The monsoon clouds hung low over Rajgarh like brooding thoughts, heavy with unspoken rain and unshed tears. The palace domes gleamed under the damp sky, gold turning darker and more solemn than usual, as if the heavens themselves had bent closer to listen to the whispers threading the corridors like invisible serpents.
Within the sprawling palace complex, life never truly slept—lamps flickered in hidden archways, sandals brushed over stone floors, and the rustle of silk carried secrets from one chamber to another. Yet, the heart of the palace beat in strange rhythms now—steady, watchful, cautious. Too much had happened in too little time: the King's illness, the Regency declared, British pressure mounting, the Benefactor moving through darkness, and above all, the Crown Princess with a secret growing beneath her heart.
But that night—this night—belonged to letters.
Not one letter.
Many letters.
Hidden like buried blades.
Anushka Devi sat at the low ebony writing table in her private chamber, the curtains drawn, the lamps shaded to keep wandering eyes from peering in through the jalis. She wore a simple sari, the deep maroon color falling in soft folds around her. Her jewels were absent, her hair loose over her back, and a faint pallor rested on her face that had nothing to do with cosmetics and everything to do with exhaustion.
Her hand hovered over the parchment.
The script upon it—elegant, deliberate, unmistakably royal—was hers.
Letters written to Bengal.
Letters written to allies.
Letters written in shadows.
She pressed her palm to her abdomen without thinking.
Four moons… the words echoed through her mind. Four moons until there would be no more hiding.
Her child shifted like a whisper beneath her hand.
"My little one…" she breathed, voice no louder than silk brushing stone. "I am trying."
A soft tap came at the inner balcony door.
The signal.
Not the outer doors, where attendants and guards stood, but the hidden inner balcony that overlooked the lotus pond—a place known only to a handful of trusted souls.
Anushka straightened, gathering the letters quickly and sliding them into the false bottom of the sandalwood chest beside her. The mechanism clicked silently. Only then did she move to the balcony and unlatch the carved lattice door.
A cloaked figure stepped inside, hood shadowing their face.
Behind them stood a man in darker garb still—silent, broad-shouldered, the one who spoke for the Benefactor when she must not.
Because the Benefactor could not risk being heard.
Because the Benefactor was the Crown Princess.
Her voice had a throne to answer to.
His did not.
"You are late," Anushka said quietly, though without anger.
The hooded figure bowed slightly. "Forgive us. There are more eyes in the corridors than usual. The Queen Regent has doubled the night patrols."
Anushka gave a small, knowing smile.
"She would be a fool not to."
They stepped fully inside, closing the balcony again. The lotus pond beyond shimmered under the moonlight, wind rippling it like breathing water.
"Are the passages mapped?" the man asked, voice low and steady.
"Yes," Anushka replied, walking back toward the table. "The maps have been cross-checked. Every tunnel that leads under the British Residency, every forgotten door in the zenana, every corridor beneath the old armory."
"And the letters?"
Anushka rested her fingers over the sandalwood box again.
"They are written. But they must be placed—not sent. Hidden where those who need them will find them, and those who should not will never know they exist."
The hood lifted just enough to reveal a faint glimpse of feminine lips curving.
"The Hidden Letters," the cloaked figure murmured. "Rajgarh will remember this, Maharani-sa."
Anushka's eyes softened.
"Or it will never know," she replied. "That would be better."
For if history knew nothing, it meant catastrophe had been avoided.
Her gaze drifted to the closed chamber doors.
Because outside that door stood another truth.
Samrat Veer Singh.
Her husband.
Her prince.
The man who had once walked into fire for her—and more recently had taken a blade meant for her. She still saw it when she closed her eyes, the steel flashing, his body moving instinctively, her own scream splintering the air before she even knew she had made it. That day broke something inside her armor; tears had burst past years of royal training, and court eyes had seen the truth:
She loved him.
Utterly.
Dangerously.
And she would soon leave him.
The pain of that thought slid under her ribs like a thin knife.
The man spoke again.
"The British Envoy has received new messages. Their troops gather near the Eastern border."
"I know," she said softly. "That is why the letters must go tonight."
"And the Crown Prince," the woman asked carefully beneath the hood, "does he suspect the Benefactor?"
Anushka hesitated.
Then shook her head.
"He suspects many shadows," she whispered. "But not that one."
Because Samrat knew her laughter, her temper, the way she scolded him for not eating, the warmth of her body pressed against his when monsoon thunder scared her in the middle of the night.
He did not yet know her as the mastermind of rebellion.
Or the woman who planned to disappear.
Her hand trembled once.
She clenched her fingers and steadied them.
"The Hidden Letters," she said again, voice firming with resolve, "must go to the priests loyal to Bengal, the traders crossing toward the delta, and to the old noble houses. If anything happens to me…" she paused, swallowing, "…they will know what must be done."
"And to whom else, Your Highness?" the man asked.
Anushka's eyes lifted slowly.
"To my son or daughter," she whispered, "if I cannot stay to raise them."
Silence filled the room like a held breath.
Outside, thunder rolled far in the distance.
The next morning dawned brightly and entirely without mercy.
Rajgarh glittered as though dressed for ceremony—the courts bustling, elephants decorated, courtiers hurrying with scrolls tucked under arms. News spread like wildfire through markets and temple squares: The Crown Prince had recovered fully and would preside at the Council that day.
Samrat Veer Singh strode through the marble hall in full attire, his stride strong once more. His illness had passed like a bad dream, leaving only the faint memory of fever and the vision of Anushka's face hovering above him in worry.
He wore white and gold angrakha, the sun-crest of Rajgarh blazing across his chest. His hand rested automatically on the hilt of his sword.
But his eyes searched for only one person.
He found her at the far end of the hall.
Anushka walked beside the Queen Regent, her sari ocean-blue with silver borders, head slightly bowed in calm dignity. No one observing her would guess that she carried a child beneath the layers of silk, that she fought morning sickness still, that she lay awake each night calculating escape passages and timelines under moonlight.
Their eyes met across the hall.
Something warm loosened inside his chest.
She paused, just a fraction of a second—but in that moment entire sentences passed between them unspoken.
Are you well?
I am here.
Do not leave me.
I will not—yet.
He approached, bowed briefly to his mother, then looked at his wife more directly than protocol demanded.
"You look pale," Samrat murmured under his breath.
"And you look nosy," she replied softly without raising her gaze.
He wanted to smile—almost did.
Instead he leaned slightly closer.
"You collapsed in Council last time," he said, quieter now. "Do not think I have forgotten."
His voice held fear.
Real fear.
She felt it like rain on skin.
"I am fine now," she lied gently, because there was no other choice. "It was merely fatigue."
But the chamber had spun that day, the world tilting, voices echoing sharply before darkness swallowed everything. She faintly remembered the gasps, the Queen Regent's command for physicians, her own whisper: No physician.
She could not let them know.
She could not let the court decide the fate of her unborn child.
Samrat's hand brushed her wrist, so small a touch it was almost nothing—but it steadied her. He did not speak further; the hall demanded composure. Yet his eyes promised what his lips could not:
I will carry you if you fall.
And she feared he might have to.
The Council session began under the great banners of Rajgarh.
Nobles filled the chamber like a tapestry of color—turbaned heads, jeweled hands, suspicious eyes. The Queen Regent presided, calm and formidable, while Samrat sat at her right, posture straight, face fierce with controlled authority.
Anushka sat slightly behind them, an observer by title, a strategist by reality.
The air smelled of incense and tension.
Talk of caravans.
Talk of British troops.
Talk of the dying Maharaja and the fragility of thrones.
The room grew warmer as voices rose, arguments sparked, and power struggled subtly over polished wood tables. Anushka felt a wave of dizziness roll through her, vision dimming around the edges like burnt paper. She pressed her palm discreetly against the arm of the chair.
Not now.
Not here.
Another wave came—stronger—her breath caught, the hall warped, and sound receded as if she stood underwater. She tried to steady herself, blinking hard.
Samrat's eyes snapped to her instantly.
He didn't miss anything when it came to her.
"Anushka," he breathed, half-rising—
The world tilted violently.
The last thing she saw was his face rushing toward her—
—and darkness swallowed everything whole.
Gasps filled the council chamber.
Nobles stood abruptly; some knocked over goblets in their haste. The Queen Regent surged to her feet, her composure cracking for a heartbeat as her daughter-in-law's unconscious form slid sideways.
Samrat caught her before she hit the floor.
"Anushka!" His voice tore through the hall like thunder—sharp, terrified, raw.
He cradled her against his chest, her bangles cold against his skin, her head lolling against his shoulder. The hall, the politics, the nobles—they vanished for him in that instant. There was only her limp body and the horrible stillness of her face.
"Send for the palace physician!" someone shouted.
"No!" Anushka whispered.
The word was barely air—but it came from her lips.
Samrat froze.
The Queen Regent heard too.
Her eyes narrowed sharply.
"Why not?" Samrat demanded, eyes desperate on her pale face. "Anushka, you fainted. You—"
"No physician," she repeated, weaker this time.
It was not pride.
It was fear.
The Queen Regent's gaze sharpened like the edge of a whetted blade.
There was something being hidden here.
Something deeper than fatigue.
Something that trembled when doctors drew near.
"Take her to her chambers," the Queen Regent ordered at last, voice composed once more, though inside her mind raced.
Samrat lifted Anushka effortlessly in his arms, holding her close as though he could transfer strength through contact alone. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breath soft against his neck. He walked from the hall without looking at anyone else.
The world remained full of nobles and whispers—
—but for him it had narrowed to the weight of the woman he loved.
Hours later the palace breathed quietly once more.
Rain had begun at last, falling softly like strings of pearls from the heavens. The monsoon scent of wet earth drifted into the chamber where Anushka slept, curtains rustling gently in wind.
Samrat sat beside her bed, still in his Council garments, unmoving.
He watched her.
He had watched since she collapsed.
He had watched through her brief, restless sleep.
He had watched through his own terror.
He reached out and brushed her hair from her forehead—soft, trembling fingers betraying the fear he never showed armies.
"What are you hiding from me, Anushka?" he whispered.
Her lashes fluttered slowly.
She stirred, eyes opening—dark, deep, full of storm and tenderness.
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
Then he said very quietly:
"Are you dying?"
Her breath caught.
"No," she whispered instantly, sitting up despite the weakness in her limbs. "No, Samrat—no."
He exhaled shakily, hands covering his face for one brief, unguarded second.
Relief struck him like an arrow.
Then he looked at her again.
"Then what is it?" His voice broke into raw honesty. "Because you faint, you grow pale, you avoid physicians, you push yourself when your body clearly begs for rest. I cannot—" his throat tightened, "—I cannot lose you."
She closed her eyes.
Pain and love warred inside her.
She wanted to tell him.
She wanted his hands on her belly, his laughter, the tears he would shed of joy.
She wanted to see him hold their child.
But she also saw the future—British threats, rebellion shadows, exile, blood upon marble floors—and heard her own words written into letters:
I must leave before four moons pass.
"I cannot tell you yet," she whispered, tears rising unbidden to her eyes. "Not yet."
"Why?" Samrat asked, voice low, wounded. "Do you not trust me?"
Her eyes flew open instantly.
"I trust you more than life itself," she said fiercely. "That is why this hurts."
The thunder outside crashed.
The storm finally broke fully.
Their hands found each other between them, gripping tightly.
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, breath mingling.
"I will wait," he said at last in a rough whisper. "Even if it kills me. But when you are ready—please… come to me first."
Her tears slipped free at last.
"I will," she breathed. "I promise."
And she meant it.
Even if the truth shattered him.
Later that night, while the palace slept, the Benefactor walked again.
Hooded cloak.
Gloved hands.
Hidden face.
Letters tucked safely beneath fabric.
The man at her side spoke to those necessary, gave the orders she could not publicly voice. They moved through tunnels beneath the palace, past stacked relics and dust-covered old cannons, where roots snaked down through stone and water dripped steadily like clockbeats.
They placed letters in temple niches, in old tomb bricks, in hollow statue bases—messages for allies, warnings for rebels, love wrapped in strategy and sealed with fear.
Each letter was a choice.
Each letter was a risk.
Each letter was a step toward departure.
Above them, unaware completely, Rajgarh dreamed uneasy dreams.
The Queen Regent sat alone in her chamber, staring at the rain-beaten windows.
The Queen Consort knelt in prayer before her private shrine, beads slipping through shaking fingers.
Yuvraj Aditya watched the storm from the barracks, a warrior's instinct heavy in his chest.
Little Aarav slept curled with a wooden horse beside him, innocence floating around him like a fragile halo.
And Samrat Veer Singh lay awake on the wide marriage bed—alone—his hand resting on the empty space where his wife should have been.
His heart knew she was near.
His heart also knew she was slipping away.
He turned toward her pillow and whispered into the darkness:
"Come back to me, Anushka."
Below the palace, in the tunnels thick with damp earth and echoing footsteps, the Benefactor paused mid-step.
For just a heartbeat.
As though she had heard him.
Then she walked on.
And the Hidden Letters waited silently, like seeds planted before a storm.