Chapter One: The Weight of Two Lives
The palace of Varunadesh did not wake suddenly.
It breathed awake.
Long corridors of polished stone caught the early morning light and held it gently, as if afraid to disturb the silence. Tall teakwood doors stood open, allowing the sea breeze to pass through the palace like a familiar guest. From somewhere beyond the eastern gardens came the low sound of temple bells—measured, respectful, unhurried. The Arabian Sea lay far enough to be unseen, but close enough to be felt in the air, in the salt, in the rhythm of life itself.
At the center of this world lived Prince Aryavardhan Varma, the only son of Maharaja Rudradev Varma of Varunadesh.
At fifteen, he already carried himself with an unsettling calm.
He sat cross-legged on the marble floor of the palace library, a thick book resting open on his lap—not a religious text, not poetry, but an English volume on mechanical systems. The book was older than he was, its pages yellowed, its margins crowded with handwritten notes. He read without moving his lips, his dark eyes steady, absorbing information the way dry land absorbs rain.
Across from him, his tutor hesitated.
"Your Highness," the man finally said, carefully, "that chapter is meant for university students."
Aryavardhan looked up.
Not sharply. Not arrogantly. Just… directly.
"I know," he said. "But the author's assumptions are wrong."
The tutor blinked. "Wrong?"
"He assumes friction losses are constant," Aryavardhan replied, turning the book slightly and tapping a diagram. "They aren't. They fluctuate with temperature and material fatigue. If you apply this design to ship engines, efficiency drops after prolonged use."
The tutor swallowed.
He had been teaching princes for twenty years. He had taught obedience, etiquette, memorization. He had never taught this.
"I… see," the tutor said weakly.
Aryavardhan closed the book and stood, brushing imaginary dust from his kurta. "We can discuss it later. Father will be waiting."
Maharaja Rudradev Varma watched his son from the balcony without calling out to him.
The boy crossed the courtyard below with measured steps, greeting guards by name, pausing briefly to ask an old gardener about his wife's health. He did not rush. He never rushed. Even at fifteen, he moved like someone who understood time better than others.
Rudradev felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the strange mix of pride and unease.
God has been too generous, he thought.
Aryavardhan was not merely intelligent. He was unnervingly aware. He remembered figures after hearing them once. He noticed patterns in trade reports that seasoned ministers missed. He asked questions that had no easy answers—and worse, sometimes provided those answers himself.
The British Resident had once laughed and said,
"Your son thinks like an administrator already."
Rudradev had smiled politely.
Inside, he had prayed.
That afternoon, the palace buzzed with preparation.
A minor inspection of warehouses was scheduled—routine, ceremonial, meant to reassure British officials that Varunadesh remained cooperative. Aryavardhan had insisted on accompanying his father, asking precise questions about port logistics, storage losses, transport delays.
"You should be studying," Rudradev had said.
"I am," Aryavardhan had replied calmly. "Just not from books."
They walked through the western storage wing of the palace complex, where old records and equipment were kept—maps, machinery parts, ledgers from decades past. The building was older than the palace itself, its roof supported by thick wooden beams darkened by time.
Dust hung in the air.
Aryavardhan paused near a stack of old crates, eyes drawn upward.
"Father," he said slowly, "these supports haven't been replaced in—"
The sound cut through the air like a gunshot.
A sharp crack.
Then a thunderous collapse.
One of the upper beams gave way.
There was no time to move.
Something heavy—wood, stone, memory—came crashing down.
Pain exploded behind Aryavardhan's eyes.
The world tilted, shattered, disappeared.
He fell.
And with the fall—
Everything came back.
He was drowning.
Not in water, but in time.
Images tore through his mind without order or mercy:
A city street. A truck's horn. A child frozen in fear.
A body flying sideways.
The sound of metal meeting bone.
Darkness.
Then more.
Hospitals. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic.
News headlines.
Nuclear tests.
Maps.
Borders drawn and redrawn.
Wars.
Missed chances.
He felt himself die.
And then—
He felt himself remember.
Not as a child.
Not slowly.
But all at once.
Aryavardhan Varma screamed.
But no sound came out.
He saw two lives overlaying each other—one from the future, one from the past—perfectly aligned and violently incompatible.
This is not my India.
The thought cut through the chaos like a blade.
This India had kingdoms that history books had erased.
This India had an empire called Varunadesh that had never existed—yet stood here, breathing, wealthy, powerful.
This India had British support and underground revolution funding happening at the same time.
He remembered learning about the Nizam.
He remembered statistics.
And now he knew.
Varunadesh was second only to Hyderabad in wealth.
And it was his.
When Aryavardhan woke, the ceiling above him was unfamiliar.
Carved lotus patterns. Gold inlay. Oil lamps flickering softly.
His head throbbed.
"Slowly," a voice said. "Easy, my son."
Father.
The word landed differently now.
Rudradev Varma sat beside the bed, worry etched deep into his face. The strongest ruler on the western coast looked suddenly old.
"A beam collapsed," Rudradev said. "The physicians say you were lucky."
Aryavardhan swallowed.
His mouth was dry.
"How long?" he asked.
Rudradev stiffened.
"You… you remember?"
"Yes," Aryavardhan said.
It was not a lie.
Just not the truth his father expected.
That night, alone in his chamber, Aryavardhan did not sleep.
He sat by the window, staring at the dark sea, his reflection faint in the glass.
Two minds.
One body.
One chance.
He understood economics that had not yet been formalized.
He understood geopolitics that had not yet happened.
He understood that British support was conditional—and temporary.
He understood that independence would come, but chaos would follow.
And worst of all—
He understood that history could be bent, but never without cost.
Aryavardhan Varma, son of a great Hindu king, heir to a coastal empire that should not exist, clenched his fists.
"Alright," he whispered to the night.
"Let's see if India can be made stronger this time."
Far below, the sea answered with a quiet, endless roar.
Just tell me what you want next.