The rain had finally thinned into a silver mist, the monsoon clouds drifting like tired elephants across the sky. Rajgarh glistened—domes washed clean, courtyards shining as if burnished by divine hands. But beneath this serene splendor, the palace breathed secrets.
In the Hall of Archives, where the air tasted of ink and centuries, the past slept in scrolls tied with vermillion thread. Stone shelves stood like silent sentinels, each holding chronicles of treaty and war, irrigation plans of forgotten kings, and maps drawn by cartographers who traced kingdoms with trembling brushes.
Tonight, lamps burned low.
Curtains were drawn.
Guards were posted, sworn to silence.
And upon the great sandalwood table lay the Map of Rajgarh.
Not one map—six.
Not one version—layers.
Each was more dangerous than the last.
The Archivist
Pandit Govind Shastri, Royal Keeper of Records, leaned over the table, his white beard fluttering as he muttered mantras under his breath. His ink-stained fingers moved as gently as if soothing a sleeping child.
"Careful," he whispered to the apprentices. "These are not mere parchments. They are arteries of the Rajya."
The apprentices nodded nervously.
Before them sprawled the great drawing:
The Palace City — Rajgarh Mahal
The Inner Fort — Chandrapravesh Garh
The Queen's Courtyard — Antahpur Mandal
The Soldiers' Quarters — Senapati Angan
The Market of Silk and Salt — Resham–Namak Bazaar
The Sacred River Gate — Tirtha-Dwara
The Elephant Way — Gajapatha
And the hidden ones…
The Passage of Seven Shadows
The Well of Whispering Stones
The Serpent Stair
The Queens' Escape Tunnel
The Tiger Gate beneath the Lotus Pool
These had no official existence.
But they existed.
They always had.
Govind Shastri gently unfurled the final layer.
It showed every hidden artery beneath the palace, etched in red.
Every tunnel.
Every gate.
Every choke point where ten men could trap a hundred.
Every forgotten door that opened into darkness.
He looked up.
"Bring the lamp closer," he said softly. "Tonight the Benefactor reads destiny."
The Cloaked Figure Arrives
The door creaked only slightly.
The guards bowed immediately.
A woman entered, wrapped in a dark hooded cloak, jewelry muted, anklets silenced by cloth, presence controlled like an unsheathed blade hidden beneath silk. Her face was veiled; only the graceful line of her chin and the fire in her eyes flashed through darkness.
Behind her walked a tall man, features swallowed in shadow. His was the voice the world heard. Hers was the will the world obeyed.
Govind Shastri bowed deeply.
"Pranam, Benefactor, unseen yet ever present."
The man behind her spoke, his tone measured and firm.
"The Benefactor wishes to examine the maps."
No one questioned.
No one dared.
The hooded woman stepped forward and stood before the geometry of kingdoms. Though veiled, she looked with the precision of a ruler measuring her own veins. Beneath the cloak, beneath the controlled stillness, Anushka Devi's heart pounded—not from fear, but from the strange thrill of holding a kingdom's skeleton in her hands.
She had been raised among Bengal's river kingdoms, where British rail lines struck across land like scars, and she had learned early:
Whoever understood the map… ruled the land.
She lifted her gloved hand slowly and touched the parchment.
The Archivist saw reverence in that gesture.
He did not know he witnessed ambition.
The Palace's Outer Body
Her finger moved first across the outer defenses.
The Great Wall of Rajgarh encircled the city like the coils of a protective serpent, its gates named by the elements:
Agni Dwara – the Gate of Fire, facing the desert
Neela Dwara – the Gate of Rain, facing the monsoon winds
Vayu Dwara – the Gate of Wind leading toward plains
Dhruva Dwara – the Gate of the North Star, for sacred pilgrimages
She calculated silently:
Two hundred archers each. Eight cannons per gate. British artillery outranges ours.
She shifted.
Her fingers moved inward.
There stood the bastions—moon-shaped bulwarks strengthened by stone and faith. Below them clustered homes of nobles, guilds of craftsmen, courtyards where traders haggled with loud laughter and sharper eyes.
"Where does the British Resident's caravan settle?" the man behind her asked for her.
The Archivist pointed.
"At Neela Dwara's field, sahib. Outside cannon range, inside rifle range."
The hooded head inclined slightly—approval. She remembered every word. Every path. Every weakness.
So they planned safety from cannons yet proximity to control. Good.
We shall teach them what cannons do not reach, fire does.
Her hand drifted to the Elephant Way—Gajapatha—where royal processions walked beneath banners of Surya.
There, she thought, the people see the ruler.
And she whispered inwardly:
One day… they will see me.
The Inner Fort
She moved to the palace itself.
Within the great wall rested a second wall, high and thick as destiny itself. Only those born within it knew its language.
"Chandrapravesh Garh," murmured Govind Shastri reverently. "The Fort of Moon-Entry."
Here lived, the Maharaja
the Maharani Regent Aishvarya Devi
the Queen Consort Lalima Devi
Rajkumari Mrinalini
Rajkumari Charumati
Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh
Rajkumar Aarav
and her husband—Samrat Veer Singh
And she herself.
One King, two queens, two daughters, three sons and one bride.
One throne.
And one secret new life beneath her heart whose very existence could shift kingdoms.
Her finger paused over the Antahpur Mandal, the women's palace, its gardens closed from the world by carved jalis that let in moonlight but not rumors—at least in theory. Servants' routes, maid entrances, guard rotation schedules—these too were traced.
"Who has keys to the Lotus Gate?" the man asked.
"Only the Regent, the General Prince Aditya, and myself," the Archivist replied. "And…" he hesitated, "the chief eunuch of the inner palace."
She memorized that as well.
The Lotus Gate led directly from the women's wing to the Passage of Seven Shadows—used in old sieges to evacuate queens and princes unseen.
Or to smuggle armies.
Or assassins.
It depended on who held the map.
The Tunnels
The Benefactor bent lower.
Now they studied what most of Rajgarh did not know existed.
"This," Govind Shastri whispered, pointing to lines thin as spider silk, "was built in the reign of Maharaja Devnarayan. He feared the Afghan raids and dug tunnels for retreat."
She traced one:
The Serpent Stair
A staircase hidden behind the statue of a hooded naga, leading downward into cold earth, winding and narrow enough that only one man could pass at a time.
Perfect for ambush.
Another line forked near the Lotus Pool.
The Tiger Gate
A mouth-shaped tunnel emerging beneath a stone slab disguised by water lilies.
She thought calmly:
There armies could leave unseen—or enter unseen.
Another tunnel ran beneath the temples.
The Well of Whispering Stones
Legend said spirits talked there.
Truth said rebels did.
Anushka remembered nights in Bengal where revolutionaries spoke in abandoned shrines, whispering plans between mantras to Durga.
Her gloved hand tightened.
The same spirit lives here.
The British Threat
As the lamp flickered, thunder rumbled, echoing the memory of the Envoy's voice earlier that day:
"Failure to comply will result in annexation… disciplinary military action."
She closed her eyes briefly.
Annexation.
Another kingdom eaten.
Another banner pulled down.
Another Queen turned into a pensioner, living under surveillance behind British guards while priests prayed to gods who no longer protected kingdoms.
No.
Not Rajgarh.
Not Bengal.
Not Dharmapuriya yet unborn.
She felt the child beneath her sari, silent and unknowable, but already a presence in the pulse of her blood.
Little one… what world shall I make for you?
A world free.
Or a world bowed.
Her choice.
The Plan Awakens
The man's voice behind her spoke again.
"Benefactor, do we diagram retreat or attack?"
The hood remained still.
But the voice that answered—through him—was calm, regal, and absolute.
"Both."
The Archivist and his apprentices froze.
Maps were rearranged.
Lines drawn.
New ink flowed like veins of fate.
She indicated the market lanes first.
"If the British seek to move cannon into the city, they must cross Resham–Namak Bazaar. Flood it. Break the wells. Mud will trap iron."
Govind Shastri blinked.
"Yes… it has been done before. In the time of the Maratha incursions."
She nodded silently.
Then pointed to the Elephant Way.
"Barricades here. Three layers. Wagons. Oil jars."
"Oil?" the apprentice whispered before catching himself.
Firelight flickered in the Benefactor's veil.
"Empires burn."
Next she indicated vantage towers.
"Archers here. Riflemen on second wall. Cannons not at gates—but angled inward at choke points."
The man repeated every order aloud, formalizing it.
He never once said her name.
And no one dared look beneath the hood to see the eyes of the Crown Princess of Rajgarh who planned like a general and plotted like a shadow.
The Inner Protection
Her hand went then to chambers that mattered most:
The Maharaja's private rooms
Aishvarya Devi's council chamber
The Dharam Sabha
The Prince's armory
The Princesses' quarters
She ringed them in red.
"Evacuation protocols," the voice commanded. "The youngest first."
"No," she whispered behind the veil—a bare murmur, but iron.
The man translated more firmly:
"Not the youngest first. The scholars first.The carriers of knowledge and lineage must survive."
The Archivist looked up, astonished.
"That is… unusual."
Yes.
Most rulers saved warriors.
But she thought like a rebuilder of nations.
She had seen enough orphans of war to know: swords were easily replaced—libraries were not.
She marked three routes—east, south, hidden valley.
If Rajgarh fell today…
Its memory must not.
Samrat Veer Singh on the Map
Her hand stopped—unwilled—at one small chamber near the Sun Court.
His chamber.
The Crown Prince.
The man who had touched her hand like it was sacred.
The man she would one day exile.
The only person she planned to leave alive when the board cleared.
Her throat tightened inside the hood.
Destiny was cruel.
So was she.
Not yet.
But someday.
She whispered something no one could hear:
"Forgive me… or do not. I walk where Dharma commands."
The map did not judge her.
It merely told truth.
Aishvarya Devi's Shadow
Then came another realization.
If the Queen Regent studied these same maps…
If she suspected…
If she read the same lines and saw the same possibilities…
Aishvarya Devi was formidable.
Perhaps the only woman alive who might recognize another queen-making war in motion.
The thought burned like spice at the back of her throat.
This was not merely a game against the British.
It was also a silent duel between two queens:
one ruling openly
one building in shadows
Not enemies.
But not allies.
Not truly.
The pen hovered.
The Archivist spoke carefully:
"Your ladyship… do you wish us to deliver copies of these strategic marks to the Queen Regent?"
For a heartbeat the map, the room, the world were utterly still.
Her veil did not move.
"No," the man said.
Her decision.
Her path.
Her war.
The Archivist bowed slowly, recognizing the shift of history but bound by oath.
The Oath of the Archive
Torches were dimmed.
Incense smoke curled upward like surrendered ghosts.
Govind Shastri cut his palm lightly with a ritual blade, letting one drop of blood fall upon the edge of the map.
"I swear upon my ancestors and upon the Gita," he intoned, "what has been seen tonight will remain in darkness unless summoned again by the Benefactor."
His apprentices repeated shakily.
The hooded woman inclined her head.
She did not need to speak blessings.
She was the omen.
The maps were rolled, sealed with royal wax, placed into a hidden chest beneath the floor—its lock carved with intertwined serpents and suns.
Only three keys existed.
Tonight created a fourth:
The memory inside her mind.
Night Walk Through the Palace
She left the archives like a shadow sliding out of a dream.
Corridors whispered under her steps.
From courtyards rose smell of wet earth and jasmines, mingled with steel and oil from soldiers drilling restless under the rising tension of British threats.
At a lattice window she paused.
The palace glowed in lamplight.
Domes like golden lotuses floated in mist.
She saw guards at walls.
Patrols on ramparts.
Children chasing each other near anklets' chimes…
And she saw it layered with something else—future armies, banners of rebellion, the unification of Bengal and Rajgarh beneath a new name:
Dharmapuriya.
A kingdom founded on justice and moral law.
A kingdom born from blood.
Her breath trembled.
She pressed her palm flat to the stone and whispered,
"Remember, Rajgarh. I will either save you… or I will bury the version of you that bows."
The wind answered with cool fingers.
Somewhere in the palace, a conch blew for the night prayer.
Samrat's Footsteps
She sensed him before hearing him.
He walked differently from others—like a tiger pacing boundaries invisible to other men.
She did not turn.
"Anushka?"
His voice was soft, confused, worried.
She had forgotten that she still wore the cloak.
She pulled the hood back only halfway—enough that moonlight struck her cheek.
"Samrat Veer," she said quietly.
He frowned, stepping closer.
"What are you doing alone at this hour?"
She smiled gently.
"Looking at our kingdom."
He followed her gaze out the lattice.
Something in her tone unsettled him.
"You speak like someone who stands above it," he said lightly.
She did not answer.
He watched her profile in moonlight—serene yet distant, as though she listened to voices older than stone.
He took her hand.
Warmth flooded between them.
His thumb brushed her knuckles.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" he murmured. "Rajgarh."
She whispered,
"Yes."
And fragile.
He leaned closer.
"Promise me something."
She blinked.
"What?"
"That whatever storms come… you will stay beside me."
The universe stilled.
The future queen of revolts.
The hidden Benefactor.
The woman who would exile him one day and claim the world in flames.
She closed her eyes.
"I will walk beside you," she said truthfully.
Just not where you think the road leads.
He smiled, satisfied, and kissed her forehead.
Duty called him away again soon, but she stood long after he left, cloak whispering around ankles like living shadow.
Dawn and Decision
When dawn finally spilled gold over marble domes, the maps had already been copied into her mind:
where to bleed the enemy
where to shelter civilians
where to vanish without trace
where to dethrone
where to rise again
She returned to her chambers in silence.
The maid who helped remove the cloak never saw the maps in her eyes.
Anushka Devi of Bengal sat before her mirror, vermillion bright on her hairline, jewels asleep across her neck, pulse steady.
Outside, Rajgarh woke.
Inside, war had already begun.
And in the hidden folds of a princess's mind, every gate and passage stood red with fate—reviewed, remembered, mastered.
The map did not belong to the Regent.
It did not belong to the British.
It did not even belong to the Maharaja.
It belonged—
—to the woman whose name no one yet feared…
but one day would:
Yuvrani Anushka Devi,The Benefactor,future Queen of Dharmapuriya