Monsoon clouds brooded low over Rajgarh, their violet-grey bellies heavy as if the heavens themselves were burdened with secrets. The domes of the palace gleamed dully beneath the veiled sunlight, and the peacocks that usually cried proudly in the palace gardens were strangely quiet, feathers dragging through wet grass like languid fans. The wind that wound through the zenana courtyards carried not only the perfume of jasmine and wet earth but also an unspoken tension—like the prickling of skin when a storm waits to break.
Inside the marble halls of Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj's palace, life appeared to move with the same ritualistic grace as always—the clangor of guards' anklets, soft murmur of purdah-veiled maidens, the rustle of silk, and the distant chant of temple bells. Yet beneath that splendour, the great kingdom trembled on the edge of something unseen.
Because the Lion of Rajgarh was weakening.
And soon the world would know it.
The Beginning of Omen
The first sign came in the Hall of Audience, the Diwan-i-Aam, on a morning meant for proclamations.
The king sat upon the gaddi, the lion-carved throne, robed in ivory silk and emerald turban, the tilak strong between his brows. His eyes were still sharp—eyes that had stared down traitors and British Residents alike—but a faint sheen of exhaustion clung to him like mist along the riverbanks of dawn.
Before him, the courtiers bowed: nobles in brocade achkans, priests with rudraksha beads, warriors with sun-emblazoned shields. The British Resident, Sir Alistair Hartwell, stood among them with his usual serpent-like politeness.
Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Queen Regent, watched carefully from behind the chequered marble jali, unseen but omnipotent, every breath tuned to her husband's.
Beside her, her sons—Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh, stern and steel-eyed,Rajkumar Samrat Veer Singh, the Crown Prince, calm yet inwardly aflame,and Rajkumar Aarav, restless as wildfire.
On the other side of the lattice veil stood Maharani Lalima Devi, the Queen Consort, fingers anxiously intertwined with the soft palms of Princess Charumati. Nearby stood Princess Mrinalini, dignified and thoughtful, eyes like quiet lakes holding storms.
And in the shadows of the royal women stood Yuvrani Anushka Devi—the Bengali princess whose destiny wound like a coiled serpent around the fate of Rajgarh—face serene, eyes unreadable beneath long dark lashes.
The court crier announced:
"Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj, Lord of Rajgarh, Custodian of Dharma, Protector of the Sun Banner—shall address his people!"
The room bowed.
The Maharaja rose.
Or tried to.
His hand slipped from the throne's arm. The colour drained from his face. The hall blurred.
"Prabhu!" cried Aishvarya Devi under her breath behind the screen.
Aditya surged forward first, instinctive as lightning, catching his father's arm.
Samrat Veer Singh reached his other side.
The Maharaja looked at them both—and then his body went entirely limp.
The Lion collapsed.
A gasp swept the hall like a monsoon wind tearing through prayer flags. Priests chanted. Courtiers froze. The British Resident's eyes glittered with calculating interest.
And the kingdom changed in a single heartbeat.
The Palace Trembles
He was carried, not as a king but as a fragile mortal, through corridors that had witnessed coronations and coups alike. Aishvarya Devi walked beside the palanquin, her regality unbroken though her heart screamed silently inside her chest. Lalima followed, tears already streaming down her face.
Anushka moved like a shadow along the walls, mind racing. A king collapsing meant many things in the British Raj era—not merely danger of death, but danger of intervention. Of treaties twisted. Of thrones swallowed whole by parchment and ink.
Aditya barked commands.
"Send for the royal vaidya… and the Hakim as well. Double the guards at the gates. No rumor leaves this palace. Let no firangi tongue taste this news."
Samrat Veer Singh said nothing. His jaw was stone, his hands trembling despite him.
Rajkumar Aarav wept openly.
Princess Charumati clung to her mother's sari.
Princess Mrinalini whispered mantras beneath her breath, knowing that sometimes prayers were stronger than swords.
They lay the Maharaja upon the vast carved bed in the Chamber of the Moon. Perfumed lamps were lit. Silver bowls of tulsi water placed. Conch bells echoed through the corridors as priests intoned the Mahamrityunjaya mantra.
The vaidya entered, bowed low, and began his examinations.
Minutes became hours.
The storm outside finally broke, rain lashing against the latticed windows like desperate hands.
At last the vaidya spoke.
His voice trembled.
"Maharani-sa, the Maharaja suffers not from the fatigue of age alone. His heart is failing. The strain of statecraft, of British pressures, of years of war—it has taken root within his very prana."
Silence fell like a shroud.
Lalima Devi broke into sobs.
Aishvarya Devi stood still as a statue of goddess Durga before battle.
Then, quietly:
"Will he live?"
The answer came like a slow death.
"He may, Maharani-sa… but he may not rise as a ruler again."
And just like that, the empire tilted.
A Struggle for Power Begins
Word could not be allowed to escape. The British would seize it like vultures.
But rumors move like wind, not like men.
Within days, bazaars whispered, temple courtyards murmured, soldiers exchanged glances.
The Maharaja is ill.
The throne trembles.
Who shall rule?
And in the heart of the palace, decision brewed like thunder.
The Queen Regent summoned the Royal Council.
Aditya pressed for security and strict secrecy. His loyalty to crown and mother burned fiercely.
Samrat Veer Singh felt another weight—that of destiny's invisible chains tightening around his throat.
For if the king fell…
The Crown Prince must rise.
Anushka watched everything with lowered lashes, listening more than speaking, her mind sharpening like a blade hidden in silk.
Mrinalini immersed herself in scriptures and political histories, understanding the gravity of succession.
Aarav tried to be brave but failed, sitting outside the king's chamber door at night like a child guarding the moon.
Lalima Devi fasted, praying endlessly, placing lamps before Krishna until her fingers shook.
And Aishvarya Devi, the Green Queen, bore the burden of empire.
She never cried where anyone could see.
But one night, by the king's bedside, she clasped his hand—the strong hand that once drew swords effortlessly, now weak and trembling—and whispered:
"Do not leave your praja yet, my Maharaj. Your duty has not ended. Nor has mine."
His eyelids fluttered weakly.
"Aishvarya… my Shakti… guard them. Guard… the kingdom…"
Then he slipped into unconsciousness once more.
Collapsing Worlds
The British Resident demanded audience.
"His Majesty the Maharaja is unwell," Aditya said curtly. "State matters may be addressed to the Queen Regent."
Sir Hartwell smiled thinly.
"A charming arrangement. Temporary, I presume."
Aishvarya Devi met his gaze like a blade.
"Rajgarh bows to none but dharma. The throne is not vacant. It merely rests."
He bowed—but his eyes glittered. The British wanted weak kings or dead ones. A strong queen regent was… inconvenience.
The Night of Shattering
It happened during the third week after the collapse.
The palace slept.
Rain drummed softly.
A lone oil lamp burned near the king's bed.
Then the king's breath changed—ragged, shallow, a faltering flame.
The vaidya was called.
The family gathered again.
Aishvarya Devi knelt beside him.
Lalima trembled, held back by Mrinalini and Charumati.
Aditya stood at attention like a sentinel carved from stone.
Samrat Veer Singh silently prayed.
Aarav cried into his sleeves.
Anushka watched, her expression composed and unknowable, fingers grazing the cool pillars of the chamber. She was calculating destiny even as grief hung in the air like incense smoke.
The vaidya whispered:
"Prepare for whatever the gods decree."
The Maharaja stirred.
His eyes opened, unfocused, then sharpened, filled with love and pain.
He looked at his sons…
…his daughters…
…his wives…
…and finally at Samrat Veer Singh.
"Rajgarh… must not fall… into firangi chains… Rule with dharma… not pride… Trust not every smiling face… even beneath a bridal veil…"
The words struck like lightning.
Anushka lowered her gaze.
Aishvarya Devi felt the chill of prophecy wind around her heart.
Then the king's strength faltered. A spasm shook him. Pain rippled across his features.
The storm roared outside as if the sky itself were grieving.
And the Maharaja…
…collapsed again.
This time, he did not rise.
The room broke into wails.
Between Life and Death
But fate was not finished weaving yet.
He still breathed.
Barely.
Suspended between worlds—neither dead nor fully alive.
The court declared:
The Maharaja lives—but cannot rule.
Thus the throne fell under the shadow of regency and looming succession.
The British grew hungrier.
The nobles grew restless.
The priests spoke of omens—the eagle that dropped its prey mid-flight, the elephant that refused to enter the temple courtyard, the flickering lamps during aarti.
And within all of this…
Anushka Devi began her final transformation.
To the court, she became the perfect daughter-in-law, devoted wife, gentle crown princess.
To Samrat, she became moonlight and fire—soft voice, sharp mind, unstoppable will.
To herself, she embraced the truth long buried:
She was born not to bow before thrones—
—but to claim them.
A Kingdom Holds Its Breath
As Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj lay silent beneath silk canopies,
as his wives kept vigil and daughters wept prayers,
as sons sharpened swords and words alike,
as the British Resident drafted secret letters,
as the people whispered beneath banyan trees,
as priests marked omens in falling leaves and broken coconuts,
Rajgarh entered the twilight between two eras—
the end of a lion's reign
and the beginning of a storm greater than any monsoon.
The collapse of the Maharaja was not merely the illness of a king.
It was the first crack in an empire.
And through that crack, fate—red as sindoor and sharp as a hidden dagger—was waiting to walk in.