Light came first.
Before the drums, before the songs, before even the scent of ghee lamps thickened the air, light arrived in Rajgarh like a conquering army—quiet at first, then everywhere at once. Thousands of diyas blinked awake upon parapets, balconies, courtyards, and temple steps, each tiny flame a golden prayer trembling against the oncoming night.
Deepavali had come.
The Festival of Lights—victory of dharma over adharma, of righteousness over tyranny, of truth over shadows—how ironic, Anushka Devi thought faintly, as she stood upon the marble terrace overlooking the palace city, her fingers wrapped around the cold stone railing.
For she herself had become a creature of shadows.
And truth, when it finally rose in full light, would break more than chains.
It would break hearts.
The evening breeze brushed her cheeks softly and lifted the edge of her sari. She wore deep crimson tonight—the color of queenship, of vermilion sindoor, of blood both shed and unborn. Jewels shimmered around her slender neck, heavy earrings brushed against her jawline, bangles circled her wrists like song. Anyone looking at her would have said she looked every inch the glowing Crown Princess of Rajgarh.
They would have been wrong.
The glow was from the lamps.
Her own light flickered low.
Her skin had grown even paler these past weeks, a translucent ivory tinged with fatigue. The dark crescents under her eyes had deepened, her lips losing their natural rose. Sleep claimed her more and more—without warning, without mercy—pulling her down during the day as well as the night, like ocean tide reclaiming a drowning ship.
Three moons left.
The words beat beneath her ribs in rhythm with her heart.
Three moons left before she must leave Rajgarh.
Three moons left before the truth of her swelling belly would announce itself to the world.
Three moons left with him.
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her abdomen.
Her child turned very faintly beneath her palm, not yet strong enough to kick, but present—living—growing like a secret seed. Sometimes she felt the strangest mixture of awe and terror: awe that she carried life, terror that the world she would bring that life into was made of blades, treaties, and British cannons.
"Devi-sa?"
The soft voice of a maid broke the silence behind her.
Anushka turned.
"His Highness the Crown Prince seeks your presence in the eastern courtyard. The first diya-lighting has begun."
A faint smile curved Anushka's lips.
Of course he did.
He was always seeking her lately, always looking at her with an increasing tenderness that made the thought of leaving almost unbearable. The closer the festival lights grew to her, the darker the road ahead became.
"I am coming," she said gently.
The maid bowed and withdrew like a respectful shadow.
Anushka steadied herself before walking. The dizziness had become a companion now, rising like mist when she turned too fast or stood too long. She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly until the world steadied, then began her descent down the long steps that led toward the eastern courtyard.
Everywhere around her the palace bustled like a living organism full of fire and music. Children darted between pillars with sparklers, women arranged marigold garlands along archways, priests recited mantras that floated through the air like holy smoke. Oil lamps traced the lines of the palace like stars brought down to earth.
It should have been joyous.
It almost was.
Yet beneath the laughter ran an undercurrent of tension—the knowledge of British eyes watching from their Residency compound, of caravans of soldiers and traders, of treaties written with ink and coercion. Even Deepavali could not burn away the empire's shadow entirely.
But it tried.
And sometimes, trying was enough.
The eastern courtyard was a world of gold.
Hundreds of diyas ringed the great fountain like fiery lotuses. Rangoli patterns bloomed across the marble floor—intricate peacocks, swirling mandalas, the royal sun-banner radiating outward in powdered vermilion and turmeric-yellow. The palace musicians played veena and tabla in a corner, their melodies flowing like honey through the cool night air.
Samrat Veer Singh stood at the center of it all.
He wore ivory silk embroidered with gold thread, the crest of Rajgarh blazing proudly across his chest. His hair was tied back with regal precision, and his expression—when not softened by her presence—had become one of deepening authority. He was prince by title, king in the making.
And yet, when he saw Anushka enter the courtyard, everything about him shifted in the way only love could cause.
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
His gaze warmed.
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
He reached her in three strides.
"You are late," he murmured, though there was no real rebuke in it.
"I am always where you need me to be," she replied softly.
His eyes searched her face closely.
"You look tired."
She resisted the urge to laugh.
That was like saying the sea looked somewhat damp.
"I am well enough," she said instead. "It is Deepavali. One must glow, must one not?"
His brows furrowed with concern.
"You glow," he said. "But not as you once did."
Then his voice dropped to a whisper:
"Do you sleep at all, Anushka?"
A strange mixture of truth and untruth rose to her lips.
"I sleep more than I should," she admitted.
And it was true—she did sleep more. She fell asleep in afternoons, during prayers, sometimes even sitting up against cushions with scrolls still in her hands. But sleep did not refresh her; it swallowed her like deep water and left her adrift when she rose again.
She saw the worry deepen in his eyes, saw the questions he did not voice.
He offered his arm.
"Walk with me."
She placed her hand upon it.
The contact sent warmth through both of them, grounding them in a world spinning too fast with politics and prophecy. Together they moved toward the main altar where the first sacred lamps awaited the royal family for blessing and lighting.
The Queen Regent was already there.
Maharani Aishvarya Devi stood still as a carved emerald goddess, dignity wrapped around her like armor. Light danced along the green silk of her sari and illuminated the sharpness of her eyes. Everything passed beneath those eyes—like river water under a bridge—and very little escaped them.
Beside her stood the Queen Consort Lalima Devi, softer in stature, eyes full of unshed storms. Her hands trembled faintly as she clasped them in prayer, and her gaze sometimes drifted to the King's empty seat.
He could not join them this evening.
The court knew only that he rested.
The truth—that his illness gnawed slowly, relentlessly—lurked like a tiger in tall grass.
Yuvraj Aditya stood like a pillar of steel at his mother the Queen Regent's side, armor reflecting firelight, every inch the Armed General and warrior-son. His jaw tightened when British officers were mentioned; his hand never strayed far from his sword.
Little Aarav, meanwhile, bounced on his toes, clearly waiting for the moment fireworks would begin. He waved sparklers around so enthusiastically that a terrified attendant followed him constantly with a wet cloth to prevent spontaneous combustion of priceless tapestries.
And between queens and brothers, princes and priests—
Anushka walked with Samrat.
Their place was beside the altar now.
The chief royal priest stepped forward, voice booming across the courtyard.
"On this holy night of Deepavali, we invoke Lakshmi Devi, goddess of prosperity, and bless the victory of dharma in Rajgarh!"
Thousands of people bowed.
A hush fell over the courtyard like velvet.
The Queen Regent lifted the first golden lamp.
Her voice, though quiet, carried the weight of the kingdom:
"May this realm walk the path of righteousness."
The Queen Consort lit the second.
"May our families remain united in love."
Samrat and Anushka reached together for the third wick.
Their hands brushed.
They both stilled.
Light flickered between them before the flame ever touched oil.
Her fingers trembled; his steadied them gently, covering her hand completely. For a moment the world was only the two of them and the small flame slowly blooming into life.
"May our people be free," Samrat said softly.
"And may the children of this land know peace," Anushka added—voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a meaning he could not yet know.
Children.
Their child.
Their unspoken future.
The wick flared fully.
Cheers broke out across the courtyard as the lamps were lifted, flames multiplying in mirrored surfaces and water pools until Rajgarh itself seemed made of firelight. Fireworks burst above the palace in bright showers of gold. Laughter rang out, mingling with drumbeats and the crackle of celebratory bursts.
The Festival of Lights wrapped the palace tight in radiance.
But not all shadows retreat from light.
Some learn to hide more cleverly within it.
Later in the evening, feasts began.
Long cloths were spread over polished stone, platters of sweets and savories appearing in endless lines: laddoos, jalebis, kheer fragrant with saffron, crisp samosas, spiced curries simmering in gleaming brass vessels. Music swelled, dancers spun like flame given form, anklets ringing in shimmering rhythm.
Anushka smiled where required.
She laughed when eyes expected laughter.
She accepted sweets she barely touched.
But fatigue sat heavy upon her shoulders, each movement weighing more than it should. The world sometimes blurred around the edges again, voices sounding distant, like wind heard from inside water.
Samrat noticed everything.
He moved closer whenever she faltered, his hand finding her elbow unobtrusively, guiding without smothering, supporting without drawing public attention. Court watchers whispered about how inseparable the royal pair had become, how devotion shone almost visibly between them.
The Queen Regent noticed too.
But differently.
Her gaze lingered upon Anushka's pallor, her strange exhaustion, the way she pressed her hand sometimes to her abdomen unconsciously when she thought nobody watched.
Questions sharpened within the Queen Regent's mind.
Answers hovered just beyond reach.
And the timing—always the timing—troubled her.
Deep into the night, once fireworks dimmed and half the palace drifted into satisfied sleep, Anushka rose from her couch slowly.
She could not rest.
Not tonight.
The decision she had been circling for weeks now stood like a closed door before her—and only she could open it.
Three moons left.
If she truly intended to leave Rajgarh before her condition became known—before the political storm exploded in full—then tonight she must do the unthinkable:
She must ask permission to disappear.
Silently.
No farewells.
No last embraces.
No explanations.
Her heart twisted painfully at the thought of Samrat's face, at the image of his eyes searching palace corridors for her when she would already be far to the east, riding toward Bengal alone except for loyal guards in the night.
But she forced her heart to quiet.
This was not about her ache or his.
This was about a child.
About kingdoms.
About survival.
She wrapped a dark shawl around her shoulders, dismissing attendants with the excuse of needing temple prayer. They bowed and withdrew. Few denied a Crown Princess privacy for devotion.
The corridors seemed longer than usual tonight.
Longer, and more haunting.
Torchlight made ghostly shadows leap upon the walls. Somewhere deep within the palace a veena still played faintly, the last echo of celebration. Rainwater still glistened upon terrace floors from the earlier passing shower, lending everything a mirror-like sheen.
She stopped before the carved double doors of the Queen Regent's private chamber.
Her throat went dry.
She lifted her hand and knocked.
The sound seemed too loud in her ears.
For a moment, nothing.
Then:
"Enter."
Aishvarya Devi's voice carried the calm of an ocean that has seen many storms.
Anushka stepped inside.
The Queen Regent sat before a silver oil lamp, its flame reflected a hundred times in mirrored panels lining the inner walls. Letters lay upon the table before her, maps rolled neatly to one side, a dagger resting casually yet purposefully near the papers.
She had been working.
She always worked.
Her eyes rose immediately to Anushka.
"You should be resting, Crown Princess," the Queen Regent said evenly. "The celebrations have tired even the young this night."
Anushka moved forward, lowering her head in formal respect.
"I seek your blessing, Maharani-sa."
"Blessing?"
"Or your permission," Anushka amended softly.
The Queen Regent gestured gracefully.
"Sit."
Anushka sat upon the low cushion before her, folding her hands in her lap. She took one breath. Then another. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she wondered if the older woman could hear it.
Finally she spoke.
"In three moons' time, I must leave for Bengal."
The lamp between them flickered.
The Queen Regent did not blink.
"I see," she said after a heartbeat.
"Silently," Anushka continued, forcing the words out while she still dared. "Without farewell, without announcement, without public escort. I request your permission to go… unseen."
Silence fell.
Not empty silence.
Heavy silence.
Dangerous silence.
Even the lamp flame seemed to hold its breath.
The Queen Regent studied her face with a gaze that could strip palaces of their walls. Every lie, every hesitation, every fear was reflected in those ancient queenly eyes.
"Why?" she asked simply.
The single word felt like a mountain falling.
Anushka's fingers tightened upon her sari. She chose her next words carefully—truth wrapped in another truth, concealed by greater truth still.
"Because Bengal needs me," she said.
Not a lie.
Not the whole truth.
"Because the British hand presses harder upon the delta than even here. My people must see me. My parents must hear directly from my lips what letters cannot say. And because if I leave in full ceremonial procession, every British officer will know."
"And if you leave silently," the Queen Regent said slowly, "the British will not know where you have gone."
Anushka bowed her head.
"Yes."
Aishvarya Devi leaned back slightly, fingers steepling.
"There is more," she said calmly. "Speak it."
Anushka swallowed.
Her hand slipped unconsciously to her abdomen again.
She did not speak of it aloud.
Not yet.
But the Queen Regent's eyes followed the gesture like a hawk's.
Something flickered within them.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Understanding arrived silently like dawn.
"You fear discovery," the Queen Regent said in a voice suddenly much softer.
Anushka's breath hitched.
She looked up.
Their eyes met fully for the first time since she had entered.
And in that moment words became unnecessary.
The Queen Regent saw.
She saw the faint rounding hidden under carefully draped silks, the exhaustion that came not from politics alone, the glow not of festival lamps but of something far deeper, far more ancient.
Life.
A child of Rajgarh.
A child of Bengal.
A royal heir born of two thrones.
For the first time that night the Queen Regent's hand lifted—not in command, not in judgment, but in something startlingly close to tenderness. She reached across the lamp and laid her palm over Anushka's upon her abdomen.
"How far?" she asked in barely more than a whisper.
"Almost three moons," Anushka murmured, tears burning her eyes. "And in four more… there will be no hiding."
Silence again.
But softer this time.
Warmer.
The Queen Regent's eyes glistened—not with weakness, but with a fierce complex emotion too layered for simple names. Joy. Strategy. Fear. Hope. Love buried beneath discipline.
"You intended to leave without telling him," she said quietly.
Pain sliced through Anushka's chest.
"Yes."
"Because?"
Anushka closed her eyes.
"Because he will not let me go."
The Queen Regent considered this.
"And you believe you must."
Anushka nodded, tears sliding free at last.
"For the child. For Bengal. For Rajgarh. If the British know of my condition, they will use my unborn child as bargaining weight. If the court knows, factions will rise like wildfire. My presence will cause division at a time when unity is everything."
Her voice broke.
"And if Samrat knows… he will hold me so tightly I will never escape."
The Queen Regent exhaled slowly.
She understood.
As queen.
As mother.
As woman.
She also saw something more—something Anushka had not said aloud yet.
Not just escape.
Not just safety.
Purpose.
A destiny unfolding like a sword drawn from its scabbard.
"You are not merely going to Bengal to rest," Aishvarya Devi said softly. "You are going to prepare something."
The Benefactor's shadow passed briefly through the chamber like a gust of wind.
Anushka did not deny it.
The Queen Regent's gaze hardened again—not unkindly, but like steel choosing shape in fire.
"You are my daughter now," she said. "Rajgarh is your dharma. And yet Bengal is your blood. You stand where river meets ocean—and such waters are never still."
She fell silent for a long moment.
Then:
"You ask my permission to vanish from this palace in three moons."
"Yes."
"And you ask that I help you do it."
Anushka's voice trembled.
"Yes."
"And you will leave behind my son."
The words struck like a blow.
Anushka bowed her head deeply, tears falling freely now.
"Yes."
The Queen Regent closed her eyes briefly.
The pain of a mother rose in her heart—but so did the clarity of a ruler. Duty and love wrestled in silence—and duty won, because hers had been forged over decades of sacrifice.
When she opened her eyes again, decision had crystallized within them.
"So be it," she said quietly.
Anushka gasped.
Relief and agony exploded together within her.
The Queen Regent continued:
"You shall have your three moons. In that time, no physician will be forced upon you. Your condition will remain unspoken. I will double your personal guard and ensure only the most loyal remain near you. When the third moon wanes, you shall depart Rajgarh at night through the old western gate."
A pause.
"But hear me, Anushka Devi."
Her voice became iron.
"If you leave—there may be no path back to the life you know. You may lose everything your heart clings to. You may lose him."
Anushka's hands shook.
Tears fell faster.
"I know."
"Then why do you still choose it?"
Anushka lifted her face.
There were no more veils.
No more masks.
Only truth.
"Because if I do not go, I risk losing the child I carry, the people I belong to, and perhaps the freedom of this land itself. Because I was born a princess—but I was made something more when I watched my people bleed. And because I love your son too much to let him be broken under the weight of the choices I must make."
Silence.
Then something extraordinary happened.
The Queen Regent leaned forward and rested her forehead briefly against Anushka's.
Blessing.
Farewell.
Alliance.
"You are stronger than you look," Aishvarya Devi whispered. "And far more dangerous than you allow the world to know."
A faint smile trembled on Anushka's lips.
"So you will help me?"
The Queen Regent nodded slowly.
"I will help you leave Rajgarh in three moons."
Her eyes softened—but only slightly.
"But until then… you will walk carefully. You will eat. You will rest. You will take care of the life within you. And you will not let my son see the grief already rising in your eyes. Do you understand me?"
Anushka nodded.
"Yes, Maharani-sa."
"Good," the Queen Regent said, straightening again, voice returning to regal command. "Now go. Sleep. Tomorrow the world will again require you to smile. Let tonight give you strength."
Anushka rose, bowed low, and turned toward the door.
She paused only once.
Without looking back, she whispered:
"Thank you."
The Queen Regent did not answer aloud.
But her hand tightened briefly upon the edge of the table as the door closed, as though holding back something as fragile and unstoppable as water.
Outside the chamber, the palace corridors glowed faintly with the leftover lamps of Deepavali.
The festival of lights.
Anushka walked slowly back toward her rooms.
Each diya she passed seemed to speak in its own language:
Burn while you can.
Shine while you remain.
The shadows already know your name.
She smiled faintly through tears.
Three moons.
Three moons of love, of deception, of slow farewell.
Three moons of stolen touches and unspoken truth.
She reached her chamber door and paused, resting her hand upon the cool wood.
Inside, she could sense him.
Samrat Veer Singh sat awake again—he always did when worry gnawed at him—staring at the lamp, waiting for the sound of her steps. She knew that as surely as she knew her own breath.
For a brief wild moment she considered turning away, sleeping elsewhere, distancing her heart early to soften the blow when departure came.
But love does not retreat by inches.
It either stays.
Or it burns.
She opened the door.
He looked up instantly.
Relief washed over his face.
"You were gone long," he said quietly.
"Yes," she replied equally softly. "I had matters to discuss with the Queen Regent."
He searched her eyes again.
"Are you… all right?"
She crossed the room and sat beside him on the bed, leaning her head against his shoulder, allowing herself—for this moment—to be simply wife, not strategist, not Benefactor, not daughter of two kingdoms, not the woman planning her own disappearance.
Just Anushka.
Just his.
"I am," she whispered. "Hold me."
He did.
Without question.
Without hesitation.
He wrapped his arms around her completely, enveloping her as if trying to protect her from everything—world, fate, future. She burrowed closer, eyes closing, breathing in the scent of him—steel, sandalwood, something warm and uniquely Samrat.
Sleep came quickly.
Deeper this time.
He felt her grow heavy in his arms, exhaustion claiming her like tide claiming shore.
He pressed a kiss to her hair and whispered into the quiet:
"Whatever happens, Anushka… do not leave me in darkness."
She did not hear him.
Or perhaps she did, somewhere deep inside the place where dreams and destiny meet.
Outside their chamber, a diya flickered in the corridor—
—and went out.
But another, farther down the hall, burned brighter.
Because Deepavali was not the absence of darkness.
It was the promise that even when darkness comes…
…light will remember the way back.