The monsoon clouds still lingered over the capital, heavy and swollen like unspoken secrets. The rains had washed the palace courtyards clean, but the air carried the scent of mud, neem, and distant thunder. A change in season always meant a change in fate — palace elders said so with the weight of prophecy — and this season felt heavier than most.
Peace had returned on the surface: drums of celebration, rituals of coronation rehearsals, and whispers of the nearing royal ascension of Samrat. Yet beneath the silks and garlands, the court breathed uneasily. Alliances had shifted. Players had changed. And somewhere in the shadows, hidden hands began to move their pieces.
The British East India Company called it administration.
The people called it occupation.
The nobles called it a necessity.
Anushka called it a storm.
Two moons remained before the coronation. Two moons before her departure. Every passing night now felt like sand slipping through her open palm, no matter how tightly she tried to hold it.
And on that restless evening, word arrived:
"A new British Resident is entering the capital."
Not a mere envoy.Not a merchant.A Resident — the Crown's shadow seated inside the very heart of the kingdom.
A quiet wind passed through the Diwan-e-Khas, lifting the silken curtains as if the palace itself inhaled sharply.
The guards announced without flourish, without drumbeat, without fanfare:
"Sir Arthur William Hawthorne, Resident of the East India Company."
He did not wait to be summoned.
He walked in.
Tall, angular, wrapped in a pale linen coat but carrying the hardened stillness of someone who had smelled gunpowder more than jasmine, he entered as if the palace hall belonged to him already. His gaze drifted over gilded pillars, jeweled chandeliers, the gold-embroidered carpets — not with admiration, but with assessment.
He had the eyes of a man trained to measure kingdoms like ledgers.
And he smiled — thin, polite, predatory.
Samrat stiffened, though crowned not yet.Aditya Pratap Singh's hand instinctively touched the hilt of his sword.The Prime Minister's brows locked into a silent warning.The courtiers bowed — some reluctantly, some eagerly, all uneasily.
Anushka watched.
That was enough.
She had learned to rule without moving.
Sir Arthur bowed only slightly.
"Your Highness, Your Majesty-to-be, my congratulations in advance. Britain rejoices in your stability."
"Britain rejoices," Aditya repeated softly, "only when it profits."
Arthur's gaze slid toward him.
Two men measured each other in silence — the warrior and the empire's mouthpiece.
Anushka spoke deliberately calmly.
"You replace the former resident?"
Arthur's smile sharpened.
"The previous gentleman proved… inadequate."
Inadequate meant:He had failed to control them.He had failed to break them.He had failed to predict her.
Arthur's eyes finally settled on Anushka — sharp interest barely hidden.
"And you must be Her Highness Anushka Devi," he said, voice silk over steel."The Regent. The dreamer of reforms. The woman who whispers to destiny."
No one should have known that.Her reforms were discussed only in closed chambers.
Anushka's pulse quickened — but her face stayed composed.
"Residents observe things," he continued softly, "even dreams."
Arthur took residence in the northern quarters of the palace compound, an intrusion dressed as diplomacy. His staff followed: clerks, interpreters, Indian informers wearing British coats, shadowy sepoys who spoke little.
Every day he walked in the palace gardens.
He never walked without writing afterward.
He asked the cooks how much grain entered the kitchens.He asked the treasurer how much silver left the treasury.He asked the priests how the people prayed.
He asked too many questions that sounded like curiosity but tasted like control.
Evening after evening, nobles found excuses to visit him — some whispered for power, some for favor, some for protection. Slowly, quietly, the court grew divided like a leaf cracked down the middle.
Samrat seethed.
Aditya watched.
Anushka smiled and said nothing — the most dangerous strategy she possessed.
One night, rain drummed on the palace roofs. Oil lamps flickered like tiny trembling hearts. The court had dispersed. The corridors lay empty except for echoing footsteps and shadows long as spears.
Arthur requested a private audience.
Anushka granted it.
They met in a hall lined with carved stone elephants and murals of ancient conquests. A storm brewed beyond the lattice windows, lightning flashing across dark clouds like celestial script.
Arthur did not sit until she did.
He studied her not as a woman, but as an enigma.
"You plan to leave after the coronation."
The words struck like thunder.
Anushka's bloodstream turned cold — then boiling. She had told no one except her heart and the silent night sky. Not even Samrat. Not even the mother who raised her.
Her voice remained still.
"Who told you such a thing?"
His eyes glinted.
"Patterns speak when people do not.And there are letters… intercepted ones."
She inhaled slowly.
So that was it.
"Why does Britain care if I stay or go?"
Arthur leaned back slightly.
"Because thrones fear only two things:the king who rules…and the queen who leaves."
He let the silence work on her like a knife.
Then he spoke softer.
"You are the mind. He is the symbol.Remove the mind, the symbol breaks."
Lightning shuddered through the sky.
She answered quietly:
"Or perhaps I remove myself so the symbol may stand."
He smiled.
He had found what he came for: truth cloaked in sacrifice.
"Britain has an interest in kings who can be guided," he said, "and queens who can be… persuaded."
"Persuaded?"
"Kept," he corrected gently.
Unseen, unheard, Aditya stood beyond the far column, cloak drawn, hand on sword, breath steady.
He had not meant to listen.But her name had pulled him like gravity.
He heard everything — every implied threat, every quiet defiance.
His heart burned.
Her departure.Her loneliness in bearing it alone.The foreign wolf circling her.
Not while I breathe, he swore silently.
"Your kingdom sits on a map drawn in London," Arthur said softly."One wrong decision, and it may vanish like chalk in the rain."
Anushka rose.
Power radiated from her — calm, unyielding, ancient as the carved stone elephants around them.
"Empires fall too," she said."They always believe they will not. That belief is the first crack."
For the first time, his composure faltered — barely, but enough.
He bowed.
"Your Highness, I only advise: don't disappear.Stay in sight. The unseen woman becomes the blamed woman."
He left with the thunder.
Aditya emerged from the darkness.
They stood facing each other — unsaid truths hanging between them like monsoon mist.
"You were going to leave," he said quietly.
Her eyes closed for an instant.
"For the kingdom. For Samrat. For peace."
"For sacrifice," he whispered.
She did not deny it.
Lightning washed the hall in white. Rain roared like drums. For a heartbeat their hands nearly met — then duty fell between them like an iron gate.
"Guard him," she said.
"I will guard you," he answered.
In the days that followed, Arthur's presence thickened like fog.
He met with merchants.He met with priests.He met with rebels pretending not to be rebels.
He smiled at Samrat as one smiles at a young prince.
He underestimated him — a dangerous mistake.
For Samrat, beneath his youth, carried fire.
He began to see clearly what power meant when shadowed by foreign hands. The crown he would wear was now heavier than gold — it carried chains invisible but real.
He trained longer with the sword.He listened longer in court.He watched Anushka with eyes full of unspoken fear — fear not of enemies, but of losing his entire world when she left.
And still, he didn't know.
The city spoke.
The British are tightening control.Taxes will rise.Soldiers will march.The Resident will become the ruler in all but name.
And one rumor spread softly like poison:
"The Queen Regent has made a pact with them."
Anushka heard it first from the palace maidens.
It didn't matter that it was false.
Lies in kingdoms are like oil in water — impossible to separate completely once spilled.
Her dream from the previous nights returned — the shadow over the throne, the faceless accuser, the silent scream. Perhaps the shadow had a name now:
Arthur Hawthorne
The second act of destiny unfurled not with war cries, but with documents, whispered alliances, glances across courtrooms, and nights without sleep.
The New British Resident had arrived.
He did not bring cannon.
He brought something far more dangerous:
Influence.
He brought a smile polished like a blade.
He brought interest in Anushka Devi that was not simply political — it was strategic fascination, the way spies admire fortresses they plan to test.
He brought trouble.
And in the quiet depths of the palace, as lamps burned low and distant thunder rolled, Anushka whispered to herself:
"Two moons left…"
Two moons before coronation.Two moons before departure.Two moons before everything she built might collapse — or survive because she walked away.
Outside, the Resident reviewed yet another report under candlelight, pen scratching slowly across parchment.
"Subject of primary importance:The Regent Queen — must not be allowed to leave."
The monsoon clouds pressed low over Rajgarh the next morning, heavy as unspoken oaths.
The court assembled early; word had spread like wildfire through spice markets and palace corridors alike—the new British Resident would present himself formally at the durbar. Banners were newly dusted, floors polished to mirrors, pearls pinning silk curtains motionless against the humid air.
But the stillness was deceptive.
Beneath it pulsed fear.
And calculation.
And the Benefactor's shadow.
The Resident Arrives
The bugles cut through the heavy morning air.
Boots clicked in military precision.
A column of red coats entered the palace quadrangle, rifles glinting. Elephants were draped in cloth-of-gold; horses snorted and pawed at the stones. At their head rode the new British Resident—a tall man, hawk-nosed, with icy blue eyes that did not smile when his lips did.
Sir Arthur Hawthorne.
He surveyed everything as though he already owned it.
His eyes paused—lingered—at the balcony where Anushka Devi stood beside Samrat Veer.
His gaze sharpened.
As if he recognized something.
As if embroidery patterns in court veils could reveal revolution.
Anushka did not flinch.
Her spine was straight, her expression serene, but beneath her silks a storm churned—her secret child, the ticking measure of two moons, the echoing chant in her mind:
I must leave before four moons pass…
Samrat felt the faintest tremble in her hand.
He squeezed it.
She did not look at him, but the pressure of his fingers anchored her like a prayer.
Hawthorne dismounted and bowed with precise politeness that held no humility.
"Your Majesty. Your Royal Highness."
His voice was low and smooth, rehearsed diplomacy wrapped around iron.
Samrat studied him with a warrior's intuition.
Anushka studied him with a strategist's.
The court watched the three of them, breath held—as though the fate of Rajgarh itself balanced there in the silent space between first greetings.
Private Audience
Formality concluded, the Resident was granted a private council.
The doors closed.
Outside, whispers spun like dust devils. Inside, silence again became a weapon.
Sir Arthur Howthorne placed a sealed packet upon the council table.
"Her Majesty's Government sends terms," he said calmly. "For greater cooperation. Trade expansion. Military 'assistance.'"
The word meant control.
Everyone knew it.
The ministers exchanged nervous glances. The Regent Queen Mother narrowed her eyes. Samrat's jaw set hard.
Then Hawthorne said lightly:
"And naturally… oversight. Rajgarh is strategically placed. We prefer… loyal friends."
The word prefer fell like a veiled threat.
Anushka spoke for the first time.
Her English was flawless.
Polished London diction. Court-school precision. Velvet wrapped around steel.
"Rajgarh," she said coolly, "has always been a loyal ally where loyalty is earned."
A ripple went through the room.
Several ministers stared.
They had not known, not truly, how educated she was.
Howthorne's eyes glowed with interest—and something darker.
"So," he mused, "the Crown Princess speaks our language."
Anushka smiled faintly.
"The Crown Princess," she replied, "speaks many."
But in her heart, words beat beneath those calm replies:
You have taken too much already from Hindustan.
You will not take this kingdom.
You will not take my child's future.
Howthorne leaned back.
He saw something dangerous in her—something beyond jewels and delicate wrists. Something that would not bend easily.
He was not wrong.
He just did not yet know that the woman who stood before him as dutiful consort was also the Benefactor of Rajgarh—
—the unseen hand building underground routes
—the patron of secret schools
—the voice moving through whispers and letters at midnight
—the architect of resistance maps
—the shadow even spies feared.
The Spy's Remnant Web
The recently captured British spy had left behind threads.
Invisible threads.
And the Benefactor tugged them now, quietly.
In a hidden chamber of the palace—a storeroom no longer used, its carved doors thick with dust—hooded figures waited.
A cloak entered.
The Benefactor.
She did not speak.
She never did.
The man behind her spoke instead, voice disguised:
"The Resident has arrived. Our work accelerates."
A low murmur rose.
Maps were unrolled.
Routes beneath the city walls
old wells leading to unused passages
merchant caravans that would smuggle messages
coded songs that children could sing without suspicion.
And something else.
A sealed letter prepared in royal hand
bearing no crest
only a pressed marigold petal.
For Bengal.
For safety.
For home.
The Benefactor's gloved hand lingered over the map of Rajgarh—a city she both ruled and protected in masks.
Her other hand drifted instinctively to her abdomen.
A pulse of worry.
The pain had grown more frequent.
The physician's warning echoed:
Too much strain… too much cold rain…
But she could not stop.
Not with the Empire tightening its grip.
Not with ministers plotting.
Not with the Resident now watching from every curtain.
Her voice remained silent.
But her resolve roared.
Samrat Veer was not blind.
He saw how Anushka vanished some nights.
Saw the fatigue under her kohl-lined eyes.
Saw the pallor growing in her cheeks.
Saw her body weaken and her will burn brighter.
He feared—
not infidelity
not treason
—but loss.
He found her that evening on the palace terrace beneath oil lamps and jasmine vines, the sky streaked violet-black above them.
"Anushka."
She did not turn immediately.
He stepped forward, wrapped his shawl around her shoulders against the cool breeze.
"You are carrying something alone," he said quietly.
Her breath hitched.
Not the child—not that secret—
but the weight of the world she could not share.
"If I told you everything," she whispered, "the crown would be threatened."
He laughed softly, bitterly.
"I am the crown."
She closed her eyes.
"For how long?" she murmured.
The words chilled him.
Lightning split the clouds.
Thunder rolled.
And between heartbeats, fear took root in him—the sense that time was slipping out from between their fingers like river water.
He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"Whatever storms come, you do not face them alone."
She wanted to tell him everything in that moment.
She nearly did.
The Benefactor.
The letters.
The maps.
The leaving.
The child.
Her lips trembled.
But duty sealed them again.
Lightning faded.
She rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the drum of his heart, and his arms locked around her as though trying to hold back fate itself.
The Resident Watches
From a distant balcony of the guest wing, Sir Arthur Howthorne watched the royal couple silhouetted against the storm.
He did not see love.
He saw leverage.
He turned to his aide.
"The Princess," he said softly, "will be the key."
"To what, sir?"
His thin smile sharpened.
"To everything."
When the palace slept, the Benefactor did not.
A coded message slipped into the hands of a spice vendor.
A secret courier rode by moonlight.
A minister loyal to the nation—not to the crown—received instructions in silence.
An operation would begin.
Documents would be replaced.
Records altered.
Funds shifted from British-led trade routes into underground resistance.
Everything pointed toward preparation.
Preparation for what the Resident did not yet suspect.
Preparation for the Crown Regent's coronation.
And for departure.
Two moons.
Two moons to reshape Rajgarh.
Two moons to safeguard Samrat.
Two moons to save the unborn child.
The British Resident's First Move
Pembroke requested another council.
He spoke softly, but each word was a blade.
"Her Majesty's Government requires new tariffs. Stronger military presence. A stationed regiment within palace grounds."
Samrat's hand curled into a fist.
"No."
Pembroke blinked once.
He had expected negotiation, not defiance.
"Consider carefully," he said. "Empires do not… request twice."
Anushka's voice slipped through the tension, calm as still water hiding depth:
"Empires also fall."
The room froze.
Her eyes were gentle.
Her meaning was not.
Howthorne smiled without warmth.
"We shall see," he whispered.
A king newly crowned yet watched by illness and intrigue.
A queen who was a shadow and a torch at once.
A child not yet born but already at the center of history.
A Resident whose arrival was not diplomacy
but invasion wearing polished boots.
Above them, the monsoon broke at last.
Rain smashed into the palace roofs.
Lightning flared.
The throne room darkened for a heartbeat.
And in that heartbeat, it felt as though someone unseen had moved a decisive piece on the board.
The game had begun in earnest.