The entire court shimmered in anticipation.

The royal courtyard of Devgarh had been turned into a field of gold and crimson—marigold garlands strung from every arch, silk flags dancing from sandstone columns, rose petals crushed beneath embroidered sandals, leaving a soft perfume hanging in the heat. Drums thrummed like a heartbeat beneath the palace stones. Conches sang across the courtyard.

And at the heart of it all stood us.

Rajmata Veermati Devi, serene in ivory Benarasi, jeweled hands folded with eternal grace. Rudransh, tall beside her, wrapped in deep indigo and silver, eyes distant and unreadable.

And me—Shivanya Rathore—unwanted but unbroken, standing at the Queen's right, draped in crimson silk and tiger-eyed silence.

I wasn't here as a guest.
I was here as a statement. But I stood tall. I would not shift. I would not blink. Not today. Then came the sound.

The soft jingle of royal horses, the slow roll of wheels, the rising hush of anticipation.

The golden chariot rolled into the courtyard like a memory from a forgotten epic. Four white mares draped in brocade and bells pulled the sunlit carriage across the stone with perfect symmetry. The silk curtains fluttered, then parted.

And she emerged—

Rajkumaari Meersha of Amarvaan.

She was dressed in sea-glass blue, a hue too pale for dust, too delicate for war. Her lehenga shimmered with silver vines, her neck heavy with uncut emeralds that blinked green fire when touched by sunlight. Her posture was elegance personified, her gaze sharpened like a sculptor's blade.

She didn't walk.
She glided.

Her presence pulled every eye.

She bowed to the court with a slow, practiced grace—head held high, eyes lowered just enough to suggest humility without ever feeling it.

The ministers watched with soft smiles. The generals nodded with respect. The maids stilled their hands to stare.

And then her gaze lifted—to us.

She saw Rajmata—and her smile turned warm, reverent. She stepped forward, arms outstretched, eyes shining with affection.

"Rajmata," she said, her voice honeyed, "this palace still smells of sandalwood and secrets."

Rajmata embraced her, both hands holding her cheeks with the affection of a mother and monarch. "And you still light it like the first morning lamp, child."

The crowd sighed at the reunion.

Next—her eyes landed on Rudransh.
She stopped. Not for effect. Not fully.

But the pause was there.

"Rudransh," she said. "Still impossible to read."

Rudransh inclined his head. "Still trying to read me, Meersha?"

Her smile twitched. "No. I gave that up when we were sixteen, and you beat me at swordplay by 'accident'."

"You insisted we fight without guards," he said, tone light. "I obliged."

"You nearly dislocated my wrist."

"You dislocated my nose the next week."

That pulled a ripple of laughter from the audience.

Their banter felt... familiar. But cold. Distant. Like leafing through old letters one barely remembers writing.

Still, she smiled at him. "You've grown into your silence."

And Rudransh answered, "And you've grown into everything but it."

Meersha's lashes lowered for a beat. Not insulted. Not offended.
Simply marked.

Then she looked at me.

Rajmata turned slightly. "This is Rajkumari Shivanya Rathore of Rajgarh. She—"

"My wife," Rudransh said, voice smooth, final.

Meersha blinked.
Not confusion. Not surprise. Something smaller. Flickering behind her eyes.

"A pleasure," she said after a beat. Her bow was shallow.

Her eyes skimmed me, cataloging the crimson lehenga, the pearls, the unbent spine I carried like a blade.

"You wear Devgarh's colours well, Rajkumaari," she said sweetly.
"Though they burn easier than Amarvaan's."

"Only if the fire is real," I replied softly. "I don't burn for silk."

Something flickered. A smile without joy. A nod without meaning.

Rudransh sighed under his breath. "God. Not even five minutes..."

And then—salvation or chaos—Yugveer arrived.

Draped in gold and sarcasm, he bowed with exaggerated flair.

"Rajkumaari Meersha. Amarvaan's moon, Devgarh's blessing, and my personal heartbreak."

Meersha raised a brow. "Still charming and flirty, Yugveer?"

He clutched his chest. "flirty? I only flirt with beautiful princess "

Rudransh rolled his eyes. "He was last seen flirting with the Royal Kitchen's maid."

Yugveer gasped. "Aree, she cooked dal-bati-churma with divinity! I would have married her if not for the ghee taxes."

The court broke into laughter.
Even Rudransh smirked.

I... did not.

Because I noticed things others didn't. Like how Meersha took her place beside Rajmata without hesitation. Like how the courtiers turned toward her without being asked. Like how she fit into the palace rhythm without missing a step.

She had the history. The roots. The comfort of belonging.

But Rudransh never turned to her fully. He stood beside her, yes—but when she leaned in to whisper something light, his body remained still.

When she smiled at him, his smile was faint. Polite. Dust on stone.
And once—just once—when no one looked, his eyes strayed.

To me.

Just a flicker. But long enough. Long enough to undo every thought I'd just convinced myself to believe.

She has the palace.
But I... I have his storms.

Royal private chamber

The corridor outside her chamber was quiet, lit by flickering diyas nestled in carved alcoves. The air was thick with the faint smell of mogra and something older—grief that had lingered too long.

The guards stationed outside bowed low as the crown prince approached, but Rudransh Singh Chandravansh didn't so much as glance at them. His stride was steady, silent. His hand pushed the ornate door open without pause or permission.

The room inside was dark, save for the moonlight spilling through the jharokhas.
And there she was.

Samragyi.

Seated cross-legged near the arched balcony, her forehead gently resting against the stone lattice, eyes distant, skin pale. She wore plain ivory muslin, no jewels, no makeup. Yet somehow, even in her stripped-down form, she looked regal. Grief hadn't stolen her posture—only her light.
Rudra didn't speak.

He simply walked forward, folded his legs, and sat beside her in the silence. The sheer edge of her dupatta fluttered in the night breeze. She didn't turn. But she felt him.

"You came," she whispered. "I was beginning to believe... no one would."

His jaw clenched lightly. When he spoke, his voice was low—meant only for her.
"I was busy in court works"
"Your brother would never leave you alone, Samragyi. Not even if the entire world walks away."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Just a flicker. Then quiet again. Like two shadows breathing together in the dimness.

The moonlight pooled over her face now—pale silver against grief-struck skin. Her eyes looked haunted. Empty. Like the girl who once loved to sing to birds had drowned somewhere inside.

And then, without turning:

"She is here."

He stilled.

"Who?" he asked, though he already knew.

"His sister," she murmured. "The one who shattered me."

She didn't say the name.She didn't need to.
"Rajkumaari Shivanya Rathore," she said, voice a low tremor. "Your wife."

Rudransh turned slightly, his profile stiffening in the dark.

"Samragyi..."

But she faced him now. Finally. Eyes wide, lips trembling, heartbreak flooding every edge of her being.

"Why, bhai-sa? Why her? Why the sister of the man who left me behind like I was dust? He didn't just abandon me, bhai-sa... he abandoned love. He played with my heart—lied, promised a life, and then gave it to someone else. And you... you gave his sister a place in our home?"

Rudransh's expression didn't waver—but something flickered beneath it. Pain. Rage. Guilt. Loyalty. He inhaled, the breath sharp in his lungs. But his voice—controlled.

"This isn't a marriage, Samragyi."

"Then what is it?" she asked, voice cracking.

He looked directly at her now. His eyes cold. Sharp. Royal.

"It is the beginning of a war."

She blinked, stunned. Rudransh's jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists on his knees.

"You think I brought her here because of love? No, Samragyi. I didn't marry her to make her my bride. I married her to make her remember."

"Remember what?" she asked, barely breathing.

"That her bloodline carries the shame of your tears."

Samragyi's lips parted, a silent gasp. He continued, each word razor-edged.

"She may not have hurt you herself. But she carries his shadow. And I... I will not let that shadow fall on you again without a consequence."

"But bhai-sa... she's his sister—she isn't him. She—"

"I don't care," he cut her off gently but firmly. "She's his sister. Veer—the man who once lived in your eyes. The man you wrote letters to, prayed for, dreamt of. The one who made you believe in forever... and left you with silence."

Her eyes welled again.
"He left me alone bhai-sa. But I never cursed him. Not once."

He reached forward then and took her hand. His grip was warm. Protective. Unyielding.

"That's why I curse for you. You deserve softness. But I'll carry the blade."

She broke down now. Her shoulders shook as the pain she'd hidden poured out. Rudra didn't speak. He just held her closer.

"One day," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "Shivanya Rathore will kneel before the same grief that shattered you. Her eyes will burn with the same fire. She'll feel what you felt... when your love became betrayal."

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"You've changed, bhai-sa..."

He nodded slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"When time changes... stories don't stay the same. And I'm not a character in this one anymore, Samragyi. I'm the one writing it now."

They sat in silence, the wind — whispering around them. Then he murmured almost to himself, his voice dark as a prophecy:

"Those who play with fire... eventually must burn in it."

Then he said to her softly
"Rajkumaari from Amarvaan had arrive today. If you feel right then come and meet her. "

"She came?" She asked with soft voice.
He just nodded.

"I'll come after some days" She said in low voice.

He didn't argue. He just gave soft node. And get up to leave the chamber.

Rudransh stormed out of Samragyi's chamber, his boots slamming against the cold marble with the force of an earthquake. Echoes roared behind him, shadows retreating as if fearful of the wrath dancing in his stride. The corridor outside her kaksh—once a tranquil path lit with gentle diyas and soft tapestries—shuddered under his presence.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as if rage itself weighed down his limbs.

The anger he had kept leashed for days now clawed through his blood like wildfire—howling, untamed, blinding. The pain in his sister's eyes had cracked something ancient inside him. A soft, delicate hurt twisted into steel-edged fury.

One name burned across his chest like a brand:

Veer.

The traitor.
The coward.
The man who had once dared to look at his sister with love—only to leave her drowning in disgrace.

Rudransh hissed under his breath, his jaw grinding. His voice was low but venomous, slicing through the stillness like a sword unsheathed.

He had trusted that man. Fought beside him once at the Vastragarh border. He even laughed with him.And yet—when it mattered most—Veer had vanished. Without warning. Without a word. Without looking back.

Samragyi, who once wore her pride like armor, now flinched at whispers in the corridors. Her voice trembled whenever she smiled.

A man who loves does not abandon.
A man who loves protects. Fights. Claims.

Veer had done none of that.

Rudransh's hands curled into fists, veins thick along his forearms. His rings bit into his skin, drawing blood he did not notice. It dripped once onto the pale marble, then vanished beneath the rich folds of his angrakha.

He passed the last flickering diya in the corridor. The flames guttered and shrank. The walls darkened around him, as if the very palace held its breath. No guards followed him now. He needed none. The fire in his chest would burn down any man who dared to approach.

He strode deeper into the palace, through the hall of lattice screens, past the silver inlay columns and sleeping tapestries. The grandeur of Devgarh—its silks and sandalwood, its velvet silence and disciplined guards—felt like mockery in this moment.

Samragyi wept alone in that chamber.

And the man responsible for it... Will walk back into this palace soon.

He turned a corner and descended the stairs two at a time, his hair half-loose now, strands clinging to his cheek from the sweat of fury. His dhoti had come slightly undone from the waist. He didn't care. Everything inside him was chaos.

His mind hurled backward—to the first time he had seen his sister with Veer. Their laughter in the garden. The way she had smiled when Veer touched her wrist, pretending to brush off a gnat. He should have noticed it then. Stopped it before it bloomed.

But no, he had thought. Veer is loyal.

Fool.

Rudransh's breath grew heavier with every step.

He remembered the day Veer left. A horse saddled before the sun rose. No farewells. No explanations. Just a letter for Samragyi.

"I'll come back, wait for me"

Wait my foot!

In this one year many marriage proposal came.
She had refused them all. "I will not marry to anyone bhai-sa." she had whispered. "Even if he'll never come back."

That whisper haunted him more than any scream ever could. He kicked open the final door.

And stopped.

The breath caught in his throat—not from rage, but from the sight in front of him.

Her.

Shivanya.

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