Monsoon clouds gathered like conspirators around the sandstone domes of Rajgarh. The palace banners hung heavy with rain, the Sun Banner dripping with gold threads dampened by mist. The courtyards were quieter than usual, as if the very peacocks and mynahs sensed that destiny walked through the marble halls with an unsheathed dagger.
Inside the Hall of Thousand Pillars, oil lamps flickered, lighting the carved pillars that showed old kings, dharmic battles, and celestial guardians. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and storm.
At the center sat Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Queen Regent, draped in emerald silk, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Beside her—slightly behind as protocol demanded—stood Yuvraj Samrat Veer Singh, the Crown Prince, tall and still as a carved idol of Surya. His hands were clasped behind him, knuckles white though his face revealed nothing.
And near one lattice screen, veiled but dignified, sat Yuvrani Anushka Devi of Bengal.
Her hand rested protectively over her abdomen beneath folds of crimson brocade, though no one noticed. She had schooled her expression into serenity, though waves of nausea rose and fell like the tide of the Ganges. Her secret lived beneath her heart and within her plans, and both beat like drums of war.
A herald struck the marble floor with a silver staff.
"Pravesh karo! Enter!"
Boots sounded. Not slippers, not embroidered mojris.
Boots.
British boots.
The Envoy of the Crown, Sir Reginald Harrington, strode in draped in white linen, stiff collar cutting against his neck. Behind him came clerks carrying scrolls, a translator, and four sepoys holding rifles with polished bayonets.
He bowed only as low as his pride would tolerate.
"Your Majesty the Queen Regent," he said in clipped British tones, "and Crown Prince… I convey the greetings of His Excellency, the Viceroy."
Aishvarya Devi smiled the way a cobra might before striking.
"Rajgarh greets no one who forgets to bow before Dharma," she replied softly. "But speak, Envoy. The monsoon waits for none."
The translator whispered. The Envoy stiffened but continued.
"We come with terms."
The word fell like thunder.
The courtiers murmured. Anklets stilled. A priest dropped his mala beads and scrambled to retrieve them.
The Envoy unrolled the parchment, flourishing it dramatically.
"By order of the British Crown," he intoned, "Rajgarh shall agree to the following:
A permanent British garrison within the capital walls.
Exclusive rights to salt, silk, and opium revenues.
The supply of two battalions of Rajgarh soldiers to defend Empire interests.
Full acceptance of British arbitration in matters of succession and regency."
A silence followed so heavy it could be touched.
Then came his final words:
"Failure to comply will result in removal of recognition of your rulership, forced annexation, and disciplinary military action."
Lightning split the sky outside.
Aishvarya Devi's voice turned to steel.
"You threaten the sons and daughters of Aryavarta in our own Darbar?"
The Envoy did not blink.
"I state policy."
Samrat Veer Singh stepped forward.
His voice was calm, regal, dangerous.
"Rajgarh bows to no foreign crown."
The sepoys tightened their grip on their rifles.
Across the hall, Aditya Pratap Singh—the Eldest Son and General—shifted subtly, hand brushing the hilt of his sword. His eyes burned.
The Envoy smiled thinly.
"Your Highness, kingdoms rise and fall not by swords, but by ledgers. Your treasuries are strained. Your King"—he paused to savor the effect—"is unwell."
A knife twisted into silence.
Anushka's fingers dug into her palm beneath her veil. Her eyes turned sharp as diamonds.
So the British knew.
Or suspected.
Samrat's jaw tightened. "My father's health is not the concern of your Crown."
The Envoy leaned forward.
"It becomes our concern when instability threatens trade. We supported your kingdom when rebels stirred. We expect gratitude."
Aishvarya Devi's bangles chimed as she raised her hand.
"Rajgarh is not a vassal," she said. "Rajgarh is Rajya—a sovereign realm."
The Envoy shrugged politely.
"Then act wisely, or sovereign ashes you shall become."
His sepoys thudded their rifle butts in emphasis.
Lightning boomed again.
And then—
A voice floated softly, sweet as temple bells yet filled with gravity.
"May I speak, Maharani Sa?"
All eyes turned.
Anushka Devi rose.
She walked with measured grace to the center of the hall, crimson silk whispering like flames. Her face remained demure, but her mind moved like a chess master's hands.
She bowed.
"My Queen Regent. My Prince. Maharaja's court."
Aishvarya's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Speak, Bahu."
Anushka turned to the Envoy.
"Sir Harrington," she said gently, "in Bengal we were taught that a guest who threatens his host loses both honor and shelter."
The hall murmured. The translator stammered to keep up.
She continued,
"You demand garrisons. You demand soldiers. You demand salt and silk like a tax collector of old."
She stepped closer until she stood within arm's reach of him.
"But you forget one thing."
He raised a brow. "And what is that, Your Highness?"
She smiled faintly.
"This land remembers."
He frowned. "Remembers what?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper that carried to every corner.
"The blood of those who bowed…And the glory of those who did not."
The Envoy chuckled.
"Pretty words, Princess."
His gaze sharpened.
"But rebellion is treason. And treason is death."
The sentence lingered.
The courtiers shifted uneasily.
Aishvarya caught the double meaning. Samrat Veer Singh's eyes flicked sideways to his wife.
Anushka bowed again with perfect grace.
"I am merely a woman," she said softly. "I only speak of history."
But inside, beneath obedience and silk—
the Benefactor smiled.
Outside the Hall
Rumours spread like wildfire.
The Envoy threatens war.The Regent defied him.The Crown Prince stood firm.The Bengali Princess confronted the white sahib.
Servants whispered in kitchens. Soldiers murmured in barracks. Merchants leaned across their carts and spoke in low tones of rebellion, opium, and rifles.
The storm rumbled over Rajgarh.
Within her private chamber, Anushka leaned heavily against a pillar, breath trembling. Nausea rose again. The world swayed.
She pressed her palm over her belly.
"Steady," she whispered. "Little one… not now."
There was a knocking.
Samrat Veer Singh entered.
He crossed the chamber quickly.
"Anushka! You should rest. You looked pale in court."
Her eyes softened despite herself.
"I am well, Swami," she replied quietly. "The air was heavy."
He hesitated.
"Mother sees everything. The British see much. If you—"
She looked away.
Secrets threaded the air between them.
"Trust me," she said softly.
He reached out.
For a moment his fingertips brushed hers.
For a heartbeat their world was only closeness, warmth, the promise of something unsaid…
Then a trumpet sounded.
A messenger shouted from outside.
"The British Resident summons his troops outside the city gates!"
The storm finally broke open.
Rain hammered the palace roofs.
Drums rolled through the courtyard.
Samrat straightened, crown prince again instead of husband.
"I must go," he said. "Duty calls."
She nodded.
"Go, my Prince of the Sun Banner."
He turned—
her voice stopped him.
"Samrat."
He looked back.
"If the storm breaks into war," she said, "remember…nothing in this world is permanent—except Dharma and destiny."
He studied her for one long moment.
Something in her gaze seemed deeper, fiercer, almost terrifying in its clarity.
He left.
She exhaled slowly.
Then she turned to the shadowed corner of her chamber.
A cloaked figure stepped out.
A man's voice whispered,
"Benefactor. The British envoy moves troops. Do we proceed?"
The hooded woman did not remove her veil.
Her voice was low as thunder.
"Yes."
The conspirator bowed and vanished.
Anushka pressed her hand to her heart—
her unborn child—
her growing power—
and whispered like a vow,
"Let the British envoy threaten kingdoms.I am done being threatened."
Outside, the British cannon wheels rolled.
Inside Rajgarh, destiny shifted.
And the future Queen of Dharmapuriya sharpened her invisible blade