The wedding fires had burned into embers, but the fragrance of jasmine still lingered in the air long after the drums had fallen silent. Rajgarh slept beneath a canopy of stars, satiated by celebration — unaware that destinies rarely rest after ceremony.
In the bridal chamber of the Palace of Mirrors, where moonlight fractured into a thousand silver serpents upon the glass walls, the Crown Princess Anushka Devi sat before a polished mirror, unmoving. The reflection gazing back was not merely that of a bride, but of a woman who had stepped deliberately into the jaws of history.
The sindoor glowed ruthlessly in the parting of her hair.
Not as adornment.
As coronation.
She touched it lightly, not out of shyness but reverence. Her ancestors had worn crowns of ivory and gold; she would wear vermilion and iron.
Behind her, the carved doors opened with a rustle of silk. The Crown Prince entered, his ceremonial jewels removed, leaving only the quiet bearing of a warrior no longer in performance. He paused — just briefly — at the threshold, taking in the sight of her glowing red attire and unbowed back.
He expected hesitation.
He found stillness instead.
He approached slowly. "Yuvrani Anushka Devi," he said softly, "the palace is finally quiet. Even the drums have surrendered sleep."
She did not turn. "Empires rarely sleep, Yuvraj Samrat Veer Singh. They only pretend to."
He smiled faintly. Her words were always layered — a silk wrapping around steel.
He stopped beside her, their reflections side by side. "Tradition says," he murmured, "that tonight the bride and groom speak of dreams."
Her eyes remained on the mirror. "Tradition says much."
Silence fell — neither hostile nor warm. It was the silence of two forces appraising the terrain between them.
He gestured to the grand bed draped in gold-threaded canopy curtains. "You must be tired."
"I am not," she replied calmly.
Another pause.
He understood then that fatigue was not the reason she avoided the bed. What stood between them was not shyness — it was choice.
"Anushka," he said more gently, "I do not compel what the heart does not grant. We will walk this journey in time."
She finally turned to face him fully.
"No king," she said quietly, "should ever rule a land that was taken without consent."
He inhaled.
There was approval in his eyes — and the sting of something like challenge.
He stepped back slightly and said with courtly grace, "Then, Rajkumari of Bengal, tonight the bed is yours — and the chair beside the window is mine."
Her lips curved faintly. "We are not enemies."
"No," he said. "But we are strangers. And thrones breed distance before affection."
They did not sleep in the same bed.
She lay upon silk cushions, watching moonlight ripple through glass. He sat by the latticed balcony window, sword resting across his knees, gaze fixed on the horizon as if measuring all he must one day shield from ruin.
Both were awake far into the night —
two minds brilliant,
two wills unyielding.
The sindoor burned between them like a brand upon fate.
The Morning Whispers
Palace gossip travels faster than light.
By dawn, every maid in the zenana knew:
"They did not sleep in the same bed."
Some giggled.
Some pitied.
Some speculated curses and omens.
But one woman did not indulge whispers.
She summoned them.
Maharani Aishvarya Devi, Queen Regent, sat like the embodied law of the kingdom in the Council Pavilion of the Inner Court. Clad in emerald silk, heavy kadas at her wrists, her expression was not anger — it was calculation.
She dismissed most attendants, keeping only Anushka summoned.
When the Crown Princess entered, she bowed with perfect decorum, posture straight as drawn bow.
"You called for me, Maharani-sa?"
The Queen Regent studied her in silence for a long heartbeat.
"You did not share the Prince's bed."
It was not a question.
Anushka answered without pretense. "That is correct."
A lesser woman might have stammered, wept, pleaded for mercy.
Anushka simply confirmed.
Aishvarya's gaze sharpened like diamond cutting glass. "Do you understand what it means? You have insulted not only your husband, but dharma, lineage, and rajya."
"No," Anushka said softly. "I have only delayed consummation of companionship until equals meet as equals."
The Queen Regent leaned forward.
"In Rajgarh," she said, "equality is not declared. It is earned."
"And I will earn it," Anushka replied.
Their eyes locked — emerald against fire.
"You are bold," the Regent murmured.
"I am born of Bengal," Anushka said simply. "We do not enter palaces to become ornaments."
Aishvarya Devi could have shouted.
She did not.
Rage wastes power; she did not waste anything.
Instead, her voice grew icily formal.
"Until such time as humility tempers your pride, you will assist the maidservants in the outer courtyards — carrying water, grinding grains, and cleaning temple lamps beneath the sun."
Punishment — severe, symbolic, public.
A princess made to labour.
The court gasped when they learned.
Some pitied, some rejoiced, some waited for humiliation.
Anushka bowed.
"As you decree, Maharani-sa."
There was no tremor in her tone.
And for the first time, the Queen Regent felt a curious flicker — not hatred.
Respect.
Under the Sun
The Bengal princess walked into the stone courtyards, stripped of heavy jewels but still adorned with sindoor — as though even punishment could not unmark destiny.
The sun of Rajgarh was merciless.
It did not caress — it claimed.
Hours passed.
She carried brass pots heavy with water,
scrubbed temple steps mottled with turmeric and ghee,
guided young maidens unused to discipline,
stood tall though heat clung to her lungs like molten metal.
Whispers chased her:
"She's too proud — she will cry soon."
"See how red her face grows."
"She will faint."
But she would not stop.
Each drop of sweat became vow.
Each burning step became oath.
I will endure.I will rule.I will not break beneath sun or crown.
Yet the body is not forged of iron even if the will is.
Her vision blurred.
Sound turned to distant ocean roaring.
Sindoor streaked her brow as perspiration burned through it.
She took one step —
then another —
then the world leaned sideways.
She collapsed upon the courtyard stones, saree fanning like fallen flame.
The water pot shattered beside her.
Maidens screamed.
Attendants rushed.
Someone called for herbs and wet cloths.
But before anyone reached her, someone else was already running.
Found by the Crown Prince
Samrat Veer Singh was crossing the warrior courtyard when he heard the cry — not the words, only the sound of panic.
He turned — and saw her lying on the ground.
The world around him vanished into a tunnel.
He fell to his knees beside her, lifting her head into his hands. The heat of her skin shocked him. The sindoor had blurred across her forehead like a wounded star.
"Anushka!" His voice broke through the commotion. "Bring water—now!"
Maids scattered like startled birds.
Her lashes fluttered faintly.
He touched her face — not as prince, not as ruler —
as man terrified someone had slipped beyond reach.
"Why were you here under this sun?" he demanded, voice cracking between fury and fear.
One trembling maid whispered,
"By order of the Queen Regent, Yuvraj…"
His jaw tightened sharply.
He closed his eyes once, exhaled once — warrior breathing through storm.
He gathered Anushka into his arms and carried her himself from the courtyard, ignoring court protocol, ignoring British officers who watched like vultures cataloguing scandal.
He laid her on her couch and ordered:
"No court physicians — bring the midwife-priestess of the temple. She knows heat-fever better than any British-taught doctor."
They obeyed without question.
The priestess arrived — ancient, serene — and placed cool leaves upon Anushka's temples.
"She is strong," the old woman murmured. "The sun struck, but the flame within resists."
Anushka stirred.
Her gaze flickered open — the first thing it found was him.
Their eyes locked.
He whispered harshly, relief hidden poorly:
"You stubborn woman. You would rather fall than bend."
She smiled weakly.
"Rajkumar… thrones are not inherited by those who faint softly, but by those who rise afterward."
He wanted to scold her.
He wanted to laugh.
He wanted to hold her and never admit the need.
Instead, he said quietly:
"We did not share a bed — but that did not mean we were rivals."
"I never thought of us as rivals," she whispered back.
"Then why endure the punishment without protest?" he asked.
Her gaze deepened.
"Because the Queen Regent was right."
That shocked him.
She continued:
"I am proud. I walked in ready to command before I learned the pulse of the land. If I cannot bear the sun of Rajgarh, how can I ever bear its crown?"
His anger, his fear, his admiration — all collided.
He bowed his head.
"You will not labour tomorrow."
She smiled faintly.
"I may. I am not porcelain."
"You fainted," he said.
"You carried me," she answered gently.
The silence between them softened.
Not intimacy yet.
But alliance.
He rose, turned away briefly — then paused.
Without looking back he said,
"The bed will still be yours tonight. But… I will sit closer."
She closed her eyes, not in weakness, but to steady something unfamiliar in her chest.
Perhaps tenderness.
Perhaps danger.
Perhaps both.
The Queen Regent's Quiet Realisation
Aishvarya Devi watched from shadowed balcony as the news reached her.
The Crown Prince had carried his wife himself.
The new Crown Princess had borne labor without tears
and had fainted without theatrics.
The Queen Regent folded her hands atop the railing.
"Not merely beautiful," she murmured to the winds. "Not merely bold."
A slow, considering breath.
"Dangerous."
And then — something like approval.
And something… like fear.
Night Returns
The moon climbed again over Rajgarh.
In the chamber of mirrors, the Crown Princess lay resting, strength returning like tide.
The Crown Prince did not sit by the window.
He satat the foot of the bedsword resting across his knees, as guardian rather than lover.
They did not sleep beside each other.
They did not need to.
The sindoor of destiny burned brighter than any shared bed.
Outside, the empire creaked upon old bones.
Inside, two forces slowly, inexorably began to align —
not in romance first,
but in something older,
sharper,
more sovereign:
partnership in becoming history's storm.
And far in her mind, where even dreams hesitate to trespass, Anushka whispered only one sentence to fate before sleep claimed her:
I did not come here to be merely wife.I came here to become destiny.