. I won't run from the room anymore."
She nodded.
He rested his head on her shoulder for a moment — a gesture from childhood stubbornly refusing to outgrow itself — then sprang upright again, mischief rekindling like rekindled flames.
"But before that," he grinned, "I must return a certain goat I borrowed."
She blinked.
"Aarav."
"Yes?"
"What goat?"
He smiled wider.
From far below came a faint bleat.
Charumati closed her eyes briefly in pre-emptive exhaustion.
"Youngest sons," she murmured. "May the gods protect kingdoms from youngest sons."
Aarav saluted the stars. "Too late!"
He leapt lightly from parapet to lower terrace, vanishing into shadow and laughter.
And yet beneath it all — beneath bleats and pranks and scandalized stable hands — something had shifted.
His mischief was no longer simply escape.
It was becoming choice.
He brought light into places that could drown in darkness. He made people laugh when they wanted to break. He stirred stagnant rooms into motion. That had always been his nature.
But now, standing on the threshold of grief, Rajkumar Aarav Pratap Singh began the slow, invisible process of growing into the role the world would one day realize was his:
Not just the mischief-maker.
But the heart-mender.
A storm simmered in the future.
Councils would clash.
Brothers would quarrel.
Thrones would tremble.
And somewhere in the midst of it all, the boy who taught peacocks fashion independence would stand laughing before danger and sadness alike — because someone had to teach the kingdom how to breathe when it forgot.
For now, however, there was only night.
And one youngest son running across palace roofs under twin moons — laughter trailing behind him like a comet's tail — while fate watched quietly, smiling to itself.