The sun-banner of Rajgarh rose with the morning wind, its golden emblem unfurling like a blazing oath across the sky. Upon its scarlet silk, the soorya-chakra burned radiant, declaring to every subject and stranger alike that Rajgarh owed its allegiance not to any firangi flag—but to the ancient line of kshatriya kings whose blood had never bowed.
Beneath that banner walked the three princes of the royal house.
Each born of the same dynasty.
Each tempered by different mothers, different destinies.
Each walking toward a future shaped by empire and war.
They were called together not only by blood
but by the pull of the sun itself—
for the chroniclers of the court whispered:
"When the Empire of the British casts its longest shadow,
the sons of the Sun Banner must either shine…
or be extinguished."
The Eldest: Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh
The clang of steel rang through the akhada courtyard.
Aditya Pratap Singh, eldest son of the Green Queen and Armed General of Rajgarh, stood bare-chested under the rising light of dawn, his body gleaming with the sheen of exertion and the dust of training.
He had the shoulders of a war elephant, the discipline of a veteran commander, and the stern gaze of someone accustomed to men obeying without hesitation.
Where his younger brothers had been schooled in poetry and diplomacy first,
Aditya had been raised beneath the hammer of duty.
From childhood he rode war-horses before mastering Sanskrit psalms.
He learned to read the stars as one reads battlefield maps.
He memorised the names of every fort, river crossing, and cavalry commander in Rajgarh.
He bowed before his mother and father,
but never before fear.
As he parried and struck with his talwar, instructors called out:
"Victory to the Sun Prince!"
He did not smile.
Victory was not a word for shouting.
It was a burden.
He knew what the British guns meant.
He knew what the railway lines meant.
He saw the writing etched in the iron rails stretching toward Calcutta.
He saw a storm forming.
And he prepared for it.
The Crown Prince: Samrat Veer Singh
On the shaded verandah overlooking the palace gardens, dressed in royal purple angarakha, sat the second son of the Green Queen—Samrat Veer Singh, Crown Prince of Rajgarh and sole heir.
If Aditya was iron,
Samrat was silk-wrapped steel.
Where his elder brother commanded with voice,
Samrat commanded with mind.
He was scholar and strategist,
orator and observer,
heir and judge in the making.
In the Diwan-e-Khas, ministers weighed every word he spoke.
British Residents watched him with polite smiles and concealed unease.
For Samrat possessed that rare quality that Empires fear—
an intelligence tied not to personal ambition but to principle.
He believed a king was not owner of his people,
but guardian of their destinies.
Beside him flowed the gentle rustle of silk as Yuvrani Anushka Devi, his queen, moved like an autumn flame in red. Her sindoor marked her as royal consort; her quiet eyes shone like twin embers hidden beneath velvet ash.
She listened as Samrat read aloud the latest dispatches regarding railway expansion, land revenue increases, and troop movements of British battalions stationed near Bengal.
"The British Resident smiles," Samrat murmured, rolling up the scroll, "but his smiles smell of gunpowder."
Anushka's fingers traced the edge of her saree.
"So will you confront him?"
"Not yet," he replied softly. "Sometimes the cobra must be allowed to believe we are asleep before it strikes. Until then, we strengthen roots of the tree."
His words were noble.
Measured.
Wise.
But beneath the stillness of Anushka's lashes, another current moved—
one the world had not yet seen.
The world believed Samrat would one day wear the crown.
But destiny had already chosen another path
and she knew it.
She simply waited.
The Youngest: Rajkumar Aarav
If Aditya was thunder
and Samrat was controlled lightning,
Aarav was sunlight itself.
Laughter followed him.
Birds seemed to linger a little longer upon branches when he passed beneath them.
The palace guards unconsciously softened their expressions at his approach.
He was still young enough to believe war
was something that happened in stories.
He practiced swordplay with wooden sticks,
declared alliances with palace dogs,
and believed that every wounded person in the world could be healed
by sharing sweets and warm words.
Yet the kingdom loved him fiercely.
Because in an age of muskets and treaties,
innocence had become rare as rain in drought.
He adored both his elder brothers equally.
Aditya was a mountain to him.
Samrat was the sky.
But it was his sister Charumati who dragged him by the ear when he grew mischievous and made him finish his lessons.
He worshipped his mother Lalima,
and secretly admired the Green Queen's strength,
though he was sometimes afraid of the weight in her eyes.
He had no aspirations for the throne.
He only wanted everyone to laugh again.
History, however,
had never asked children what they wanted.
Brothers Beneath the Banner
The three princes walked together that morning beneath the blazing Sun Banner atop the fort parapet. The wind tugged their garments, lifting silks like battle flags.
Aditya leaned against the stone battlement.
"War is coming," he said without ornament.
"War always comes," Samrat replied. "It simply wears new uniforms."
Aarav frowned. "With the firangis?"
"With those who believe our land is a ledger of income," Samrat answered quietly. "And our people… merely entries."
Aditya crossed his arms.
"I do not fear English cannon. I fear traitors in silk."
The words hung heavy.
They did not know then
just how near such a traitor already stood.
Anushka Devi's laughter drifted from the courtyard below, light as the chime of silver anklets.
Aarav leaned over the parapet to wave.
Aditya and Samrat exchanged a glance—
one brief flicker of shared understanding—
for both recognised that though she appeared gentle as a lotus blossom,
the Bengal princess possessed a mind sharp as a jewelled dagger.
Aditya spoke first.
"You are Crown Prince, Samrat. Your judgments must be clear. Keep those close to you either fully trusted… or fully watched."
Samrat smiled faintly.
"You see conspiracies where others see shadows."
"I see both."
Aarav puffed out his chest.
"And I see that we are brothers. No shadows. No conspiracies. Only Rajgarh."
Aditya ruffled his hair roughly.
"May it remain so, little sunbeam."
But in the deep hollows of fate,
threads had already begun to weave otherwise.
The Sun Banner Ceremony
That evening, the palace prepared for the Ritual of the Sun Banner—a ceremony performed only when omens of great change gathered upon the horizon.
The Rajpurohit chanted Vedic hymns.
Conches blared.
Sacred fire leapt like a living lion.
The Maharaja, though fatigued, sat upright upon his golden gaddi, strength drawn from sheer honour if not health. Aishvarya Devi sat resplendent beside him, regal gaze steady as moon upon the sea. Lalima Devi sat to his left, serene yet inwardly trembling with visions she dared not voice.
Before the court stood the princes.
Aditya in gleaming white armour edged with gold,
Samrat in imperial Pink,
Aarav in youthful green, hands joined reverently.
The priest declared:
"The sons of the Sun shall swear to uphold dharma, protect the weak, honour their mothers, and keep rajya and praja as one body, one breath."
Each prince touched the sword borne by their ancestors.
Aditya's grip was firm as rock.
Samrat's touch contemplative.
Aarav's hand shook—not from fear,
but from awe.
The banner above them unfurled fully
as though the very sky bore witness.
The Oath
They spoke together.
"By the grace of Surya Narayana, we swear:
To stand as shields before our people.
To bow to righteousness rather than power.
To keep the honour of Rajgarh unbroken.
To let compassion temper courage
and justice walk before vengeance."
The court thundered with approval.
British observers smiled politely—
yet their eyes narrowed.
For Empires understand something dangerous when they see it:
Princes who love their land more than their thrones.
Shadows at the Edge of Light
As the ceremony ended and torches flickered across the courtyards, The Shadow Orchestrator stepped back from the crowd, His black Hooded Cloak blending with flame-glow.
He watched the three princes beneath the Sun Banner.
He heart did not tremble.
He mind did not soften.
He saw not brothers.
He saw obstacles.
He saw a throne
not as a relic of tradition
but as a weapon.
One kingdom in Bengal was not enough.
Rajgarh was not enough.
United,
they could become something vaster—
Dharmapuriya.
But only
if those who currently stood in the way
were removed
quietly
inevitably
irrevocably.
And one day history would call him many names:
Saviour.
Usurper.
Liberator.
Destroyer.
Creator of a new realm.
Anushka merely smiled like a dutiful daughter-in-law.
No one noticed how long she watched the flames.
Except Lalima Devi,
who stood far away in the shadows of the temple colonnade,
feeling the echo of her vision tightening like a noose.
A Moment of Brotherhood
That night, free from protocol, the brothers gathered upon the palace roof beneath a canopy of stars.
No courtiers.
No priests.
No ministers.
No queens.
Just three sons of Rajgarh,
leaning back upon warm stone,
listening to crickets and distant temple bells.
Aarav whispered:
"Promise me something."
Aditya chuckled. "What now?"
"That no matter what the British do,
no matter what happens in court,
no matter who becomes king…
we will remain brothers."
Samrat's gaze lifted to the stars.
"Even if the sun banner falls?"
"Even then."
Aditya extended his hand.
Samrat placed his upon it.
Aarav joyfully piled his small fingers atop theirs.
The oath needed no priest.
It was forged in the quiet.
It was pure.
It was doomed.
Because fate had already decided:
one would become exile,
one would become legend on battlefield,
and one would never truly grow old.
But for that single moment beneath the endless vault of the heavens,
they were only brothers,
laughing children of the same sun.
And the banner above the palace
fluttered proudly against the dark—
unaware how much blood
would one day stain its silk.