The dawn over Rajgarh arrived dressed in gold and dust.
From the ramparts one could see it: a long serpentine line of wagons, elephants draped in Union Jack silks, horses decked with brass bridles, camels laden with chests, and behind them the marching red coats of the British East India Company escort.
Drums beat in slow imperial measure.
The people of Rajgarh gathered along the outer roads—traders, peasants, nobles pretending indifference, children perched on shoulders like bright parrots.
The caravan was not merely carrying goods.
It carried terms.
And terms were often more deadly than swords.
A Kingdom Watching
Inside the palace, balconies were alive with silks and whispers.
Maharani Lalima Devi, the Queen Consort, leaned against the railing, rosary of pearls slipping between her fingers. Her eyes remained gentle, as if always on the verge of prayer.
At her side stood Rajkumari Charumati, quiet as a swan, absorbing the scene with soft seriousness.
Across the courtyard, slightly apart in poise and power, stood Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Queen Regent—the emerald of her sari blazing beneath the rising sun. Her gaze did not wander like the others'. She stared directly at the approaching caravan as though the very horizon were her adversary.
Behind her, the princes stood:
Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh, the general, a storm beneath calm armor
Crown Prince Samrat Veer Singh, destiny coiled into human form
Rajkumar Aarav, the youngest, restless energy barely contained
And beside Samrat stood Yuvrani Anushka Devi of Bengal—red silk, sindoor glowing like a comet in her hair.
She bowed slightly as Aishvarya turned.
No warmth passed between them.
No hostility either.
Only calculation.
The British Arrive
Trumpets pierced the air.
The main wagon stopped before the palace gates, where carpets of crimson had been unrolled. The elephants lowered their heads obediently.
A British officer descended—a tall man in polished boots, blue eyes reflecting the confidence of empire.
"Sir Edward Halbrook, Resident of His Majesty's Crown in the Province of Rajgarh," the herald boomed.
He bowed to the king seated in his carriage-throne, then to the Queen Regent.
"Your Majesty. Your Highness. I bring prosperous tidings and opportunities of trade."
Opportunities.
Aishvarya heard what he did not say:
Control. Taxation. Salt. Silk. Rail. Troops.
Behind him porters opened crates with exaggerated theatricality.
Spices. Rifles. Clockwork toys. Guns. Mirrors. Opium bricks disguised as medicine.
The crowd gasped.
The ministers murmured.
Halbrook smiled his thin British smile.
"Let this be the caravan of friendship."
A Plot Beneath Velvet
No one noticed the shadow leaving the caravan line and slipping behind pillars.
No one except Aditya Pratap Singh.
Years of war made his senses prickle.
His hand touched his sword hilt.
From across the marble court, Anushka's lashes lowered slightly—she too felt it. Not through training, not through battle-instinct.
Through observation.
Through the deep, cold silence of someone who listens for danger the way others listen for music.
She turned her head just as a flicker of motion darted to the side of the dais.
A cloaked figure.
Not British.
Not soldier.
Assassin.
The dagger flashed—curved, ceremonial, dipped in black oil that smelled of bitter almonds.
A poison dagger.
Pointed straight toward the heart of Maharani Aishvarya Devi.
The Blade Meant for a Queen Regent
Time fractured into fragments.
Servants screamed.
Horses reared.
Aishvarya saw it in the corner of her vision but did not flinch—centuries of royal training had frozen fear into obedience.
Aditya lunged forward—
Samrat shouted—
The dagger flew—
It should have buried itself beneath the emerald folds of the Queen Regent's breast.
It did not.
Anushka moved before anyone else.
No hesitation.
No cry.
No drama.
She simply stepped between blade and queen.
The dagger struck her upper arm.
The sound was soft and sickening, like a peach skin tearing.
Red bloomed across her sleeve.
She did not fall.
She stood tall, chin lifted, eyes steady, even as the poison burned into her blood.
The assassin tried to flee.
He did not make three steps before Aditya's sword opened him like cloth. The body hit the marble and the red coat soldiers stiffened, realizing with horror that this was not their doing.
Chaos roared.
The court surged.
The British Resident looked deeply alarmed—not out of compassion, but diplomatic panic.
But the only sound Aishvarya heard was her own heartbeat.
And the only face she saw was Anushka's.
The girl turned slowly, blood dripping down her wrist like rubies.
She whispered, voice steady:
"Rajmata… forgive me for touching your person in my haste."
Respect Earned in Blood
They carried Anushka into the inner chambers.
The palace vaidya bent over her wound, sniffed the blade, muttered,
"Vish. Slow. Deadly in hours without antidote."
The Queen Regent's fingers tightened around the bedpost.
Samrat knelt beside his wife, his composure shattered, his voice breaking into human fear.
"Anushka… why? Why would you—"
She smiled faintly.
"Because a kingdom without its Queen Regent collapses faster than poison spreads."
The vaidya worked feverishly. Poultices. Fire-heated iron. Herbal infusions ground from bitter leaves.
Aditya stood guard at the door like a living statue.
Aarav cried openly.
Charumati prayed.
Mrinalini recited holy verses under her breath.
And the Queen Regent?
She sat beside Anushka and held her uninjured hand.
Not as queen.
As mother.
"Child," she whispered, "you took my death onto your flesh with no thought for yourself."
Anushka opened her eyes slowly through the ache.
"I took my kingdom's breath into my flesh. You are that breath."
Aishvarya closed her eyes.
Suspicion shattered.
Armor of distance softened.
The girl she had doubted had just offered her life without question.
And nothing—not even a queen—could ignore truth revealed in blood.
The antidote worked.
The poison receded like a tide.
The wound would scar—but survive.
So would the girl.
🕯 A Shift in the Palace
Rumors spread faster than monsoon winds.
"The Crown Princess threw herself between dagger and queen!"
"Poison! Assassins!"
"She saved the Rajmata with her own life!"
Where there had once been whispers of suspicion, now there were:
Respect.Reverence.Love.
Even the most venomous court ladies pressed flowers outside Anushka's chamber.
The soldiers saluted when she passed.
The ministers bowed lower.
And the British Resident, pale as marble, offered gifts and apologies in tripled number.
Aishvarya Devi addressed the court the following day:
"From this day onward, Yuvrani Anushka Devi stands not only as Crown Princess of Rajgarh, but as Raksha-Vrata—the one who took the vow of protection in blood."
The hall thundered with acclaim.
Samrat watched his wife, awe and something deeper softening his eyes.
Aditya bowed deeply to her.
Even Lalima Devi wept quietly.
Only Mrinalini noticed something else.
For just one fleeting second, when the applause roared loudest and every head bowed lowest, Anushka's lips curved…
Not in pride.
Not in relief.
But in something like satisfaction.
A plan moved forward another step.
And she alone knew the full design.
Beneath the Heroine's Smile
That night, in the quiet of her chamber, Anushka undid her bandage slowly and examined the wound.
It hurt.
Pain burned up her shoulder.
But pain, she had long ago learned, was the coin one paid for power.
She thought of Bengal.
Of starving farmers.
Of guns in crates labeled "Textiles."
Of treaties signed in blood but stamped in English ink.
She whispered into the darkness:
"They will believe in me now.They will accept me without question.When the time comes, they will follow."
The moon hid behind clouds, like a co-conspirator unwilling to be seen.
Outside, the peacocks cried again.
Not in sorrow, this time.
But as if heralding something vast approaching.
A future where the kingdoms of Rajgarh and Bengal no longer bowed.
A future called Dharmapuriya.
A future where widows were not needed—
because her husband would live.
Exiled.
Alive.
Useful.