Night fell softly over the palace, draping the sandstone walls in velvet shadows. The festive lights from the city had slowly dimmed, one lantern at a time, until only the palace torches remained, flickering like tired fireflies battered by the night breeze.
Within the inner queen's wing, the corridors were silent.
The world slept.
Only Anushka did not.
She sat near the window of her chamber, a thin shawl around her shoulders, her palms resting lightly on her upper abdomen as though they were instinctively guarding something fragile — something only she knew existed. The moonlight washed over her face, revealing faint shadows beneath her eyes caused by exhaustion, secrets, and the growing weight of choices.
Two moons left.
Two moons before the coronation.
Two moons before her departure into the unknown — away from everyone, away from Samrat, away from the kingdom that had begun to beat like a second heart inside her.
She closed her eyes slowly.
The dream began gently.
At first, there was only the sound of anklets — faint, melodic, like a stream catching the wind. Then came the scent of wet earth after rain. She felt grass beneath her bare feet, soft and cool. When she opened her dream-eyes, she found herself standing in the middle of an endless meadow. Golden flowers swayed around her, their petals bright as sunlight, though there was no sun in the sky.
Instead, there were two moons.
They hung above her like twin silver shields, close enough to touch, bright enough to drown out every star. The light they poured down was gentle, almost tender, as though the sky itself loved her.
"Where… am I?" she whispered.
Her voice echoed far away — as if the world itself were listening.
A path unfurled before her, winding through the field like a white ribbon. Without thinking, as dreams often command, she walked. Her bangles jingled softly. The wind tugged at her long hair, carrying whispers she could not yet understand.
Ahead, a temple rose — not stone and mortar, not earthly at all. It seemed carved from moonlight and mist, translucent and shimmering, as though one breath could dissolve it.
The doors were open.
Inside awaited someone.
She stepped in.
The air changed — sacred, heavy, and familiar in a way that pierced her soul. The temple bells rang on their own. Oil lamps lit themselves around her, flames blooming silently in neat rows.
At the center stood a throne of white lotus petals.
Upon it sat a woman draped in black and gold, eyes deep as the night sky, hair flowing like a river of shadows. No crown was needed — divinity poured from her like fire.
Maa Kali.
But her face was not terrible or fearsome here; it was serene, full of immeasurable sorrow and immeasurable love at the same time.
Anushka fell to her knees.
"T-Tum… Maa?" her voice broke.
The goddess did not speak with lips.
Her voice filled the air around them.
"Child."
It wasn't sound — it was truth.
A warm tear rolled down Anushka's cheek, yet she didn't know when she began crying. She bowed, forehead touching the glowing floor.
"I am afraid," she whispered.
The world trembled.
The moons pulsed brighter through the temple ceiling.
Of what? The voice asked — everywhere and nowhere.
Anushka swallowed painfully.
"Of leaving… of staying… of losing him… of losing—"
Her hand went again to her abdomen.
The goddess raised her hand ever so slightly.
In that single motion, the world changed again.
The temple melted away and became the royal court, full of courtiers whispering like snakes coiled in silk. The Regent Queen sat on the high golden throne, smiling — a smile delicate as flowers and sharp as daggers.
Samrat stood beside her wearing the crown of the king — heavy, magnificent — but his eyes searched the court restlessly for someone he could not find.
For her.
Anushka tried to step forward.
Her anklet bells rang.
He did not hear them.
She tried to call out.
Her voice died in the air.
A curtain of white mist dropped between them.
Then another scene.
She stood in the palace corridor in the dark of night. A trunk sat by her feet. Her veil was pulled low, disguising her face. She walked away silently, just as she had planned — after the coronation feast, after he had finally fallen asleep with peace on his lips.
Behind her, Samrat slept alone, unaware of the emptiness dawn would bring.
A sob tore from her chest.
The meadow returned.
The two moons shone brighter now — unbearably bright — like judgment, like destiny.
"I don't know what to do," she said. "Every road hurts."
A gentle wind moved through the grass.
A soft child's laughter broke the silence.
Her heart froze.
She turned.
There — just behind her — stood a small child, about three years old, barefoot like her, wearing a tiny royal kurta. His eyes were large, curious, and painfully familiar — the exact color of Samrat's when he smiled after winning an argument.
He held a wooden toy horse in his plump hand.
"Amma?" he said.
The word shattered her.
Anushka staggered backward, hands over her mouth. The child ran toward her and threw his arms around her legs with innocent trust, as though he had known her forever.
"My dream…" she whispered hoarsely. "Mera… baccha…"
He looked up at her and smiled, a smile so pure it seemed to light the air.
The moons dimmed.
The goddess' voice returned — not as thunder, but as lullaby.
"Every queen bleeds.Every mother chooses.Every destiny asks a price."
Anushka sank to her knees, gathering the dream-child into her arms. His heartbeat thudded softly against her — alive, real, undeniable.
"But will I be allowed to keep him?" she asked.
Silence answered.
The meadow began to tremble.
The petals of the golden flowers turned crimson one by one, soaked in unseen rain. Lightning split the sky without sound. The child slowly began to turn into light in her arms — piece by piece — tiny glowing fragments lifting from him and dissolving.
"No!" she screamed, clutching tighter. "Please! Don't take him! Don't—"
The light slipped like sand through her fingers.
The moons went dark.
She fell into endless night.
Anushka awoke with a violent gasp.
Her body jerked upright in her bed, sweat clinging cold to her skin. The room was quiet, shadows deep and unmoving. The last fragments of the dream clung to her chest like thorns.
Her hand flew instinctively to her abdomen.
She wasn't alone.
A slow tears slid over her temple into her hair.
"I saw you," she whispered to the darkness, voice shaking.
A soft knock sounded on the other side of the chamber inside room's door.
"Anushka?" Samrat's voice, low and sleepy, drifted through the carved wood. "You cried out in your sleep… are you unwell?"
For a second she couldn't speak.
She looked at the door as if the wood itself were a barrier between two worlds — the life she wanted and the life she was bound to.
"I'm fine," she finally managed. "Just… a dream."
He hesitated.
Then she heard his palm rest against the other side of the door, as though he could sense the storm inside her and wanted to touch it without knowing how.
"Go back to sleep," she whispered, tears silently falling.
The night held its breath around her.
Outside, the real moon sailed slowly across the sky, the silent witness of queens and destinies — and of a dream that was not merely a dream, but a warning.
And somewhere in the depths of the palace, the Benefactor moved unseen through corridors of power, threads of fate already tugged taut.
The kingdom slept.
But destiny had awakened.