The lamps of Rajgarh Palace flickered like restless stars trapped in glass, their flames shivering each time the monsoon winds curled through the latticed jharokhas. The corridors glowed with gold and shadow, music and silence, power and fear. Somewhere in the courtyard peacocks cried, shrill and sorrowful, as if they sensed that the fate of a kingdom trembled in unseen hands.
And at the heart of this vast living maze walked Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Queen Regent, her emerald silk trailing like a river of authority behind her.
The durbar had long ended, yet the queen did not rest. Those who had ruled long learned that danger never slept, and that smiles were often sharper than daggers.
Her warning—to the court, to the British Resident, to the ministers, to fate itself—still echoed in the marble of the audience hall:
"Rajgarh shall bow before Dharma, not before foreign crowns nor whispering traitors."
But there was another echo now.
A quieter one.
A more dangerous one.
A doubt.
Not of the British. Not of petty nobles. Not of scheming courtiers.
A doubt about someone within her own household.
And the Queen Regent did not permit doubts to live for long.
🌑 Whispers in the Corridor
She paused outside the Hall of Moon Pillars, where the murals told the history of her ancestors—warrior queens who rode elephants into battle, priests who bound kingdoms with sacred vows, kings who ruled as shadows between gods and men.
Footsteps.
Light. Careful. Intentional.
Rajkumar Samrat Veer Singh, the Crown Prince, emerged from the passage. The purple silk of his angarkha brushed his boots; his hand rested on the hilt of his sword out of habit rather than fear. His eyes—keen as a falcon's, contemplative like a monk's—softened when they met his mother.
"Mata-Mahārani, pranām," he bowed, touching her feet.
Aishvarya rested her hand on his head. He was the son of her spirit, not merely of her womb; carved by discipline, forged by responsibility.
"You walk late, Yuvraj," she said. "The palace sleeps."
"The palace pretends to sleep," he answered quietly. "And so, I must pretend to rest as well."
She almost smiled. "Your tongue is beginning to resemble mine."
"I fear it must, for one day I shall inherit your enemies."
Aishvarya's gaze sharpened for a moment.
His words were not idle.
She stepped aside, motioning for him to walk with her. Their footsteps echoed together, mother and heir, destiny and duty.
"Tell me," she said. "Why do you truly wander tonight?"
He hesitated.
And in that hesitation, her suspicion grew leaves and roots.
🔥 The Illness Behind the Throne
They reached the private chamber of Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj.
The lamp inside was dim.
The scent of sandalwood mingled with something metallic and faintly bitter—the smell of medicine.
Behind the silk curtains the king slept, his breath uneven, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady. Far from the thunderbolt of a ruler he was in durbar, here he seemed mortal, fragile, the weight of crowns crushing the body that once commanded armies.
The vaidya's voice whispered in Aishvarya's mind:
"It is not a fever of days, Maharani. It is a sickness of fate."
The British Resident had called it melancholia of the nerves, the court astrologer called it Shani's shadow, the palace whispers called it something worse:
poison of the slow kind.
The Queen Regent allowed no whisper to exist unless she traced its origin.
And each time she followed the invisible threads, they seemed to coil around one person.
One.
Beautiful.
Soft-spoken.
Seemingly obedient.
Watching always.
Learning always.
Waiting always.
Yuvrani Anushka Devi of Bengal.
The Crown Princess.
Her daughter-in-law.
Her future queen.
And perhaps…
Something more.
Something darker.
🕯 The Queen Regent's Doubt
The Maharaja stirred, murmuring in his sleep, "Aishvarya…"
She moved to his side like a shadow of compassion and sovereignty blended.
"I am here," she whispered.
His hand trembled in the air before collapsing back against the sheets. His rings hung loose on thinning fingers.
Samrat watched in silence.
He adored his father, but Samrat was forged of poise—he did not weep. Not even now.
When they had left the room, Aishvarya finally spoke.
"Your father weakens faster than the vaidya predicted."
Samrat met her gaze. "Yes."
"Food is prepared in the Rani-Mahal, not the general kitchens. His medicines are administered only by select hands. His water is drawn from the temple well. And still he weakens."
He nodded once.
Aishvarya's voice lowered.
"Tell me, Samrat, who last served your father the draught before tonight?"
He did not answer immediately.
"Speak as Crown Prince," she commanded softly.
He inhaled. "Yuvrani Anushka."
The name settled between them like a blade laid on silk.
The Crown Princess in Shadow
Crown Princess Anushka walked alone in the Garden of Parijata Blossoms, the moonlight pooling across white petals like spilled milk. Her red saree glowed darkly, the sindoor in her hair part like a streak of burning fate.
She was grace incarnate. Politeness made flesh. A voice like a veena string.
And yet…
She did not walk like the other palace women.
She did not drift.
She moved with purpose—a queen in rehearsal, a conqueror waiting for cue.
Her ancestors had ruled the waters and ports of Bengal; her blood remembered war and diplomacy wrapped in poetry. She had watched zamindars bow, British officers smile thinly over ledgers, peasants starve under taxes signed in foreign ink.
And she had learned young:
Power does not belong to the rightful. Power belongs to the patient.
A petal fell from a branch overhead.
She caught it without looking up.
Behind her, footsteps.
She did not turn. "You may step forward, Rajkumari Mrinalini."
Mrinalini emerged from the shadows, scholar's poise and princess's carriage interwoven. She watched Anushka carefully.
"You walk alone late at night, Bhabhi-Sahiba."
"Does Rajgarh now chain the moon as well?" Anushka smiled faintly. "Or are you sent to watch it?"
Mrinalini's eyes did not waver. "I am sent to observe everything."
Anushka's gaze flickered—just for an instant—like steel glinting through silk.
"So am I," she said softly.
The Suspicion Deepens
When Mrinalini left, Aishvarya Devi stepped out from behind the carved archway where she had been hidden—not by accident but by design.
She had not survived palace politics by trusting walls.
She watched the path Anushka had taken and listened to the wind as if even the air carried secrets.
Beside her appeared General-Prince Aditya Pratap Singh, eldest son, the king's blade and shield.
"You called for me, Mata?" he said quietly.
"I did," she replied. "You will double guard near the royal apothecary, the temple well, and the Rani-Mahal kitchens. Silently. No proclamation."
"Against whom?"
Aishvarya looked toward the parijata garden.
"Against those who smile too beautifully."
🌩 The Storm Breaks Inside the Queen Regent
Later, alone in her chamber, she removed her crown.
It was heavy, but not as heavy as the question pressing upon her heart.
She had chosen Anushka.
Approved her lineage.
Honoured her kingdom.
Blessed her as daughter.
She had believed she brought into Rajgarh a bridge.
Had she instead welcomed a serpent?
Lightning split the sky.
The Queen Regent whispered to the darkness:
"If you are loyal, child, I shall make you empress of an India reborn.If you are treacherous, I shall become the storm the world warns its children about."
Her reflection in the mirror looked back not as queen, not as mother, but as judge.
And fate had already begun the trial.
A Moment with Samrat
The next evening, Samrat found Anushka seated beneath the banyan tree beside the temple pond. The lamps reflected in the water like constellations drowned in silk.
He sat beside her.
She did not look up, but she smiled. "The kingdom murmurs tonight."
"Kingdoms always murmur. It is when they grow silent that one must fear."
She tilted her head, considering him. "Your words are sharpened lately."
"They must be," he answered. "Swords dull when not used."
They sat in silence for a long time.
Then he asked gently:
"Anushka… Did you serve my father his medicine two nights ago?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
"Did you alter it?"
Her hands did not tremble.
Her eyes did not flinch.
She simply looked at him, long and steady, and said:
"No."
The word carried the softness of velvet.
And the weight of iron.
He wanted to believe her.
His heart did believe.
But the throne does not allow princes the luxury of only hearts.
Threads Close In
In the Queen Regent's private council chamber, only three people stood:
Aishvarya Devi.Aditya Pratap Singh.Mrinalini.
Between them rested scrolls, food logs, physician records, water seal stamps.
Patterns emerged.
Days.
Times.
Hands.
Every thread led toward the same delicate name.
And yet—
Aishvarya's jaw tightened.
"Proof," she said coldly. "Without proof, accusation is treason."
Aditya bowed. "Then I shall bring you proof."
Mrinalini's eyes glimmered with something like sorrow. "Or bring us heartbreak."
The Queen Regent Decides
By midnight the Queen Regent had made her decision.
She would not yet condemn.
She would watch.
She would wait.
She would test.
For she was not merely a mother or a queen.
She was Rajmata, guardian of throne and dharma.
If Anushka was innocent, she would raise her high, protect her, shape her into an empress history would worship.
If Anushka was guilty…
Then the girl from Bengal had no idea that she had awakened a lioness who once tore apart kingdoms with her bare resolve.
Aishvarya turned toward the silent dark court outside her window and whispered:
"Come then, fate. Let us see whose will is sharper—yours or mine."
The storm beyond the palace broke open in thunder.
Inside the palace walls, the first pieces of a great and terrible future quietly locked into place.