Two years had passed since Queen Vasundhara's death, yet the palace of Vyangadesh still carried the scent of smoke and sorrow. The golden banners that once symbolized pride now hung faded and torn. The gardens had withered; laughter no longer echoed through its marble halls.
King Raghunath sat upon his throne — a seat of jade and gold — but his eyes were dull, ringed with sleepless nights. The ruler who once inspired fear now looked more like a man haunted by ghosts.
Outside the grand hall, the cries of the people echoed faintly. Farmers begged for relief, merchants pleaded against new taxes, and soldiers whispered of unrest along the borders. But none of it reached the king's ears.
Damini made sure of that.
Now draped in the silks of a queen, she moved with quiet confidence, her every step measured. Her beauty was sharp — like a dagger hidden in velvet. Standing beside Raghunath, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"My king," she said softly, her voice dripping with concern. "You mustn't dwell on the past. The people look to you for strength, not sorrow."
Raghunath's fingers tightened on the throne's armrest. "You speak as if it were easy," he muttered. "I see her in my dreams. The blood, the arrow… she still looks at me with those eyes."
Damini's expression softened — practiced pity, not real sympathy. "The dead cannot haunt the living unless the living invite them," she whispered. "You did what was necessary. The kingdom needed order."
He looked at her then — tired, broken, and desperate for reassurance. "Order," he repeated quietly, as if trying to convince himself.
Damini's lips curved slightly. "And now, soon, there will be an heir born from your strength. The gods have not abandoned Vyangadesh."
At that, Raghunath's eyes flickered — a faint light returning. "An heir," he said, almost to himself.
"Yes," Damini said, placing his hand gently upon her stomach. "Your true heir."
The moment was intimate but cold, like a ceremony without warmth. Behind them, the courtiers and nobles watched in silence — some nodding in forced approval, others lowering their eyes. Everyone knew better than to speak of the first queen.
But in hushed corners of the palace, servants whispered at night — that the spirit of Vasundhara still lingered, watching from the shadows, her sorrow woven into the wind.
And far from the palace, in a quiet village under the same moon, a young boy slept peacefully — unaware that the throne he was born to inherit was rotting from within.