Ruhana's flight touched down in Delhi just before dawn. The next few hours blurred into layovers and polite nods until she finally stepped out into the warm air of—the heart of Magadh.
Her shirt was slightly crumpled from the long flight. Her curly brown hair sat in a messy bun, with a few loose strands dangling on either side of her face, making her look tired but effortlessly fashionable. Her white Stella McCartney sneakers tapped gently on the floor with each step. She looked around until her eyes landed on a man wearing a deep maroon sherwani-style coat with gold embroidery, paired with crisp white churidar trousers and traditional mojari shoes. A vibrant turban with a plume crowned his head, and he held a sign with her name printed elegantly.
She walked toward him, her sleek pink luggage rolling behind her. The man bowed respectfully and immediately took her luggage. Her eyes landed on the badge pinned to his chest, embossed into the fabric: Royal Servant of Magadh, and beneath it in capital letters:' SHYAMAL KAPOOR.'
She gave a nod of acknowledgment, her voice slightly hoarse from jet lag.
Ruhana: "Shyamal ji...?"
She asked to confirm.
Shyamal (respectfully): "Yes, Princess. Welcome to India. Please, this way."
He smiled at her, bowing slightly as he motioned her forward.
Ruhana ruffled her hair, pulling out the messy bun. Her long, curly hair cascaded down her back, reaching her waist as she walked forward. The faint perfume from the night before still clung to her skin.
As she exited the airport gate, blinding flashes erupted in her face. She shielded her eyes, squinting as she adjusted to the harsh light. The paparazzi and media swarmed to capture the moment of the princess's return. To them, celebrities were tools—meant to be used, exploited for money—mere objects.
The guards quickly surrounded Ruhana.
Shyamal (firmly): "Please make way for the car. Dhanyawad."
Ruhana exhaled deeply the moment she slipped into the back seat. The smell of leather, mixed with the sharp coolness of the air conditioning, wrapped around her. She ran her fingers through her damp curls as camera flashes still lit up outside.
She maintained a polite smile and waved goodbye through the tinted window. She had learned young—the power of faces.
Yes, faces. People wore them like clothes. A party face, a subtle face, a nonchalant face.
The car began its journey toward the palace. Ruhana stared out of the window, her eyes drinking in the view with a quiet ache. It filled her with nostalgia. No doubt, this was where she belonged—deep down. Her homeland.
Modern shops stood beside timeworn temples etched in ancient stone. Women's bangles glinted in the sun as they passed bustling vendors arranging colorful trays of spicy street food. Children darted through the crowd. Laughter spilled easily, openly, without restraint—something she rarely saw abroad.
The car passed through the towering palace gates, greeted by the blowing of conch shells and flower petals drifting through the air. Her father's royal court had already assembled in the grand marble hall.
The palace loomed ahead—an architectural wonder of sandstone domes, jharokha windows, and intricate jaali work. The air inside was cool and carried the faint scent of rosewater and sandalwood. Red carpets stretched across the white marble, flanked by massive carved pillars and chandeliers glinting above.
Roses and marigolds rained down on her as she stepped forward. Her father, Maharaj Veerendra Tanshera of Magadh, stood regal in his golden silk angrakha adorned with a carved emerald brooch. His long royal stole with zari embroidery trailed behind him. His salt-and-pepper hair, and his presence commanded awe.
Ruhana bent down to touch his feet—a tradition in India to seek blessings from elders. He smiled and gently placed a hand on her head.
Papa: "Khush rahiye."
He placed a red tilak on her forehead and adorned her with a garland of jasmine.
Papa: "Welcome, beta. We are happy to have you back."
Her grandmother, draped in a deep emerald silk saree with golden borders, stepped forward. Though in her seventies, she radiated grace and retained every inch of her royal stature. She kissed Ruhana's forehead and pulled her into a warm embrace.
Dadi:"There is my favourite poti! I missed you, Ruhi."
A nickname only her grandmother ever called her. Dadi performed a small aarti with a silver thali, the flame flickering gently in the palace air. She then placed a hand lovingly on Ruhana's head.
Ruhana: "Dadi!"
She smiled genuinely—because if there was one person who had mothered her, it was this woman.
They began walking inside as her dadi began to fuss.
Dadi (muttering): "You've gotten so thin and pale, my girl. Wait till I feed you properly."
Ruhana laughed softly, her heart warm.
Her journey had begun again—back where the crown waited. And somewhere in the shadows, danger stirred.