The monsoon clouds had not yet broken, but the sky above Rajgarh felt impossibly heavy, swollen with unspilled rain and unspoken fears. The palace lamps flickered through the corridors, their flames bending to an invisible wind, as though the very air was leaning in to listen to the whispers that flowed like undercurrents beneath marble floors and golden domes.
Rajgarh did not sleep anymore. It merely waited.
And in the heart of the palace, Anushka Devi waited too.
She waited for word from Bengal.
She waited for certainty about her husband's health.
She waited for the child within her to announce itself to the world.
But most of all, she waited for the future to reveal whether she was marching toward salvation or toward ruin.
The Letter Arrives
The message came at dawn.
Not in pomp, not wrapped in silks and trumpets, but tucked in the trembling hands of a weary courier whose cloak was soaked not in rain, but in dust and exhaustion.
"From… from His Majesty of Bengal," he said hoarsely as he bowed before the gate guards.
The guards exchanged looks—this was no ordinary letter. Every missive from Bengal bore not only political weight, but the weight of blood—Anushka's blood, her lineage, her home, her childhood laughter echoing among mango groves along the wide river.
The letter was sealed with green wax imprinted by the royal crest of Bengal, elephant and lotus entwined in regality and grace. It was taken not to the council hall, nor first to the Queen Regent, but straight to the Crown Princess's private chambers, escorted by three armed guards and two ladies-in-waiting.
Anushka was already awake.
Sleep had long fled from her nights; she spent her hours between shadow and dawn pacing the length of the balcony, one hand unconsciously resting just below her waist where life slowly grew.
When she saw the seal, her breath caught.
Her fingers trembled for the first time in days.
"Leave" she whispered.
Her voice did not shake, but its softness commanded immediate obedience. The guards bowed and withdrew. The maids hesitated only a moment longer—Queen Regent's orders usually forbade total privacy—but Yuvrani Anushka's gaze brooked no argument.
Silence fell.
Alone, she sat slowly upon the carved sandalwood seat beneath the open archway. The morning light brushed across her face, painting her features gold. She broke the seal.
Her father's hand.
She would have known it anywhere. The letters curved with force and tenderness at once, as though each word wanted to protect the reader from the world and yet prepare her for its storms.
Her eyes moved over the first line.
"To my beloved daughter, Anushka Devi, Crown Princess of Rajgarh and jewel of Bengal—"
Her vision blurred.
She pressed her lips together and continued.
The King of Bengal had never been a man of excess words; each sentence was weighed like precious metal before being released into the world. He acknowledged receiving her letter, the anxiety that hid between every line she had written, the shadow she spoke of hanging over Rajgarh—British threats, inner conspiracies, sickness, whispers of rebellion.
He spoke of her mother, who had wept when reading her words and had kissed her name upon the parchment.
He spoke of her brother, fierce and protective, who had sworn by the river-goddess that anyone who endangered her would pay dearly.
He spoke of duty, and love, and consequences.
And then came the words that made her chest tighten painfully.
"You write that you must leave before four moons pass.If the danger you face is so grave, we will send an escort from Bengal when your signal comes. You will never face exile or danger alone.But know this, my child—if you leave Rajgarh, it will not merely be a daughter returning home. It will be a Crown Princess withdrawing from a realm on the brink. It may be war."
Her fingers clenched around the parchment until it crinkled.
He trusted her judgment.
He feared the storm.
He did not forbid her decision, yet every word weighed with consequence. Bengal would not abandon her—but her choices could ignite empires and doom kingdoms.
At the end was a separate paragraph written in another hand—her mother's.
Gentle. Flowing. Ink slightly smudged as though written through tears.
"Anushka, my child, my heart—If you are with child, tell me. I felt it in your words. A mother knows.You are never alone."
Anushka closed her eyes.
A tear finally slipped free.
She whispered into the empty room, "Yes, Maa… I am with child…"
And yet, no one in Rajgarh knew.
Not the court.
Not the Queen Regent.
Not even her husband.
Especially not her husband.
She folded the letter against her chest and breathed in deeply, letting the smell of parchment and ink mix with memories of wet earth after monsoon rain and temple bells at dawn.
"Four moons," she murmured.
Her window overlooked the palace grounds spreading outward like a golden dream—courtyards, corridors, banners fluttering lazily.
Four moons, and her body would betray her secret.
Four moons, and everything would change.
The Queen Consort's Plea
Queen Consort Lalima had always moved through the palace like a gentle river, unobtrusive and calm, yet cutting her way slowly through stone.
Her eyes had learned to veil pain.
Her heart had learned to bear silence.
But today, there was neither veil nor silence—only urgency.
The Queen Consort entered Anushka's chambers unannounced, propriety momentarily discarded. Her normally ornate appearance was subdued, her hair bound simply, her jewels minimal. There was red in her eyes that cosmetics could not quite hide.
"Anushka," she said softly.
The Crown Princess rose at once and bowed in respect, but Lalima crossed the distance quickly and took her hands with sudden desperation.
"Do not bow to me today, child. Today I come to you not as Queen Consort," she said, voice trembling, "but as a mother."
The words struck something inside Anushka like a tuning string.
A mother.
The child inside her shifted as though answering.
"What troubles you, Maharani-sa?" Anushka asked, gently guiding her to sit.
Lalima searched her face for a long moment—her eyes, her strength, the exhaustion hidden behind composure. Perhaps she saw more than Anushka wished anyone to see.
"Veer Singh," she whispered.
Anushka's heart skipped.
Samrat Veer Singh.
"The Prince is not well."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
"He says otherwise. He stands, he smiles, he commands— Though I did not carry him in my womb. I just know when my child is in pain."
Images surged unbidden into Anushka's mind.
Samrat swaying slightly after rising too quickly.
The faint pallor at the edge of his lips.
The way his hand sometimes pressed briefly against his chest when he thought no one was watching.
The warmth of his blood when he had thrown himself between her and the blade meant to end her life.
Anushka swallowed.
"What have the physicians said?"
Lalima gave a bitter smile.
"He will not see them. He says illness is weakness and weakness invites vultures. And in this palace, my dear, there is never a shortage of vultures."
Her fingers tightened around Anushka's.
"I beg you, Anushka. You are the one he listens to now. Talk to him. Make him rest. Make him live."
The plea was not from a queen.
It was from a mother terrified of losing a child.
And Anushka—carrying life beneath her own heart—felt the fear echo inside her like a temple bell struck at dawn.
"I will," she said softly. "I promise you I will."
Lalima exhaled shakily, relief and lingering dread warring in her features. For a brief moment she brushed Anushka's cheek, an almost maternal caress.
"You are stronger than you think," she whispered. "And far more alone than you should be."
The words lingered long after the Queen Consort left.
The Benefactor Moves Through Shadows
Night draped itself over Rajgarh in layers of deep indigo and silver. Torches burned along palace walls, their flames licking upward like hungry tongues. Somewhere in the distance, a jackal cried.
And in a hidden corridor beneath the palace foundations, footsteps echoed.
Soft.
Sure.
Unseen.
The Benefactor walked.
Her hooded cloak hid her face entirely, shadows layered upon shadows. Behind her, as always, walked the man whose voice spoke her will to the world—low, controlled, capable of sounding like command, threat, or salvation depending on what the night required.
They stopped in a forgotten chamber scented faintly with damp stone and old incense. Maps and scrolls were spread upon a table, but tonight no cartography of land concerned them—only the sharper, more treacherous maps of human hearts.
Secret guards knelt.
Merchants bowed.
Two spies delivered news of troop movement near the British encampment beyond the river.
The Benefactor lifted her gloved hand slightly.
The man behind her spoke:
"The Queen Regent is being watched. The British envoy plans to demand further concessions at next audience. And someone inside court whispers that the Crown Princess cannot be trusted."
A murmur of anger rippled among the kneeling men.
The Benefactor did not speak.
But beneath the hood, Anushka's jaw tightened.
She had saved the Regent from the assassin's blade and still suspicion spiraled like poison in water. That mattered little now. She had never sought their approval.
She sought survival.
She sought protection for the child whose heartbeat pulsed like an unspoken promise.
Instructions were given.
Information exchanged hands like daggers wrapped discreetly in silk.
And when the meeting ended, the Benefactor remained alone for a moment longer, hand pressed subconsciously against her stomach beneath the cloak.
Soon, she thought.
Before four moons pass.
She turned, vanished into darkness again, and the palace above continued its bright, oblivious illusions.
Samrat's Sudden Illness
It began in the council hall.
The nobles stood in a semicircle beneath the carved ceiling where gods and conquerors looked down in silent judgment. Documents lay rolled upon the long ebony table, reports of grain shortages, trade routes, and—shadow behind every word—the tightening British noose.
Samrat Veer Singh stood at the head, shoulders squared, eyes burning with the fierce intensity that made men follow him without hesitation. His presence usually filled the hall like thunder.
Today there was something off.
Anushka noticed at once.
Only those who loved him truly would have seen it—the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the tightness in his jaw despite his calm expression, the way his hand briefly gripped the edge of the table as though grounding himself.
A noble was mid-report when it happened.
Samrat's breath hitched.
His words faltered.
For one terrifying instant his eyes went unfocused, pupils dilating like a man peering into sudden darkness.
"Samrat?" Anushka's voice cut through the hall.
He swayed.
The world tilted.
The mighty ruler of Rajgarh, the warrior who had stared down British muskets and court intrigue alike, collapsed forward.
Gasps tore through the chamber.
The hall erupted into chaos—nobles shouting, guards rushing, silk rustling like panicked wings. Anushka reached him first, dropping to her knees upon cool marble, heedless of protocol.
"Veer!" she whispered, hands cradling his face.
His skin burned with fever.
His breath came shallow.
He did not answer.
Physicians were summoned.
The Queen Regent arrived, regal composure cracking for the first time in memory as she saw her son lying unconscious on the floor that had once echoed with his childhood laughter and rebellious footsteps.
They carried him to his chambers.
The court followed like a tide of whispers.
Anushka did not leave his side.
The physicians murmured of exhaustion, of internal injury not fully healed from previous blades taken, of poison perhaps—too small to kill, enough to weaken. They spoke of stress, of burdens beyond human endurance.
The Queen Regent stood still as ice.
"Say the word poison again," she said coldly, "and I will have every cupbearer in this palace executed before sunset."
No one repeated it.
But the word lingered in the air like a curse.
Hours passed.
Samrat remained unconscious, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. The Queen Consort prayed silently in one corner, beads slipping between trembling fingers. The Queen Regent paced like a lioness trapped in a shrinking cage.
And Anushka sat at his bedside.
She did not weep.
She did not move.
She simply held his hand in both of hers, forehead resting lightly against his knuckles, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and steel and the man she loved more fiercely than she had ever wanted to admit.
"I will not lose you," she whispered.
Her tears finally slipped, falling one by one onto his palm.
A faint tremor moved through his fingers.
His voice was a hoarse shadow when it came.
"Anushka…"
Her head snapped up.
His eyes opened slowly, clouded with pain yet still burning with that unyielding fire that first drew her toward him. He tried to sit; she pressed him gently but firmly back.
"No," she said, surprising even herself with the authority in the word. "You move, and I will personally tie you to this bed, Your Majesty."
A faint smile tugged his lips.
"You threaten your king now?"
"I threaten my husband," she replied softly. "And I do not intend to become a widow."
Silence settled between them then—not empty, but thick with everything they had not yet said, everything they had given and risked for each other.
His gaze softened further.
"You were crying," he murmured, thumb brushing away a tear she had missed.
"For once," she whispered, voice trembling, "I had reason to."
He closed his eyes briefly, not from weakness this time, but from the overwhelming weight of that confession. When he opened them again, resolve had sharpened his expression despite illness.
"I cannot rest," he said. "Rajgarh—"
"Rajgarh," the Queen Regent interrupted from the doorway, "will not be ruled by a corpse."
All heads turned.
Her gaze swept the room like a blade.
She looked at her son long and hard, love buried beneath iron will. Then she turned slowly toward Anushka.
"From this moment until Samrat Veer fully recovers," she declared, "the Crown Princess will exercise authority in his stead."
The court gasped.
The physicians froze.
Even Samrat's eyes widened slightly.
Anushka, heart pounding, bowed her head in acceptance even as fear coiled tightly within her ribs. She had led from shadows as the Benefactor; now she was being thrust into the light.
"Yes, Rajmata," she said steadily.
The Queen Regent's gaze held hers, sharp as a hawk's.
"Do not fail him," she said.
Do not fail this kingdom.
Do not fail yourself.
The unspoken messages layered themselves beneath each syllable.
Anushka squared her shoulders.
"I will not."
Anushka Takes the Throne
The next morning, Rajgarh woke to the news that thundered through bazaars and noble courtyards alike:
The Samrat was ill.
The Crown Princess would rule.
Some spoke with relief, trusting Anushka's intelligence and calm.
Some whispered fear—of a young woman wielding such power, of the unknown, of change.
Others whispered poison and conspiracy and British plots.
But in the great audience hall, beneath banners bearing the royal crest of Rajgarh, Anushka walked forward with measured steps, each one grounding her in stone and destiny alike.
Her sari flowed like riverlight.
Her face was serene, though inside her heart beat fast enough to rival war drums. Beneath her layered garments, the faintest new swell of life was hidden—a secret witness to history.
She sat upon the throne.
Not beside it.
Upon it.
The hall bowed as one.
Some out of loyalty.
Some out of fear.
Some out of curiosity about what kind of ruler this young princess would be.
She spoke—and her voice did not tremble.
"Until His Majesty's strength returns, I will carry forward his will. Any who challenge this," she said evenly, "challenge Rajgarh itself."
Quiet fell like snowfall.
No one challenged.
Not aloud.
But far above, in the unseen corners of the palace, plots shifted, shadows lengthened, and destiny tightened its grip.
The Benefactor had stepped fully into the light.
And yet she remained in shadow still, her greatest secret nestled beneath her heart, counting quietly with each passing moon.
The Queen Consort's Private Tears
That night, long after the court dispersed and Anushka retired from the weight of endless decisions, whispers, and documents, Queen Consort Lalima sat alone by the temple in the inner courtyard.
Oil lamps flickered before the deity.
Tears—silent, endless, unstoppable—slipped down her cheeks.
She prayed for Samrat Veer's life.
She prayed for Anushka's strength.
And she prayed that the gods would not demand too cruel a price for the love growing between the Crown Princess and the Samrat, for in every royal story she knew, love was the first coin the world demanded in exchange for power.
Her plea rose to the heavens like incense smoke.
Whether the gods listened, none yet knew.
The Chapter Closes
Above Rajgarh, thunder finally rolled.
The first drop of long-awaited rain struck stone.
Samrat Veer Singh slept under watchful eyes, fate hovering over him like a vulture and like an angel, uncertain which role it would choose.
The Queen Regent sharpened her gaze at the future like a blade before battle.
The Queen Consort wept where no one could see.
The Benefactor moved through corridors unseen.
The Crown Princess ruled.
And inside Anushka's womb, life fluttered again—small, fragile, defiant—counting silently toward four moons.
War, love, betrayal, salvation—everything waited just ahead.
And far away in Bengal, a king and queen watched the horizon for the signal that would tell them whether they must ride to war… or prepare to welcome their daughter home.