The palace of Padmavati stood quiet in the dim hours before sunrise. Its walls of sun-dried brick and seasoned wood held centuries of secrets, but tonight, one more slipped in through the rear grain corridor — wrapped in shadow and silence.
Rajima was waiting with a brass bowl of warm water and neem leaves. Her hands moved fast, her eyes scanning the fresh gash on Dattadevi's upper arm.
"You're lucky it didn't go deeper," she muttered, tearing a length of white cotton for a bandage.
Dattadevi winced as the leaf paste touched her skin. Her turban lay beside her now, sweat-soaked. She said nothing — her eyes stared through the chamber wall, still seeing flames and frightened faces.
On the bed across the room, Shreeja, the lookalike maid, stirred but didn't wake.
"You were seen," Rajima whispered.
"Not as myself."
"Still too close," Rajima muttered. "This is not the life of a princess."
"Exactly," Dattadevi said softly, "because tonight, I was not one."
Rajima's eyes shimmered but she said no more. She finished tying the cloth and helped Dattadevi into a fresh saree of soft cotton, pale blue with a dark green border. The antariya draped beneath shimmered faintly in the lamplight, and the uttariya veil was loosely wrapped across her shoulder, hiding the wound.
Just as the palace bells rang for the first morning puja, she slipped into the corridor.
Queen Sharvani stood by the inner courtyard, speaking with an attendant. Her sari — a rich rust-orange with golden floral block prints — swept lightly across the clean earth floor.
She turned as Dattadevi approached.
"You're up early," the queen said, her voice calm, but her eyes sharp.
Dattadevi bowed slightly. "I couldn't sleep."
Queen Sharvani studied her.
"Nor could I. I saw something strange last night — in the corridor. A shadow in a turban. A gait I knew well."
"I must be imagining things."
"Perhaps," Dattadevi replied carefully.
"Your brother's fever worsened after dusk," the queen added, changing the subject. "He asked for you."
Dattadevi blinked. "Now?"
"He hasn't spoken since. But he opened his eyes and tried to speak your name."
Her brother's chamber smelled of sandalwood and dry herbs. The young prince lay curled under layers of cotton sheets, his body too thin, skin pale beneath his dark lashes.
Dattadevi knelt beside him, brushing back his sweat-damp hair.
"You've always been the clever one," she whispered. "And yet they tried to break you with poison, not war."
His fingers moved faintly. Her heart ached.
"Rest now. I'll carry your sword until you're strong enough again."
She pressed her forehead gently to his hand.
Later that morning, she sat in the palace garden — under a flowering champaka tree, its yellow blossoms scenting the air.
She watched birds bathe in a stone basin and children of the attendants chase each other between the stucco pillars. Everything looked peaceful.
But peace was a mask, like her veil.
A gentle voice broke the silence.
"You sit still, but I know your mind gallops."
Queen Sharvani approached, holding a small wooden box.
"This belonged to my mother," she said. "Now I give it to you."
She opened it. Inside lay a simple necklace — bronze chain, small pendant, and tiny carvings of Durga, barely visible unless one looked closely. It has a meaning --> to have the power just like godessess durga She have the power of all the three gods shiva, vishnu and brahma and killed mahishasura { a demon}
"It is not gold. No jewels," Sharvani said. "But it carries gods close to the skin. May they walk with you, wherever your path leads."
Dattadevi touched the necklace with reverence.
"Thank you, Ma."
King Ganapati Naga stood nearby, listening quietly. His hair now graying, his eyes still sharp as flint. He wore a long angavastra over a thick dhoti, his bare chest marked with sandal paste.
"Your mother believes in omens," he said.
"And you believe in war," Dattadevi replied softly.
He allowed a smile. "You are born of both."
He turned to leave, but not before saying, "Your brother needs you. But so does the kingdom."
By mid-morning, word reached Veerkund.
"A masked warrior," one of his spies said. "Fought off twelve of your men in the river village. Fast. Skilled. Bled but escaped."
Veerkund slammed his goblet down.
"A man?"
"That's what they say. Covered head to toe."
"Hmm," Veerkund muttered. "Too convenient."
He went straight to the king's court.
"There is danger in Padmavati," he warned. "A rebel. A traitor dressed like a soldier. The villagers cheer him. He must be dealt with before he gathers more fools behind him."
King Ganapati Naga nodded slowly.
"Send word to the guards. We'll find this warrior."
But Veerkund's thoughts had already twisted further.
What if it's someone inside the palace? Someone trusted… Someone like her?
In the shadows behind a pillar, Rajima listened — her fists clenched, heart pounding.
In her room, Dattadevi stood before the mirror again.
But this time, she did not see a veiled warrior.
She saw a sister, a daughter, a soldier — and a threat to those who thought women were meant to sit quietly behind palace doors.
The pendant rested lightly against her collarbone.
______________
Far from Padmavati, beyond the hills of patliputra Magadha , a royal falcon dipped low over the tiled rooftop of the emperor's guest pavilion.
The guards knew not to interfere.
Inside, the room was lit with soft oil lamps. Scrolls lay open in neat rows, inkpots beside sharpened quills. A map stretched across a wooden table, pinned by ivory weights and scattered red stones — markers of cities won, rivers crossed, kings conquered.
Samudragupta stood before it all.
His arms bore ink stains, smudged from his own writing. His eyes — hawk-sharp and dark — read the message Harisena had sent.
bleeds. But does not break. hides. But does not fear.
is not meant to follow. is meant to rise.
Samudragupta folded the parchment slowly.
' who is this man?'
Outside, the moonlight spilled across the earthen courtyard of his military camp. Soldiers trained even in the dark — their steps echoing faintly across the brick platforms and stone-lined wells.
"A rebel in Padmavati…" he murmured.
But he knew Harisena's riddles. This wasn't about a nameless rogue. This was a message about something more.
Or someone.
He looked back at the map. His gaze rested on Padmavati, a small red dot tucked between rivers and hills.
"Send a message to Harisena," he told his attendant. "I want names. And eyes in the palace."
"Shall I prepare the army, Maharajadhiraja?" the aide asked.
Samudragupta's lips curved faintly.
"No. Just the ink and the flute."
The aide blinked. "The flute, sire?"
"Sometimes, the wind reaches where swords cannot."
"I won't bring swords to Padmavati just yet — I'll bring quiet strength, questions, and a keen eye."
And so, as dawn finally stretched her fingers over Padmavati, the palace stirred — unaware that rajadhiraj now watching from afar.
And somewhere within, a young woman with a god-pendant around her neck and fire behind her eyes sat in stillness — planning her next move before the world even opened its eyes.