Night did not fall upon Rajgarh so much as it descended ceremonially, as if even darkness needed permission to enter a palace of such ancient pride.
Lamps were lit along the marble balustrades, lines of diyas stretching like rivers of flame that flowed through corridors and courtyards. The sky above shimmered with scattered stars, while the moon—thin and curved like a warrior's blade—hung over Simhasana-Mahal in silent benediction.
The Golden Durbar had dissolved into echo and memory, but its words remained alive within the palace walls, whispering along tapestries and gliding beneath arches like invisible wind.
Servants padded softly. Eunuchs in silk hurried messages through hidden passages. Veiled ladies drifted toward the inner palace—the Zenana, that mysterious world where destiny often began its journey long before men on thrones believed they commanded it.
There, behind screens of sandalwood lattice and curtains perfumed with attar of roses, another kingdom existed—one unseen by the world, yet powerful enough to tilt the earth beneath it.
It was here the night's true drama would unfold.
Within the Queen Regent's Chambers
The chambers of Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Queen Regent, were carved like the inside of a jewel box. Murals of gods and heroes danced along the walls, painted in colours so vivid that the figures seemed poised to step from the plaster into life. Ivory lamps cast a honeyed glow, touching fabrics of brocade and silk that flowed around the chamber like still water.
The Queen sat upon a carved divan, her emerald saree falling in regal folds, her every movement imbued with the grace of discipline honed through power. Attendants fanned her lightly with peacock-feather fans. Nearby, incense smouldered in a brass burner, coiling up in pale ribbons that seemed intent on carrying secrets to the heavens.
Before her stood her daughter, Rajkumari Mrinalini, clad in purple, posture straight, eyes limpid but deep.
"Come closer, my child," the Queen Regent said softly.
The princess obeyed.
"For many, today was spectacle," Aishvarya Devi continued, "but for those born to the kula of kings, every spectacle is a map. Tell me what you saw."
Mrinalini folded her hands in modesty—yet her gaze sharpened like a blade beneath silk.
"I saw," she began, voice low and musical, "that the British Resident smiled too long when Father spoke of freedom. A snake shows its fangs not in anger, Mother—but in amusement."
The Queen Regent's lips curved almost imperceptibly.
"And within the family?" she asked.
Mrinalini's lashes lowered a moment.
"I saw the Crown Prince's wife," she said, "and I could not see through her."
Aishvarya Devi's brows rose slightly.
"Could not?"
"No," the princess murmured. "She is like still water in a deep well. One may stare for long and see only one's reflection."
The Queen Regent rested her fingers lightly upon her chin.
"She is from Bengal," she said slowly. "A land of poets who weave revolutions into lullabies, and mothers who stir defiance into milk. She has been trained in the arts of diplomacy since she could walk. Remember this, my daughter: still water is dangerous not because it is calm—but because it hides depth."
The incense smoke curled like a serpent.
"And what did you see in your brothers?" the Queen asked.
Mrinalini replied without hesitation.
"In Aditya Pratap, I saw fire trying to masquerade as iron. He longs for the battlefield as a moth longs for flame. In Samrat Veer, the Crown Prince, I saw a heart that wishes to please too many masters—love, father, kingdom, wife. That way lies fracture. And in Aarav," she added faintly smiling, "I saw wind trying to wear the costume of storm. He wishes to be taken seriously without yet understanding the price of weight."
The Queen Regent nodded slowly.
"You observe well, my child."
Then her tone cooled.
"But observation alone is not enough. You are no court-flower meant to wilt behind curtains. You must learn to move pieces upon the rajya-chaturanga—the grand chessboard of the kingdom."
Mrinalini bowed her head.
"I shall, Mother."
The Queen Regent's gaze softened for a fleeting instant.
"I do not seek power for vanity," she said quietly. "I seek to preserve the throne your forefathers shed blood to raise. The British Raj stretches long shadows—and within those shadows, princes can be turned into puppets. I will not permit it. If I must be the serpent coiled beneath the throne to guard it, then so be it."
The princess felt a chill that was not unpleasant.
"And the Queen Consort?" she asked delicately.
Aishvarya Devi's eyes hardened.
"Lalima," she said, not unkindly yet not gently, "is a lotus. Beautiful. Fragrant. And too trusting of sunlight. But the world is not made of ponds alone. It is made of storms."
The incense wavered as if bowing to the truth of her words.
Within the Queen Consort's Chambers
Elsewhere in the palace, amid walls painted with cranes and lotuses, Maharani Lalima Devi, the Queen Consort, sat amidst her ladies. The pink silk of her saree gleamed softly under lamplight. Her chamber was gentler, more musical, less severe—strewn with sitars, carpets, embroidery frames left midway through floral motifs.
She held the hand of her daughter, Rajkumari Charumati, whose red saree seemed almost aflame in the warm lampglow.
"You looked resplendent today, my jewel," Lalima Devi said fondly, pressing a kiss upon her daughter's forehead. "The court whispered of your grace."
Charumati smiled softly.
"Let them whisper of Rajgarh's strength instead, Mother," she replied. "Jasmine fades. Kingdoms must not."
Lalima's eyes moistened.
"Ah, you speak like your father," she said tenderly. "Always of duty, always of land. But I… I fear not for the kingdom alone, my child. I fear for my children within it."
Charumati's voice softened.
"You worry for Rudra and for me."
"For all of you," Lalima whispered. "So many currents flow beneath this palace floor. A smile here hides envy, a blessing there hides a blade.
Even between queens of the same house, affection is woven with rivalry. And the British—" she shuddered— "they play with hearts and crowns like a child with painted toys."
"Mother," Charumati said gently, "Father is strong."
"Yes," Lalima whispered, "but he is still mortal. And the throne draws storms."
She fell silent for a moment, then added,
"And yet, amidst all this, your sister-by-marriage, the Crown Princess… she intrigues me."
Charumati's eyes lit with curiosity.
"Yuvrani Anushka?"
"Yes. She moves with humility, but it is the humility of one who chooses to bow, not of one accustomed to being beneath. Her words are soft, her laughter rare… yet her gaze weighs rooms."
Charumati thought back to the durbar.
She remembered the faint smile that had crossed Anushka's lips when the Maharaja had defied the British Resident, a smile like a secret flame behind temple lattice.
"I like her," Charumati said.
Lalima stroked her hair.
"So do I," she replied, though her voice carried a tremor. "And that is what frightens me the most."
The Crown Prince and His Wife
The chambers of the Crown Prince overlooked the moonlit gardens, where fountains whispered silver and jasmine spilled its fragrance into the air like a benediction. Fireflies drifted lazily, glowing like fragments of fallen stars.
Rajkumar Samrat Veer stood by the balcony, his purple robes billowing gently in the night breeze. His sword leaned against the wall; he had removed his turban, and his hair now fell free around his shoulders, making him look younger, less like a prince sculpted for thrones, more like a man carved for love and song.
Behind him, seated by the low table where crystal lamps flickered, was Yuvrani Anushka Devi.
She poured wine into two goblets, her movements unhurried, controlled, graceful as choreography.
"My lord," she said softly, "thou standest as if the moon were a question."
He turned, smiling faintly.
"And thou sittest as if the world were an answer," he replied.
She extended the goblet to him. He took it, their fingers brushing—a fleeting touch that sent a tremor through him like the vibration of a plucked sitar string.
"The durbar troubled thee," she observed.
He laughed lightly.
"Nothing is hidden from those eyes," he said. "Yes. My heart is burdened. My father's words resound within me: 'Better the pyre than the yoke.' Yet I must also think of lives, of blood spilt beneath banners. How does a man serve both dharma and peace?"
She watched him over the rim of her cup, her expression serene.
"Peace," she said, "is not the absence of chains, my lord. Sometimes, it is merely the silence of those too tired to rattle them."
He drank, thinking.
"The British squeeze our lands," he murmured. "Our people suffer. Yet war—"
"War," she finished, "is a fire that purifies or destroys, depending on whose hand controls the spark."
The breeze stirred a bell somewhere in the courtyard.
He came closer, taking her hand.
"Tell me," he said gently, "does my Rani believe I am strong enough to rule?"
She looked at him—not at the prince, not at the heir, but at the man.
"Strength," she said softly, "is not in how loud one roars. It lies in knowing when to purr and when to devour."
He laughed again, warmed by what he thought encouragement.
She allowed herself a smile.
Inside, something far older than affection stirred.
Not hatred.
Not greed.
Purpose.
The Eldest Son
In the barracks adjoining the palace, torches flickered against stone walls, and the air carried the mingled scents of oil, steel, and sweat. Here dwelt discipline, not drapery; here lived men who had pledged their lives to the royal standard.
Aditya Pratap Singh, in his white uniform, stood alone in the training courtyard beneath the moon. He swung his sword in arcs of silver light, each stroke a vow etched into the night.
He paused only when his aide approached.
"Yuvraj," the soldier said respectfully, "the hour grows late."
Aditya Pratap wiped his blade with a cloth, sheathed it, and stared at the palace rising like a dream of marble.
"Late?" he murmured. "For soldiers of the rajya, dawn and doom are the only hours that matter."
The aide hesitated.
"Did the Durbar go as my lord wished?"
Aditya's jaw tightened.
"My wishes are irrelevant," he said flatly. "The Crown rests upon my brother, not upon me."
There was no bitterness in his voice.
Worse.
There was silence.
"He is a good man," the aide said softly.
"Yes," Aditya replied. "Too good for the world that awaits him."
His hand tightened unconsciously upon the hilt.
"I was born to the sword," he said. "He was born to diplomacy. But the world that approaches is not one of diplomacy—it is one of bayonets and thrones trembling upon their legs."
He glanced upward again, toward a single light still burning in the Crown Prince's balcony.
"And he," Aditya murmured, "trusts too easily."
He did not yet know how fatally right he was.
The Youngest Son
Meanwhile, the youngest prince Aarav sneaked through corridors barefoot, dodging guards and giggling eunuchs, clutching a mango he had pilfered from the kitchen like a pirate with treasure. He darted past pillars and ducked behind curtains until he reached the rooftop terrace—his favourite place in the world.
There he flopped onto cool stone and bit into the mango, juice running down his chin, as the stars spun above like a gleaming mandala.
He wasn't thinking of thrones.
Or British empire.
He was thinking of how elephants looked like mountains that had decided to walk, and whether princesses in fairy tales ever climbed trees.
He did not yet know that one day fate would demand of him something far darker than mischief.
For now, the night belonged to mangoes and stars.
The Woman Behind the Veil
In her private chamber, after servants had withdrawn and curtains had been drawn, Yuvrani Anushka Devi extinguished the last lamp by hand, allowing darkness to claim the room. Only a single window admitted silver light, casting bars of shadow across the floor.
She sat before a small ornate chest.
Slowly, reverently, she opened it.
Inside lay not jewels.
Not letters of love.
Not feminine trinkets.
Maps.
Dispatches.
Coded messages.
List of British supply routes.
Names of sympathisers in Calcutta.
Reports of uprisings in tea plantations.
Lists of secret societies: Anushilan Samiti, Jugantar, whispers of Bengal's restless soul.
She unfolded a letter written in a hand unknown to Rajgarh, but very familiar to Bengal's underground.
"The lion sleeps in Rajgarh. The tiger waits in Bengal. When they hunt together, the empire shall bleed."
A candle flared to life between her fingers.
Her eyes burned with its twin flame.
"Soon," she whispered, the softness stripped from her voice like silk torn from steel. "Soon the map will change."
She traced Rajgarh and Bengal with a single fingertip, then slowly brought them together.
"Not as vassals," she breathed, "but as Dharmapuriya. A kingdom reborn in justice and forged in fire."
She rolled the maps back into the chest and closed it gently.
Then she rose, crossed the chamber, and looked out at the moonlit palace sprawling in regal innocence.
They slept.
They dreamt.
They trusted her.
Her lips curved.
"Sleep well, my beloved family," she murmured to the night. "For dawn is patient—but destiny is not."
Far away, in the barracks, Aditya Pratap practiced with tireless precision.
In the Zenana, two queens plotted in different languages of love and fear.
On the terrace, a boy laughed with stars.
On the throne, an aging lion rested with unyielding pride.
History leaned forward.
It had smelled blood in the jasmine.