The season of monsoon descended upon Rajgarh like a ceremonial cloak. The skies were heavy with swollen clouds, the palace courtyards glistened under the sheen of rain, and the peacocks cried as though they sensed destiny moving behind unseen curtains.
Within the majestic palace of Rajgarh, the air was filled with sandalwood smoke and whispers of politics.
The King—Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj—sat upon the lion-carved simhaasana only for short hours now. The years of rule had tired his bones, and sickness had touched his breath. His eyes were still bright with intelligence and unspoken fire—but his body no longer obeyed the demands of the throne.
Thus stood the true power of the court:
Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Green Queen Regent.
Not by rebellion.Not by hunger for crown.But by decree of the King himself.
Her Mint Green silk sari shimmered as she presided over the Rajya Sabha, the council of ministers, nobles, generals, priests, and emissaries. Jewels glowed upon her brow like captured stars. Yet it was not jewels that made courtiers tremble in reverence.
It was her gaze.
She embodied the old Sanskrit saying:
"A queen need not shout. Her silence is an order."
Today, the storm outside echoed the storm in the court.
The British Resident had sent another letter.
Demanding troops.Demanding grain.Demanding obedience.
The scroll lay upon the golden table before her—its wax seal broken, its tone dripping with arrogance.
Aishvarya Devi rose.
Her voice flowed across the marble hall like silk drawn across steel.
"Rajgarh has been asked," she said, "to bend its knee further than treaties demand. We are summoned to offer our soldiers not to defend our people—but to wage war on behalf of those who call themselves overlords."
Murmurs filled the chamber like restless insects.
The eldest son—Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh, commander of the Armed Guard—stepped forward in red attire, his bearing military, unwavering.
"Pitaji's flag has never bowed," he said."Give the command, Maharani-sa. My forces stand ready. The ashva-sena and pada-sena are trained, armed, and loyal. Let the cannons roar if they must."
The Green Regent turned toward him.
Her tone softened—but authority remained unmoved.
"Aditya," she said, "a sword once drawn carves destiny. War is not a festival of bravery. It is a famine of sons."
He bowed.
But the warrior's fire did not dim from his eyes.
Her gaze then moved to the Crown Prince—the third-born son—Rajkumar Samrat Veer Singh.
Clad in deep royal Blue, elegant yet composed, he watched calmly. He was the one whom fate had set apart—the sole heir by right of first marriage and royal sanction. The court regarded him as prince today, king tomorrow.
"Samrat Veer," she said softly,"what says the future of Rajgarh?"
He folded his hands.
"Rajmata," he replied,"A dynasty does not survive by shouting at thunder. It survives by learning where the lightning will strike."
A faint smile touched Aishvarya Devi's lips.
He inherited her mind.
Aditya Pratap had inherited his father's fire.
Aarav inherited his mother's heart.
She turned next toward the youngest prince.
Rajkumar Aarav, in a Teal kurta, fidgeted with restless energy, his gaze flickering between brothers and queens.
He wanted to matter.
He wanted to prove himself more than "Lalima Devi's youngest".
"You listen but you do not speak," Aishvarya Devi observed gently."What troubles your mind?"
Aarav's jaw tightened.
"They speak of Empire and armies and future kings," he said quickly."They speak of treaties and honor. No one speaks of the villages—where farmers kneel before both hunger and taxes. If we send soldiers away, who defends them?"
The hall went silent.
Aishvarya Devi regarded him anew.
Youth sees truth before politics dulls vision.
"You speak not as a prince," she said softly,"but as rajaputra of dharma. And that, child, is the highest title."
His ears reddened.
From beyond the carved pillars, another presence watched quietly.
A woman in red.Bengali silk whispering like monsoon fire.
Yuvrani Aushka Devi.
Her gaze never wandered without purpose.
Her sindoor gleamed like a crimson sword at her hairline. The world saw only devotion in that mark.
They did not see the ambition breathing beneath it.
The Queens in the Inner Court
When the council dispersed, the air of the palace shifted—from public politics to private rivalry.
Inside the zenana (The private section of a household reserved exclusively for women ), walls of carved marble listened like old servants to murmurs of queens.
Maharani Lalima Devi, the Queen Consort in Gajri Pink, entered her chamber with the grace of a lotus drifting upon calm water. Yet her thoughts were far from calm.
Her son—Aarav—was youngest.Her daughter—Rajkumari Charumati in Indigo—was bright as flame.But the crown walked toward Aishvarya Devi's sons.
Always.
She found the Regent already seated, pouring sandalwood-scented oil into a lamp.
Lalima spoke first, smiling in courtesy sharpened with tension.
"My sister, the affairs of the kingdom sit lightly upon you. You hold council like one born to throne."
Aishvarya Devi lifted her gaze.
"I do not hold the crown," she answered quietly."I merely guard it."
"For whom?" Lalima's voice remained honey-smooth."For your son Aditya? Or for Samrat Veer?"
The Regent did not answer.
A queen's silence is often louder than a king's decree.
Rajkumari Charumati entered just then, anklets chiming like playful wind. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and mischief. She bowed elegantly.
"Pitaji asks after you both," she said."He is writing letters to the priests of Kashi. He says even kings must remind heaven that they still exist."
Lalima Devi smiled fondly at her daughter.
Aishvarya Devi studied her thoughtfully.
Charumati possessed charm that bent people gently toward her. She would never be queen—but she would always be dangerous, like silk hiding thorns.
The Princess of the Regent
Across the courtyard in a quieter wing walked Rajkumari Mrinalini, daughter of Aishvarya Devi.
She was clothed in deep green silk—the color of twilight when both day and night coexist. There was nothing loud about her grace. Her steps were soft; her expressions unreadable. She listened more than she spoke, and the palace often mistook quietness for meekness.
They forgot that still water holds deeper secrets than storms.
She watched from the jharokha balcony as soldiers trained in the courtyard below.
Aditya Pratap barked orders that split the air like whips.
Lines of men marched with rhythmic fury, spears glinting.
Mrinalini rested her hand upon the cold stone railing.
"Brother wages battles outside," she whispered,"Mother wages battles inside. Which war is harder to win?"
A voice answered behind her.
"The one against time."
She turned.
It was Yuvrani Anushka Devi.
Their gazes met—Royal purle silk to deep green silk.
Two women destined to stand on opposite sides of history, yet for now bound by sisterhood through marriage.
"You watch the kingdom as if it were a chessboard," Anushka said gently.
"And you?" Mrinalini asked."How do you watch it?"
Anushka smiled beautifully.
"Like a legacy yet unfinished."
In the Shadow of the King
That evening, Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj sat in his private chamber, the weight of years upon his shoulders, the glow of history in his eyes. The crown rested beside him upon velvet—no longer upon his head.
His voice had thinned with age but lost none of its depth.
Aishvarya Devi sat beside him.
"You rule in my name," he said."You rule in dharma. Yet the world will ask—who truly governs Rajgarh? The king… or the queen?"
Her eyes softened.
"Let the world ask," she said,"So long as the kingdom stands, the gods will know."
He reached, resting a trembling hand upon hers.
"Our sons are not children anymore," he whispered."Aditya carries fire. Samrat Veer carries destiny. Aarav carries heart. You must hold them together."
She bowed her forehead to his hand.
"I will hold them," she promised.
But destiny smiled quietly in the shadows,for destiny knew she could not.
Not forever.
The British Resident Arrives
The next day brought intrusion.
Boots on marble.
Red coats.
Cold, offended authority wrapped in European arrogance.
The British Resident strode into the durbar, hat tucked to his chest