The monsoon clouds had begun to loosen their grip upon the plains of Rajgarh, withdrawing slowly like an army that had completed a campaign and left the earth soaked and fragrant in its wake. The palace rooftops still shone with the last silver traces of earlier showers, and the peacocks below the terraced gardens shook jewels of rain from their tails, giving brief cries that echoed like half-spoken secrets across the courtyards. Evening had fallen — soft, blue, and heavy with wind.
In the secluded upper apartments reserved for the Crown Princess, a single lamp burned.
Its glow revealed Yuvrani Anushka Devi of Bengal, seated before a low lacquered desk of sandalwood. Her hands rested open upon the blank palm-leaf papers arranged before her — hands that had once known only the trained grace of a court dancer and scholar, and now trembled beneath the weight of crowns, treaties, spies, and unborn life hidden beneath her heart.
The soft rustling of silk whispered as she shifted.
Outside her chamber, the palace continued beating with its endless life: guards exchanging passwords, maidservants murmuring, priests chanting somewhere far off in devotion to Ganapati. Yet this room was quiet — a sanctuary carved from the whirlpool of duty. The only sound within was the delicate, irregular rhythm of Anushka's breath.
She closed her eyes.
Her mother's voice rose within memory.
"A princess of Bengal does not break easily, child.We bend — and by bending, we outlast storms."
Anushka pressed her lips together to steady herself.
She had survived the hostile glances when she first arrived, the Trial of the Sindoor, the punishment beneath the sun where she had fainted unconscious, the whispers that she had been sent as a British pawn, the narrow look of the Queen Regent whose suspicion had been like a sword laid permanently against her neck. Yet she endured.
Now, however, a new reality pulsed within her — fragile, unreal, terrifyingly alive.
A child.
Samrat Veer Singh's child.
The heir of two kingdoms,
the ember of a future she could not yet name.
And one she must protect even at the cost of herself.
She opened her eyes and finally picked up the peacock-feather quill.
There was no more time for hesitation.
The Letter Begins
The first strokes were slow, ceremonial. She addressed the letter not as Benefactor nor Crown Princess of Rajgarh, but as the daughter of Bengal.
To His Majesty the Lion of the Eastern Seas,My Father, King Surya Dev of Bengal,
To Her Majesty, my Mother, Queen Mahadevi of Bengal,
And to my beloved brother, Prince Arindam, guardian of my laughter and companion of my childhood —
Her hand paused. The ink pooled slightly, then steadied as she continued.
From your daughter,Anushka Devi,bound presently by fate and vow in the court of Rajgarh,
I write beneath guarded lamplight, while sleep lies over the palace like a heavy veil. What I write must not be shared, must not be spoken aloud. Let fire devour it once you have read it. It carries both love and danger within its lines.
Her throat tightened — but the words came more easily now.
She described the palace.
The regency declared,
the King's secret illness that had worsened,
the growing British pressure,
the British Envoy whose smile resembled polished steel,
the treachery that hid in courtyards and tapestries.
She told them of the Benefactor — herself — working from shadows:
guiding petitions,
moving coin in secret to starving villages,
saving those whom court politics would have crushed,
intercepting letters,
protecting the Regent Queen herself even when blamed.
She did not glorify herself.
She simply told the truth.
Then she wrote the part she had avoided.
My mother, my father — I carry life within me.
The words blurred.
For a heartbeat she could not breathe.
Tears struck the paper, tiny dark moons.
She wiped them carefully so as not to smudge the script.
I do not yet show, but the physicians — if allowed near — would know. Therefore I refuse them. I hide my sickness as best I can. Four moons — no more — stand between me and revelation.
I must leave before four moons pass.
She laid the quill down and pressed both palms over her face.
Leaving meant separation from Samrat.
Leaving meant potential scandal.
Leaving meant returning to Bengal for protection — or for war.
And yet staying meant exposing the unborn child to danger no sword could repel.
Because the palace was not safe anymore.
Not after the last attempt on the Queen Regent's life.
Not after the blade she herself had taken to save the older queen.
Not after the way British eyes glittered when they spoke of "stability."
There were plans being spun around Rajgarh,
like silken snares.
If war came,
pregnancy made her a hostage to every side.
She resumed writing.
I love the man who is my husband. I write this without fear or maiden's shame. Samrat Veer Singh is not merely the Crown Prince of Rajgarh; he is the one who has walked beside my loneliness like a lamp through fog.
He does not yet know of the life I carry. I hide it because I would spare him anguish he cannot escape. When the time is right — perhaps when I am safe in Bengal — I will send him truth.
But destiny had plans for Samrat sooner than either of them could imagine.
For while she was writing,
he was bleeding.
The Blade for Anushka
Earlier that same day,
the palace had opened its gates to petitioners — farmers with cracked feet and soldiers with straight backs and widows who held small children by the hand. The Queen Regent had presided with stern majesty. Samrat Veer Singh had stood at her right side: young, tall, bearing the weight of a regency that pressed early lines of gravity into his brow.
Anushka, still pale but formally restored to duty, had taken her place slightly behind him.
She hid her shaking.
She hid the lingering nausea that crept up unexpectedly.
She hid the way her hand sometimes drifted unconsciously to her abdomen.
The hall shimmered with heat and incense smoke.
Petitions were read.
Disputes settled.
Grain orders signed.
Then came the ex-soldier.
He bowed too deeply.
Anushka noticed first — not the bow,
but the rage in the man's wrists,
hands too tense,
sleeves concealing something rigid.
Her instincts — honed now by shadow work as Benefactor — ignited.
She stepped slightly forward.
The man rose,
his eyes not on the Regent,
not on Samrat,
but fixed upon her.
His hand flashed.
A blade glinted,
small but sharpened with hatred.
Everything moved at once.
Gasps split the air.
Guards lunged.
The Regent shouted.
But Samrat Veer Singh moved faster than all of them.
He did not think.
He did not shout.
He simply placed himself between the knife and Anushka.
Steel cut skin.
The sound was soft —
like cloth tearing.
The blade buried shallowly into his upper shoulder before the guards slammed the attacker onto the marble and shackled his arms behind him. The ex-soldier screamed — not words, but broken fury — before a mailed fist silenced him into unconsciousness.
Blood spread across the Crown Prince's angarkha,
dark as a cursed flower blooming.
And Anushka forgot court,
forgot rank,
forgot that queens did not run.
She ran to him.
"Samrat!"
Her voice cracked.
The word was not title but wife's cry.
He swayed slightly, then smiled —
that maddening, reckless smile,
boyish even beneath regency's burdens.
"It is nothing," he murmured.
"Merely a scratch. I have had worse sparring with Aditya."
But his hand trembled.
Her fingers closed over the wound,
warm blood slicking instantly across her palms.
For the first time since she had come to Rajgarh,
her composure shattered in public.
Tears poured down her face,
unrestrained, shimmering in torchlight.
The court stared in shocked silence.
The Queen Regent herself froze —
watching as the foreign princess,
the girl she had suspected,
the Benefactor she did not yet know she owed her life to,
cried as though the earth had broken.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Do not do that again… never again… never put your life before mine."
Samrat's eyes softened —
the kind of softness no court etiquette could forge or forbid.
"Too late," he said gently.
"You married a man who would drown before letting the tide touch you."
She shook her head, sobbing openly now.
"I would rather be struck a hundred times than see one wound upon you!"
The hall went utterly still.
For in those words,
all understood something undeniable:
This marriage had become love.
Not alliance.
Not treaty.
Not staged obedience to royal will.
Love.
The Queen Regent turned slightly away,
something unreadable passing like a shadow over her features —
regret?
Relief?
A mother's complicated surrender?
Samrat brushed his thumb across Anushka's wet cheek,
leaving a faint smear of his own blood there like unspoken sindoor.
Guards tried to lead him toward the physician's room,
but he did not move until he had bent his head and whispered near her ear in a tone only she could hear:
"Why did you cry today when you did not cry before?"
She swallowed hard.
"Because today," she said truthfully,
"I realized how much of my world… is you."
It was the first declaration — unadorned, unstrategic — that had passed between them.
And the court heard enough of it to know.
Rumors would bloom like fever later.
But for now,
love stood visible in the open hall.
Night of Quiet Confession
He had been bandaged; she had been escorted back to rest.
Later, when the palace had retreated into its soft nocturnal hush,
Samrat entered her chamber without announcement.
No guard stopped him.
He needed no herald in the room of his wife.
Anushka sat again by the desk where her letter waited unfinished. Relief washed over her when she saw him moving normally, despite the bandaged shoulder.
"You should be resting," she scolded softly.
"As should you," he returned.
Their arguments always began that way now —
half warmth,
half concern disguised as irritation.
He walked toward her slowly,
the lamp outlining him in amber fire.
"You wept today," he said quietly.
"I did," she replied.
"Were you frightened?"
"Yes."
"For yourself?"
She hesitated a breath longer than etiquette allowed.
"No," she whispered. "For you."
A silence followed — deep as monsoon night — filled only by unspoken realizations.
He knelt beside her rather than sit upon the cushioned seat.
He took her hand, pressing it to his heartbeat.
"Then know this, Anushka Devi," he said gently. "Your fear is mine also. The blade proved nothing I had not already sworn: that my body stands between you and every danger in this palace."
She closed her eyes.
A single treacherous thought burned:
And what of the danger within me?
The unborn child fluttered in her awareness like a secret bird imprisoned behind ribs. She longed — desperately — to tell him everything in that moment.
His wound.
Her tears.
Their closeness.
Everything begged for honesty.
But then she saw again flashes of court politics,
of British Envoys smiling with predatory patience,
of poisoned cups in history,
of princesses used as leverage.
If he knew she was pregnant now,
he would never allow her to leave.
He would chain his own heart to her side.
So she remained silent.
She lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek in answer instead.
They stayed like that —
no words,
no need —
until the lamp began to sink into low amber glow.
He did not demand explanation.
He simply said,
"Whatever storm you carry in your gaze tonight, you will not face it alone. My sword, my crown, my life — they stand in your service, wife of my soul."
Her lips parted,
then closed upon the confession that trembled there.
He kissed her forehead in farewell,
lingering just long enough that she felt the promise in it:
That he had already given her his future without conditions.
When he left,
the room felt suddenly immense.
She returned to her desk and took up the quill again.
The Final Portion of the Letter
My father, my mother, my brother — I speak now not as princess, but as a woman who has learned love in a land that is not her own.
I do not seek to bring war upon Rajgarh. Its people are noble; its king is ill; its queen regent bears burdens that would bend mountains. My husband stands like a sword driven into soil, holding the kingdom from division.
But I fear British hands in the dark. I fear factions whose names I do not yet know. I fear for the life inside me.
Send covert escort or secret passage for me when the monsoon rotates fully twice more.
If messages cannot be sent safely, ride banners over horizon. If even that becomes impossible — do not mourn me. Only protect the child if fate separates us.
Tell no one but yourselves. Burn this once read.
Your daughter bows with all devotion,
Anushka Devi of Bengal
She finished with a final date mark and pressed her signet ring into warm wax, sealing it with the emblem of a lotus over waves — the symbol of Bengal's queens.
Then she blew out the lamp.
The room fell into moon-washed darkness.
Her hands rested upon the sealed letter like a reluctant goodbye.
"I must leave before four moons pass," she whispered to the shadows, repeating the words like an oath.
The unborn life stirred — or perhaps it only seemed so — and she felt something ache with ferocious tenderness inside.
She tucked the letter into the hidden lining of her cloak,
ready to deliver it the next night to the trusted courier who served the unseen Benefactor.
The Benefactor Reviews the Map Once More
Before dawn,
cloaked, veiled,
her figure glided like a moving shadow through secret corridors toward the old library tower.
There, upon a large carved table,
lay the Map of Rajgarh uncovered once again.
Exits.
Secret tunnels.
British caravan routes.
Mountain passes.
River channels used by smugglers.
She laid the sealed letter beside it for a moment,
as if asking silent blessing from the strategy itself.
Beneath her hood she murmured,
"For Bengal. For Rajgarh. For him."
Behind her, the silent man who served as her voice in public shadows waited — expression unreadable.
He asked nothing.
She gave command with a small nod.
The letter disappeared beneath his cloak.
By the time morning light spilled gold upon the palace domes,
a rider was already leaving the city gates disguised as a trader headed east.
The message was gone.
Fate was moving.
Samrat and Anushka — Quiet After the Storm
That evening, sitting upon the balcony overlooking the lotus lake, Samrat Veer Singh found Anushka wrapped in shawl, watching dragonflies quiver over water at sunset.
He sat beside her silently.
They did not speak of politics.
They did not speak of assassination or threats.
They spoke of childhood games in Bengal,
of monsoon festivals,
of how she once fell into the palace pond while chasing a white duck,
of how he once tried to ride two horses at once and almost lost a tooth.
She laughed softly,
hand pressed again over her stomach unconsciously.
He didn't notice.
He only watched her laugh as though it were the rarest jewel in any empire.
When night finally deepened,
and the palace torches were lit,
he reached across the space between them
and took her hand.
"Whatever comes," he said quietly, "we will face it together."
Her fingers tightened around his.
For one instant,
she almost broke and told him everything.
But then — like a distant echo — the words she had already written to Bengal rose again:
I must leave before four moons pass.
She smiled instead — heartbreakingly tender.
"Together," she agreed softly.
But her heart whispered another truth:
Together in love —apart in destiny —until the storm breaks.
And above the mirrored surface of the lotus lake,
the first stars trembled into view,
bearing witness to vows spoken and unspoken alike