The monsoon clouds had drifted away from Rajgarh, leaving behind skies the colour of polished sapphire, and air washed clean of dust and suspicion. Yet within the palace, storms lingered—silent ones, unspoken ones—hovering in the arches like spirits unwilling to leave stone and memory.
Whispers of the Benefactor had shaken the court for days.
And now, suddenly…
…they stopped.
Because a man had been sent to the Maharaja's court—confessing, kneeling, trembling—
claiming to be the very shadow everyone hunted.
It was not by accident.
It was Anushka Devi's move.
But no one knew.
The Man Who Claimed to Be the Benefactor
He knelt under the glare of lamps in the Diwan-i-Am. His wrists bore fresh rope marks; his lips trembled with rehearsed courage. The nobles leaned forward like vultures tasting the scent of fallen prey.
The Queen Regent, Maharani Aishvarya Devi, sat beside the Maharaja's empty throne. The King still lay weak from illness, pale like parchment and sleeping under layers of incense and prayers. So the Queen Regent ruled, and none questioned her now.
"Speak," she commanded.
Her voice was silk drawn across steel.
The man bowed, forehead to marble.
"I… am the Benefactor."
Gasps rippled like wind through grass.
The British Resident's lips curved ever so slightly. He loved confessions, especially those convenient for empire.
The Queen Consort Lalima pressed her hand to her chest.
Samrat Veer Singh's fingers tightened around the lion-headed armrest of his chair. Aditya Pratap Singh, his elder brother, watched with the stillness of a drawn bow. The court hung suspended between rage and relief.
The Queen Regent's eyes did not blink.
"What drove you," she asked softly, "to conspire against the Raj?"
The man swallowed. His answer had been prepared for him in the shadows of a hooded figure.
"I sought… justice for the oppressed.
I wished to awaken the people against tyranny.
I acted alone."
Alone.
That word was carefully planted.
To sever the trails.
To bury maps.To protect the true mastermind,
who watched from behind veils and gentle smiles.
Aishvarya Devi studied him, gaze penetrating as a saint's and executioner's all at once.
"You will be judged," she said.
The court exhaled.
Soldiers dragged the man away.
A decree followed the next morning.
The Benefactor is no more.
The Queen Regent had triumphed.
Or so everyone believed.
But in an unseen courtyard balcony, draped in jasmine, a woman stood wrapped in a pale gold sari. Her hand touched the growing curve of her stomach beneath layers of silk. Her eyes were deep and unending as the Ganga at night.
Yuvrani Anushka Devi whispered:
"Forgive me, friend.Your sacrifice will not be in vain."
She returned to the palace shadows without a sound.
The Queen Regent's victory had bought her something more valuable than power— time.
Three moons more.
The time she needed to disappear.
The Royal Festival of Victory
The Queen Regent declared a festival.
Publicly, to celebrate the capture of the Benefactor.Privately, to cement loyalty.Politically, to show the British Resident that Rajgarh bowed to none.
The entire kingdom was invited.
Elephants in embroidered caparisons paraded through bazaars.Courtiers dusted jewels long asleep in velvet boxes.The palace kitchens roared with activity:cauldrons of saffron rice, lakes of ghee, towers of laddus.
Invitations travelled like royal comets.
Even to Bengal.
The King and Queen of Bengal came,
travelling in a procession of white horses and golden palanquins,
their banners bearing the tiger of the east.
With them came Crown Prince Arindam—brother of Anushka—his smile shadowed, his eyes searching constantly for his sister's.
She greeted them at the palace gate,
head bowed, anklets chiming,
as befits a daughter and a princess of two kingdoms.
Her mother embraced her longer than permitted by etiquette.
Her father noticed how pale she had become.
Neither spoke of it—
but both felt something was slipping away.
Samrat Veer Singh watched the reunion in silence.
A protective flame rose in him—both love and fear.
Anushka's Burden as Crown Princess
The duties fell upon her—inevitable as monsoon rain.
She supervised decorations.She arranged the guest quarters.She selected offerings for the temples.She coordinated musicians, priests, silk merchants, and guards.
The palace came to life around her.
A thousand lamps.
A thousand expectations.
She carried them all,
and a child no one yet knew existed.
Her head spun sometimes.
She steadied herself with sheer will.
"I must endure," she told herself.
"For the kingdom.For the cause.For the child inside me.For him…"
Her gaze drifted to Samrat Veer Singh across the courtyard,
where he inspected soldiers beneath the Sun Banner.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment the world stilled.No court, no war, no empire—only two hearts strung by fate.
The Night of a Thousand Lamps
The festival night descended.
The palace glowed like a constellation fallen upon earth.Marble terraces shimmered with oil lamps.Lotuses floated in mirrored pools.Persian carpets warmed the courtyards.Incense braided into the air with sandalwood and sweet jaggery.
Musicians tuned sitars and sarangi.
Drums murmured like distant thunder.
The Maharaja, recovering but resolute, appeared at last,
supported by attendants.
The people roared with love.
The British Resident bowed with perfect politeness and hollow heart.
The Queen Regent shone—unbending, impenetrable,
the axis upon which the court revolved.
And then…
It was time for the Crown Princess's sacred offering.
Anushka stepped forward,
wearing crimson silk with gold borders,
sindoor blazing in the parting of her hair like a comet's path.
She carried a silver thali of diya lamps and petals.
Her bangles chimed.
She began to sing.
But not a song of courtly entertainment—
a prayer,
a confession,
a promise disguised in melody.
She begin singing "Agar Tum Saath Ho" (If you Walk beside Me)
"Pal-bhar thehar jaao, dil yeh sambhal jaaye" ( stop for a moment,
let this heart get stable)
Her voice trembled, then strengthened,
finding power in surrender.
The courtyard fell silent.
Even the British Resident forgot to smile.
Anushka's eyes shone—not merely with devotion to the gods,
but with a love she could no longer hide.
Samrat Joined Her
Before anyone could move,
the Crown Prince stepped forward.
He took the diya from her shaking hand,
cupping the flame with his palm so the wind could not touch it.
He sang—
"Teri nazron mеin hain tere sapne (your dreams are there in your eyes)
Tere sapnon mein hai naarazi ( and because of your dreams there is anger (in you)..
Mujhe lagta hai ke baatein dil ki (I feel the talks of heart are all deception..)
Hoti lafzon ki dhokhebaazi ( whether you are there with me or not)
Tum saath ho, ya na ho, kya farq hai? (what is the difference?)
Bedard thi zindagi, bedard hai" (the life was merciless, and is merciless).
not loudly,
not as beautifully,
but as one offering his soul, not his voice.
He finished the refrain with her.
Their eyes met.
Not king and queen.
Not pawns of empire.
Just man and woman.
Just love and fear and destiny.
And the court saw it.
The Queen Regent saw it.
The Queen Consort wept silently behind her veil.
Anushka felt tears break through at last—
not weakness,
release.
For a heartbeat she forgother hidden letters,her secret plans,the maps,the armies,the child beneath her heart.
In that instant there was only him.
The Queen Regent's Victory
But politics never slept.
The guests praised the festival.
Nobles swore loyalty.
The British Resident noted every expression,
stored every tremor for later use.
Yet the conclusion was clear—
Rajgarh was united.The "Benefactor" was finished.The Queen Regent had restored order.
She let the illusion settle like golden dust.
Inside, Aishvarya Devi knew better.
The game was not over.
The mastermind still breathed within her palace walls.
And perhaps…
…she had begun to suspect who.
But tonight
she chose not to strike.
Tonight was victory,
and victory demanded ceremony.
The Benefactor Lays Low
In hidden rooms,
sealed with silence and sandalwood,
the hooded figure met her messengers.
Only the man behind her spoke aloud,
as always,
protecting her voice and identity.
Letters changed hands.
Maps were approved.Plans shifted like chess pieces.
Then she dismissed them.
She removed the hood.
Anushka stood alone
and pressed her palm to the life within her.
"Three moons," she whispered.
Three moons until departure.Three moons until destiny split like lightning across the sky.Three moons until her gentle mask fell away
and the world learned what steel lay beneath silk.
And in the shadows…
The empire tightened its grip.The people murmured.The princes sharpened swords beneath banners of the sun.The nobles watched with hungry eyes.The Queen Regent planned.The Maharaja recovered slowly, like fire in damp wood.
And the Benefactor, unseen, undefeated,
waited.
Not dead.Not afraid.Not finished.
Only patient.
Only gathering.
Only watching the night for the perfect hour—
when queens cease being daughters or wives,
and become storms.