The sun rose red over Rajgarh.
It climbed the sky as though drenched in blood and sandalwood smoke, spilling copper light over domes and minarets, gilded spires and peacock mosaics. Temple bells began to toll, slow and heavy, echoing across courtyards still damp with dawn. The palace awoke not to serenity, but to anticipation sharpened into fear.
For today the King would hold council.
And today the Regent would stand trial.
Whispers slithered like shadows beneath pillars:
"She ruled in his name…"
"She bargained with the British…"
"She allowed the Crown Princess influence…"
"She held the kingdom together…"
"Or she nearly lost it…"
The truth was different depending on the tongue that spoke it.
But all tongues agreed on one thing:
Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj was angry.
In the Queen Regent's chambers, incense coiled in fragile spirals toward painted ceilings. Maharani Aishvarya Devi sat before her bronze mirror while her maidens fastened emerald bangles over her wrists. Her face was calm, composed, carved from the same unyielding stone as the palace walls.
Yet her eyes were alive—bright, imperious and deeply human.
She did not fear judgment.
What she feared was what would follow judgment.
Her son's future.
Her husband's health.
The British envoy's shadow stretching like cold iron across the kingdom.
And, beneath all this,
like a quiet pearl among storms,
Anushka.
The young Crown Princess was a question that no man in council yet understood.
But Aishvarya did.
She rose, her regent's emerald sari flowing like a living river.
"It is time," she said.
The King's council chamber had been prepared like a battlefield.
Gold and sandstone pillars towered like vigilant sentinels. The great circular council table—sacred since the first Raj of Rajgarh—gleamed with polished inlay. Nobles took their places like chess pieces, each weighed down with turbans and suspicion.
British scarlet uniforms burned like foreign fire against the silks.
The British Resident Envoy, Sir Alistair Caldwell, stood tall and composed, his expression carefully schooled into the politeness of conquerors who pretend friendship. His pale eyes swept the room, lingering on the royal family with measured curiosity.
He smiled slightly.
He loved trials.
They revealed fractures.
They made kingdoms malleable.
A herald struck his staff upon the marble floor.
"Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj!"
The King entered.
He walked not as a recovered man but as a storm returned to the sky that birthed it. His presence seemed to make the air itself bow. The council rose in unison, foreheads bending, hands folded.
Behind him came:
Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh, steel and discipline
Samrat Veer Singh, the Crown Prince, gaze dark with thought
Rajkumar Aarav, trying and failing to look serious
Rajkumari Mrinalini, her scholar's eyes afire with comprehension
Rajkumari Charumati, soft grace shadowed with worry
Maharani Lalima Devi, veiled in anxious devotion
and last…
Yuvrani Anushka Devi of Bengal.
She entered like a flame veiled in silk.
Today she wore deep crimson with gold thread tigers prowling across the border,
sindoor bright as destiny,
eyes deep as monsoon night.
She bowed.
She said nothing.
But the court felt her.
Some nobles admired. Others feared. The British envoy watched her more closely than he seemed to.
The King took the throne.
"Let it be recorded," his voice rang through the chamber, "that today the matter of the Regency shall stand before Dharma. My Queen, who bore the burden of rule during my illness, shall be heard. My court shall speak openly. And I shall pass judgment."
He turned his gaze on Aishvarya.
"Step forward, Maharani Aishvarya Devi."
She did.
Her anklets chimed once, like distant steel.
He said nothing for a long moment.
Then:
"Raj-sabha," he declared, "if any noble or minister holds grievance against the Regent, speak now."
The stillness broke.
A minister of trade bowed.
"Your Majesty, under the Regent's rule tariffs were altered. The British were granted additional access to our western ports. The nobles murmur that foreign merchants now line their coffers with our salt and silk."
Another voice rose.
"Her Majesty dismissed three high courtiers without your explicit seal."
Another.
"She allowed the Crown Princess presence in councils—"
A sharp intake of breath rippled.
The gaze of the court turned to Anushka like a sudden wind.
She did not flinch.
Her chin remained high,
her hands folded with serene grace.
But beneath her calm, her heart hammered.
No one must know.
Not her secret purpose.
Not her child.
She stood like a carved goddess, even as emotion roared inside.
The accusations continued.
"She negotiated secretly with Bengal—"
"She hosted British Resident feasts—"
"She acted not as steward but sovereign—"
The list grew.
The storm thickened.
At last the King raised his hand.
Silence fell.
He turned to his queen—his wife, his Regent, his equal and yet today his accused.
"What say you in your defense?"
Her answer was not soft.
She stepped forward,
eyes bright and fierce as battle banners in wind.
"I say, Maharaj," she said, voice clear as temple bells, "that Rajgarh still stands."
The words cut the air like a blade.
"I say," she continued, "that while you walked the shadowy threshold between worlds, drought did not devour us. Famine did not walk our markets. Enemies did not seize our gates. The British did not annex our lands under the guise of 'protective governance' as they did in Awadh."
Murmurs spread—uncomfortable, acknowledging truth.
Sir Alistair Caldwell's smile thinned.
"I say," Aishvarya went on, "that I carried the burden not because I desired it, but because Dharma demanded it. Because your sons were not yet ready. Because your council was divided. Because every noble who speaks of grievance now came then with trembling hands asking, 'Maharani-sa, what must we do?'"
She looked not humbled,
not pleading,
but righteous.
"I did not usurp your will. I preserved it."
The King studied her long, old pain and old love braided in his gaze.
Before he could answer,
the British envoy stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," Sir Alistair said smoothly, "if I may, as a friend of Rajgarh and a representative of Her Majesty's Government, I must express admiration for the Maharani's… fortitude."
The council tensed.
British admiration was seldom merely admiration.
"But," he continued, "one must say that governance is… delicate. Treaties formed during unstable rulerships may be seen as invalid. Agreements perhaps… renegotiable."
A few nobles paled.
They heard it.
The threat behind silk.
Reopen ports.
Increase British rights.
Or face consequences.
The King's nostrils flared.
"My kingdom," he said coldly, "is not a bazaar bargain to be reopened at foreign convenience."
The envoy smiled again, courteous as poison.
"Of course not. Yet one cannot deny inquiries regarding your Regent's authority during your incapacitation. Some agreements may not hold in British law if not under your direct hand."
Silence.
Then—
A voice spoke.
Calm.
Clear.
Fluent in English.
"I beg to differ, Sir."
The council turned.
Eyes widened.
Even the British envoy froze for a fraction of a heartbeat.
Anushka Devi had spoken.
But not in halting courtesy-English like many royal houses used when required.
She spoke in the polished, aristocratic cadence of Calcutta universities and British courtrooms.
"My honoured father-in-law's sovereignty," she said in English that rang like silver, "is not for British law to validate. Authority in Rajgarh derives from Dharma and the ancient Rajya-dharma shastras, not the Crown in London."
The chamber seemed to hold its breath.
She continued.
"And yet, if British law must be addressed," she went on, her gaze unwavering upon Sir Alistair's, "you will find, Sir, that Regency under incapacitation has full validity in every princely state acknowledged beneath your own doctrine of Paramountcy."
The envoy blinked.
She had quoted British doctrine—accurately.
"In fact," she added almost gently, "your own treaties affirm that internal sovereignty remains with the princely house unless gross misrule can be proven. You will find no famine records here. No rebellion. No treasury collapse. No civic death."
Her voice softened—a velvet glove over iron.
"You will find only a queen who ruled with discipline, justice, and competence while her husband fought for breath."
The British envoy stared at her now not as ornament,
but as opponent.
"Your English is remarkable, Your Highness," he said carefully.
She inclined her head slightly.
"I was educated in Bengal."
Bengal.
Land of reformers.
Of lawyers.
Of revolutionaries who read the enemy's language and used it as weapon.
He understood.
The nobles stared at her as though seeing her for the first time.
The King watched her,
thoughts unreadable.
Samrat Veer Singh could not breathe
for pride
for love
for awe.
Aishvarya Devi felt something change in the air—
a thread pulling tighter around destiny.
Anushka continued:
"If the British Raj wishes peace," she said, voice now silk-smooth and lethal, "it will honour its own laws as it demands others honour theirs. If not—"
She smiled faintly.
"History will write that Rajgarh did not bow out of ignorance."
Silence.
Then, slowly,
the envoy inclined his head in concession
and calculation.
"Your argument," he said softly, "is… compelling."
He stepped back.
The storm did not end.
But it shifted.
The King rose to his full height.
His voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
"Hear this decree," he said.
Everyone bowed instinctively.
"Let it be known: the Regency was lawful. The Queen Regent acted under necessity and for the preservation of Rajgarh. The Maharani shall not be punished."
A rush of breath exhaled through the council.
But then—
His tone hardened.
"Yet," he continued, "from henceforth I reclaim the full weight of the throne. No decree shall bear seal without my knowledge. The Crown Prince will serve at my side. And the Crown Princess"—his gaze flicked briefly to Anushka—"will no longer sit in council without my summons."
There it was.
Not condemnation.
Not trust.
Containment.
A cage woven from royal authority.
Anushka bowed perfectly.
"As Maharaj commands."
But something behind her eyes closed like a door in winter.
The court dismissed.
Drums echoed.
The British envoy's boots clicked away upon marble, mind racing to London letters he would soon compose about the Crown Princess of Bengal whose English could unlace treaties.
Servants whispered.
Nobles argued in corners.
The princes regrouped:
Aditya serious and loyal;
Aarav muttering indignantly that it was all unfair without fully knowing why;
Samrat silent and burning.
The Queen Regent stood very still,
as though finally allowing herself, for the first time in moons,
to feel tired.
The King remained unreadable.
But Anushka—
Anushka walked away without expression,
steps steady,
back regal.
Only when she reached the Palace of Mirrors corridor,
where a thousand reflections fractured any truth of a face,
did her composure crack like glass struck too sharply.
She stopped.
Her shoulders shook once.
Not from weakness—
from the unbearable effort of strength.
Her hand pressed to her mouth as her breath hitched silently.
No attendants saw.
No courtier witnessed.
She slipped into a small side shrine lit by a single oil lamp and shut the carved wooden door behind her.
And there,
away from thrones and treaties,
envoys and expectations,
armies and unborn destiny,
she broke.
Silent tears burst from her eyes,
hot,
furious,
grieving and exhausted.
She braced both hands against the stone,
forehead pressing the cool wall.
"I am so tired," she whispered.
Not to gods.
Not to history.
Just into the quiet.
Her heart ached with too many truths hidden:
She carried a child under her beating heart.
She carried an empire in her mind.
She carried a rebellion in her shadow.
She had defended the Regent,
shielded the kingdom,
confounded the British…
…and still,
bars closed around her.
"No more council," she whispered bitterly. "No more voice—not unless summoned."
Her tears fell onto cobblestone.
She clutched the fabric over her belly gently,
trembling.
"I will protect you," she whispered to the life within. "I do not know how—but I will."
Her shoulders shook harder.
She thought of leaving in three moons.
Of Bengal.
Of letters already written.
Of maps already drawn.
Of the Benefactor's cloak waiting folded in darkness.
She thought of Samrat—
his laughter
his scars
his hand on hers
his blade drawn for her
his love she had not planned on
his future she might soon shatter.
New tears came.
"I am cruel," she whispered. "Cruel to love you and still plan to leave."
The oil lamp flickered,
its flame bowing briefly then rising stronger.
She wiped her face at last.
The Queen returned to her eyes.
Resolve returned to her spine.
She drew the hood of destiny back around her heart and opened the shrine door.
Outside, courtiers walked,
politics breathed,
kingdoms shifted.
No one suspected what storm lived
quietly,
furiously,
inside the gentle Crown Princess of Bengal.
The Regent had been judged.
The King had reclaimed power.
The British envoy had identified a new rival.
And far within the shadows,
the Benefactor continued to weave the web tighter.
Three moons remained.