The monsoon clouds hung low over the palace like a brooding prophecy, their heavy shadows swallowing the marble courtyards whole. The peacocks did not dance that morning. Even the fountains seemed quieter, as if the very air held its breath.
Word had spread through the palace that the Maharaja was finally recovering. Drummers had not yet been called, but whispers moved through the halls like warm wind through silk curtains.
Yet peace was deceptive.
Because something else had entered the palace.
Something that did not announce itself with drums.
A man with ink-black eyes and a polite smile.
A guest.
A scholar.
A merchant.
A British spy.
The day he arrived, Anushka had barely slept. Sleep had become a stranger who occasionally brushed her cheek and vanished. Her body ached, especially beneath her ribs. She moved slowly now, wrapped in pale silk like winter moonlight.
No one must know.
Her hands went unconsciously to her abdomen again.
Three moons.
Only three.
The Queen Regent's words echoed inside her:
"If you must leave, child… then leave like a whisper."
Anushka had smiled, bowed, and walked away before tears betrayed her.
Now she stood on the terrace overlooking the palace road as the envoy entered. Horses snorted, their hooves clapping against cobblestone. The British banner fluttered in the humid air.
The spy walked among them unnoticed.
Because the best spies never looked like spies.
He bowed with the grace of a man who had studied etiquette like a language.
"Sir Edward Hale," the herald announced.
But Hale was only the name on his papers.
To London, he was Raven Eleven.
To himself, he was nothing at all.
His eyes swept the courtyard — not with curiosity, but with quiet calculation. He noted guard positions, hidden balconies, servant movement routes, the weak spot in the southern wall.
And then he saw her.
Not in jewels. Not smiling.
Pale. Dignified. Tired. The faintest tremor in her hands.
Crown Princess Anushka.
He did not yet know her secret.
But he already suspected she held one.
Samrat Veer had regained his strength enough to stand at the greeting ceremony. His eyes burned not with fever now, but with fierce protectiveness. Every time Anushka shifted slightly, his hand twitched as if to catch her.
He leaned toward her.
"You should sit," he whispered.
Anushka shook her head faintly. "I am Crown Princess. Peace returns today. I must be seen."
He did not argue — but his jaw tightened.
The British envoy greeted the court. Polite words. Polished lies. The usual dance.
But the spy watched Anushka.
When she lowered her gaze, he saw shadows beneath her lashes.
When she smiled, he saw the strain.
London files.
Rumors.
His lips curved.
So. The whispers were true.
This was not merely a palace.
This was a battlefield of silk and secrets.
Two nights later, it began.
Servants whispered of strange footfalls.
A map went missing from the war archives.
A guard woke with bruises and could not remember why.
Locked doors clicked open as if the night itself had learned to pick locks.
The Benefactor's networks murmured underground like roots.
The spy moved like a shadow through corridors designed for sunlight.
He had learned Sanskrit. He had learned etiquette. He had learned to bow.
He had also learned how to disappear.
He found the correspondence archives first.
Royal letters.
Bengal seals.
He smiled.
Ah.
A connection.
He copied the seals meticulously, replacing each parchment exactly as he found it. Not greed — precision. True spies left no ripples.
But when he opened a hidden drawer, he stilled.
A silk ribbon.
Faded.
Tied around a folded piece of parchment.
Handwriting delicate, yet fierce.
"I must leave before four moons pass."
His heart slowed.
He held the letter as if it were a living thing.
So she wrote this.
To Bengal.
To her father.
To escape.
Why?
He closed his eyes for a brief moment.
A spy was not meant to feel. But sometimes the human heart disobeyed.
Outside, thunder rolled.
Inside, Anushka bent before the deity in the small shrine of her chamber, whispering prayers that trembled between dread and love.
For her husband.
For her unborn child.
For time.
For strength to endure the storm she herself had summoned.
Her fingers brushed the floor — and pain shot through her abdomen again. White heat. She held back a cry by biting her lip, tasting iron.
"Anu!"
Samrat was there before she swayed. His arms caught her as easily as water catching fallen petals. His breath broke.
"You are not well."
"I am just tired," she whispered.
"Tired does not make someone this pale."
He pressed his forehead against hers.
"You are hiding things from me," he murmured.
For a moment she wanted to tell him everything.
The child.
The letter.
The departure.
The ticking moons.
But the moment passed like a bird beating its wings into darkness.
She smiled instead.
A queen's smile.
And somewhere outside their chamber, the spy listened to the faint murmur of their voices through stone walls and realized something devastating:
He was not just dealing with rulers.
He was dealing with love.
And love, as London had taught him, was always the most dangerous political force.
He made contact with the Benefactor's man the following evening.
Not by speaking.
By leaving a jasmine petal on the third pillar at the temple courtyard.
The response appeared at dawn.
A folded scrap beneath the palace fountain.
One symbol.
A serpent.
He inhaled slowly.
So the rumors were true.
The Benefactor was not a myth.
And they were watching the palace from the inside.
But when he read the next line written in flawless royal hand, he stopped breathing altogether.
Do not harm the Crown Princess.
He stared long at the words.
So the Benefactor protected her.
Why?
His mission had changed.
No longer study the kingdom.
Now:
Unmask the Benefactor.
Break the alliance between the kingdom and Bengal.
All without spilling blood unnecessarily.
Or appearing to do so.
This was the game he excelled at.
The collapse came without warning.
The council hall was filled with arguments — tax reforms, canal repairs, troop movements. Anushka listened, elegant as always, though every pulse throbbed behind her eyes.
Samrat watched her more than the ministers.
A single drop of sweat slid along her neck.
He rose slightly.
"Anushka—"
Her vision blurred.
The world tilted.
Voices turned to echoes underwater.
Then the marble floor rushed toward her.
Her bangles clashed.
Chairs scraped back.
And the entire council gasped as Crown Princess Anushka crumpled like a fallen lotus.
Samrat's roar broke the silent chamber.
He was on his knees, lifting her, breath trembling, his composure shattered.
"Call the physicians!"
But the Queen Regent's command cut through the uproar.
"No."
A stunned silence.
"She ordered no physician," the Regent said evenly. "Her will is law."
Samrat stared at her — fury and fear warring in his eyes.
But Anushka stirred faintly, whispering something no one else heard.
"Please… not yet."
He bowed his head to her lips.
"As you command," he choked.
He carried her from the council like a warrior carrying a wounded goddess.
The ministers watched.
The spy watched.
And in the depths of the palace, someone smiled in the shadows.
The Benefactor moved another piece on the board.
Five days passed.
Rain hammered the palace roofs. Oil lamps flickered. Servants walked with muted steps as if sound itself might disturb fate.
Anushka slept.
Sometimes her lips moved in dreams — sometimes in prayer — sometimes in pain.
Sometimes she whispered:
"Don't leave…"
Sometimes:
"Samrat…"
Samrat never left her side.
He forgot he was king.
He forgot politics.
He forgot everything except the woman who had once laughed in moonlit courtyards and now lay pale as ivory before him.
He held her hand as storms raged beyond the palace walls.
"Come back to me," he whispered, voice cracking. "Come back, Anu. I do not know how to rule without your fire."
He pressed her hand to his cheek.
And she stirred.
From the balcony opposite, hidden by carved latticework, the British spy watched.
Not gloating.
Not calculating.
Silent.
The file had not prepared him for this.
He had expected ambition.
He had expected schemes.
He had expected cold royalty.
He had not expected love like ritual fire.
He exhaled slowly.
This assignment was no longer simple.
London wanted control.
But control built on breaking this woman might shatter something far larger than a kingdom.
Yet he was still a spy.
And the game did not stop because hearts were involved.
It merely became more dangerous.
He turned away at last and walked into the dark corridor.
Behind him, thunder rolled again.
And somewhere in the depths of the palace, the Benefactor whispered orders, invisible and patient, moving ever closer to both the British spy and the Crown Princess whose fate now burned like an oil lamp in a storm.
The board was set.
The players were moving.
And time — like the moon — was running out.
Night returned like an old conspirator.
The palace slept.
Or pretended to.
Because some nights were too heavy for sleep.
Oil lamps flickered along empty galleries. Monsoon winds hissed through stone arches. Somewhere in the distance, a conch shell sounded — long, hollow, ancient.
Anushka woke again.
Her breath was shallow, lashes damp against her cheeks. The world swayed for a moment before steadying. Samrat, half-asleep by her bedside, straightened instantly.
"Anu—"
"I'm fine," she whispered.
She wasn't.
But the words came automatically now — as automatic as prayer.
He placed his palm against her forehead and exhaled in relief.
"The fever has fallen."
"Then rest," she murmured back. "You haven't closed your eyes in two days."
He smiled faintly.
"How can I, when my entire world lies struggling to breathe in front of me?"
Her eyes softened. She wanted to tell him everything again.
But truth could kill.
Silence might save.
So instead she whispered, "Hold my hand."
He did.
And for a fragile moment, the storm outside could not touch them.
The spy, meanwhile, moved through the records wing beneath the council chamber — a place most courtiers forgot existed.
He carried no torch.
He did not need one.
He counted corridors by memory, steps by sound, and doors by the taste of damp air. He found what he needed finally — a store of coded communiqués between Bengal and the court.
So.
The alliance was deep.
Deeper than London had predicted.
He drew a thin, folded strip of metal from his sleeve, easing the lock open with the patience of a man who had broken into half of Asia without ever being truly seen.
The registers opened like obedient servants.
Names.
Supplies.
Troop movements.
And one recurring, hidden seal in the margins — a small serpent coiled around a star.
The Benefactor's sigil.
He smiled.
"So you exist," he whispered.
The game had just become far more interesting.
He copied carefully — ink strokes identical, pressure matched, left-handed disguise, all of it perfect.
He did not see the second set of eyes watching him through the smallest break in the stone wall.
A shadow behind a shadow.
Silent.
Patient.
The Benefactor.
Anushka walked again two days later.
Slowly at first, then with queenly control — though inside every step felt like walking across a river in flood. Servants bowed with relief. Eunuchs hid their tears poorly. Even the guard captains smiled when they thought no one watched.
But no happiness in palaces lasts without a shadow beneath it.
That night, Samrat found her at the balcony, staring into the rain as if searching for answers in falling water.
"You will fall ill again," he murmured, draping a shawl around her shoulders.
"I am already ill," she said with a thin smile.
He stiffened.
"So you finally admit it."
She closed her eyes.
"I admit… I am tired."
He took her face gently in his hands.
"Then lean on me."
And for the first time in days, she did.
Her forehead pressed to his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her cheek — the one sound that had come to anchor her to this world when it spun too fast.
Lightning cracked.
The sky flashed white.
And somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors below them, the spy walked straight into a trap he did not yet see.
It began as a whisper.
A misplaced guard rotation.
A corridor lit that should have been dark.
A door ajar that should have been closed.
The spy frowned.
Someone else was moving pieces.
Not the British.
Not the court.
Someone inside the shadows.
He didn't like what he couldn't control.
Still, he pressed forward.
He reached the treasury alcove — not for jewels — but maps etched into stone recording ancient secret tunnels beneath the palace.
Whoever controlled these passages controlled the kingdom.
His fingers traced the carvings.
North tunnel to the temple.
East tunnel to the river.
South tunnel beneath the Maharaja's council hall.
West tunnel to the Queen's wing.
Perfect.
He smiled.
He didn't hear the door close behind him.
Aditya Pratap Singh had been waiting in the dark for hours.
Patience was something war had taught him young.
He watched the spy's silhouette bend over the wall maps. The man's movements were too precise for a harmless envoy. Too confident. Too silent.
When the torch finally flared to life, the flames threw harsh light across an English face hiding behind Indian courtesy.
Edward Hale.
Raven Eleven.
Enemy of three courts.
Aditya's hand tightened slowly around the hilt of his sword.
He did not speak.
He let the silence coil tighter and tighter in the chamber until it became something alive.
Only when the spy lifted the loose stone hiding the tunnel entrance did Aditya step forward.
"Enough."
The word echoed through the stone chamber like a verdict.
Hale froze.
Not with fear.
With amusement.
He turned calmly.
"I was admiring your architecture."
"I don't care," Aditya replied.
No theatrics.
No threats.
He crossed the room in three slow, deliberate steps.
"You entered through forged letters. You violated the King's archives. You copied military routes. You marked tunnels." His eyes hardened. "You are not here as a guest."
The spy tilted his head.
"And your proof?"
Aditya smiled faintly.
"I don't need proof."
Hale's eyes narrowed.
That answer was not the answer of a careless prince.
It was the answer of a man who already knew too much.
And then Hale understood.
Someone had told him.
Someone he had never seen.
Someone who lived in whispers.
The Benefactor.
He masked his realization instantly.
"So… I am arrested based on intuition?"
Aditya stepped closer until their faces were inches apart.
"No," he said quietly. "You are arrested based on the fact that you were already condemned the moment you entered my palace."
He gestured sharply.
Guard shadows detached themselves from walls and pillars like ghosts becoming flesh.
Hale finally laughed softly.
"So. It ends here."
"No," Aditya replied. "It begins here — in court."
The spy said nothing.
He simply lifted his chin.
He would not beg.
True spies died with secrets sealed behind their teeth.
Aditya bound his wrists with royal cloth — not rope — an insult and an honor both.
"For espionage against the Crown," he declared. "You will stand before the Maharaja's court at dawn."
The spy's only answer was silence.
Silence — and the faintest glimmer of respect in his eyes.
Because he knew one truth now:
He had been beaten not by the crown…
…but by the unseen hand that had guided the prince straight to him.
The Benefactor.
No one said the name aloud.
No one even dared think it fully.
But the shadow behind the throne had just changed the fate of every player on the board — and vanished again before anyone could trace the move.
The palace buzzed the next morning.
Courtyards filled.
Ministers gathered in tense knots.
Drums beat like heartbeats.
Anushka stood despite the faint ache beneath her ribs, her hand gripping the rail behind the throne so lightly that no one noticed she needed the support.
Samrat sat forward, eyes burning.
Aditya entered the great court.
Behind him — bound, back straight, gaze unbroken —
The British spy walked.
Whispers shattered across the chamber like glass.
"Foreign spy—"
"British—"
"Through the council itself—"
"He walked among us—"
The spy stopped at the center of the marble floor.
He did not bow.
He looked directly at the throne.
And for a long breath, no one spoke.
Then Samrat rose.
His voice cut through the hall like steel:
"You entered our kingdom as a guest. You behaved as a serpent. You sought our secrets. You moved in shadow. You violated sacred trust."
He descended the dais one step, looking into the spy's eyes.
"For whom?"
Silence.
The spy's lips barely moved.
"Empire," he said simply.
The word fell like poison in water.
Anushka felt a chill up her spine.
She knew now — this was not merely politics.
This was the beginning of something greater and darker.
She met Aditya's gaze.
He gave nothing away.
Because no one — not Samrat, not the council, not even the king himself — knew that the path to this moment had been laid quietly by a figure who remained unseen:
The Benefactor.
Hidden.
Patient.
Untouchable.
And watching.
The spy was taken away in chains.
Not broken.
But defeated.
And as the court emptied, thunder rolled again beyond the palace walls, monsoon clouds darkening the sky to the color of iron.
The game had changed.
The British had made their move.
The Benefactor had answered.
And in the center of it all stood Anushka — pale, tired, and carrying a secret life beneath her heart — with only three moons left before the path she had chosen would lead her away from everything she loved.