The palace rose from the morning mist like a mirage — all marble and gold, shimmering with grace.
But Vivaan had stopped believing in beauty.
Dreams could lie.
And so could palaces.
He hadn't slept.
At dawn, light slanted through the carved jali of his chamber windows, scattering across the floor in delicate lattices — like the bars of a cage. He sat still, jaw tight, the words still echoing in his skull.
"If you knew the truth," Sitara had said, "you wouldn't be able to carry it."
What truth could bring a prince to his knees?
What secret could burn through silk and steel alike?
The Quiet Investigation
He dressed plainly — no jewels, no crest — and walked the palace like a shadow.
His first stop was Rajendra.
The chief advisor greeted him with the usual bow and politeness, but Vivaan saw the flicker — the brief moment before composure returned.
Over tea, he posed a question, gentle as rain.
"There are murmurs in the south," he said, eyes calm. "Is there anything to be concerned about?"
Rajendra's reply was smooth.
Too smooth.
*"Loyalty speaks," Vivaan had once been taught, "but guilt hesitates."
He made no accusation. He simply nodded, thanked the man, and left.
That evening, he sent a coded message to his informants:
Watch the council. Track movements. Map loyalties. Dissect silences.
Trust no one. Not even those who raised me.
The Letter Revisited
In his study, he unrolled the same letter again — the one written in his mother's hand, addressed to Sitara's mother.
He had read it so many times that he could recite the words in sleep. Yet something pulled his eyes to the final lines once more.
"Protect them both… The truth cannot be revealed. Not yet."
Them.
Both.
A frown creased his brow. There — at the bottom — a mark. Not ink. A faint, dried curve.
A tearstain.
His throat tightened.
He remembered, once as a boy, seeing the Maharani seated at her writing desk, her shoulders trembling. She'd burned a letter that night. Said nothing. Only smiled when he asked.
"Some grief," she'd whispered then, kissing his forehead, "is written in silence."
Was this the grief she meant?
Was this about Sitara?
Or him?
The Mother's Secret
The Queen's old chambers had long been abandoned, the jasmine incense faded to dust.
He searched in silence.
And there, hidden behind religious scrolls, was another letter. Unfinished.
To Padmavati.
Sitara's mother.
The final lines stopped mid-sentence:
"The bloodline must remain hidden… If Vivaan learns of this—"
He couldn't breathe.
Not a betrayal.
Not a plot.
A truth.
"Blood is not always inheritance," he murmured aloud, voice hoarse.
"Sometimes, it's the lie you've worn the longest."
The Garden and the Girl
As night fell, he found himself drawn to the only place that still felt real — the garden behind the eastern wing, wild with poison and moonlight.
And there, as if conjured by thought alone, stood Sitara.
Her hair was unbound. Her hands rested against the flowering vines, and when she turned, her face was unreadable.
"You look troubled, Prince," she said.
He took a step forward.
"There's something you're not telling me."
She raised her hand. Not to strike, not to run — but to warn
.
"You should tread carefully."
Her voice was soft, but it cut like obsidian.
"Not all secrets are meant to be uncovered."
He stared at her, as if the truth could be pulled from her bones.
"Why me?" he asked. "Why do I feel like everything leads back to you?"
She held his gaze. Then answered:
"Because I was never meant to be a threat, Vivaan. Just a mirror. And mirrors only show what you refuse to see."
Before he could reply, she turned — and vanished into the mist once more, silent as breath.
The Prince Alone
He stood at the window of his chamber long into the night, watching the lights of Aryagarh flicker like stars slipping into water.
His hands trembled. Not from fear.
From knowing.
The world was shifting beneath him — not in battle, not in politics, but in blood.
"I was raised to rule," he thought, "but no one told me I might not be the rightful heir."
Not his name.
Not his throne.
Not even his mother.
And somewhere, Sitara carried the rest of the story — like a dagger wrapped in silk.
But if he pulled it free, if he uncovered the truth...
It might not just destroy him.
It might destroy them both.