The bells of Suryaabad tolled, slow and mournful, their bronze throats echoing through the hazy Aravalli hills and dancing across the surface of Lake Pichola. The sound lingered, too long, like an unwelcome guest. Crows scattered from the temple domes. Somewhere in the distance, a peacock cried.
The House of Rajvardhan was wrapped in ceremonial white and gold—its drapes, its silks, its silence. Within the cavernous Darbar Hall, age-old pillars gleamed in the filtered sunlight. Courtiers in ivory turbans lined the walls, heads bowed, the weight of centuries pressing down on them. It smelled of sandalwood, rosewater, and the tension that came from forced dignity.
In the centre lay King Rajendra Rajvardhan—once the lion of Suryaabad, now still, encased in a glass coffin atop a sandalwood pyre. His ceremonial robes—crimson and gold—caught the light like dying embers. Marigolds ringed the pyre, white roses nestled among tulsi leaves. And yet, for all the grandeur, the hall felt colder.
The royal siblings stood before the pyre in a broken semi-circle, each a different shade of grief, united by blood but oceans apart in everything else.
Veerbhadra, the eldest, was a statue carved in authority. His sherwani was crisp, his posture even crisper. The military precision of his stance might have fooled an outsider, but his eyes—red-rimmed and hollow—betrayed a man holding his grief hostage.
Siddharth, ever the diplomat, stood beside him—immaculate as always, his white kurta wrinkleless, gold rimmed glasses reflecting the flickering light. Hands folded, expression unreadable, as though he'd walked out of a negotiation and into a funeral.
Shonali, the only daughter, looked like an old photograph come to life. Her cream saree whispered as she moved, her pearl chain barely visible beneath her loosely draped pallu. Kohl-lined eyes shimmered—not for effect, but because they had no choice. Her grip on the fabric tightened each time the priest's chant reached a crescendo.
Shaurya arrived late. His ivory kurta was slightly crumpled, sleeves rolled in that way that always suggested he hadn't decided whether he was staying or escaping. His hair was wind-tossed. His heart too. His eyes flicked to his father, then to each sibling, as if seeking an explanation none of them could give.
Devendra, the quiet one, leaned against a pillar like he belonged to the architecture. He hadn't spoken since he arrived. His long sherwani was travel-wrinkled, but he wore it like armor. His silence said more than anyone's condolences.
Ahaan, the youngest, burst in like a misfired firework. Breathless, curls bouncing, one shirt-tail loose, one shoelace untied. His presence brought a gust of something real into the stillness.
"Did I miss the chanting?" he whispered, squeezing next to Dev.
"You missed the procession, genius," Dev muttered, still not looking at him.
"I came as fast as I could. Mumbai traffic is literally death—"
"So is Baba," Dev cut in.
Ahaan winced. "Too soon, bhai."
"Quiet," Veer snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to slice through marble.
The priest beckoned. One by one, the children stepped forward to place a rose on the coffin. A ritual for the living, more than for the dead.
Veer went first. He knelt, placed his rose with care, and whispered, "Rajvardhan never kneels. But I will, this once. For you."
Siddharth followed. His movements were smooth, rehearsed. He placed his rose, then murmured, "May you find the peace you rarely offered."
Shonali's hands shook as she bent down. "You never hugged me, Baba. But I hope you felt mine today."
Shaurya crouched, eyebrows raised. "Looks like the lion finally got tired. Rest now.… don't haunt me, please."
Dev said nothing. He stared for a long time, his rose trembling in his fingers before he set it down.
Ahaan lingered. "I—uh—you probably thought I'd screw this up. But I'm here. That counts, right?"
He placed the rose. It didn't fall perfectly. It wobbled.
From the side gallery, Queen Yamini watched. Her face was veiled beneath her white ghoonghat, but her eyes—sharp, tired, glinting with secrets—missed nothing. She looked like a woman who had spent her life on a tightrope and was now weary of pretending the wind didn't blow.
The final chant rose. The air shifted with incense. The royal anthem was sung softly by the palace staff, their voices brushing against the marble walls like wind through old trees.
Then silence.
The Royal Chamber
The six siblings were ushered into the royal chamber like chess pieces returned to the board. The same mahogany table stood in the centre, polished to a mirror finish. The same chandelier above them glittered like judgmental stars.
But nothing was the same.
"Straight to business," Veer said, standing at the head. "The will is to be read. Then we part."
"Wow, warm as ever, Veeru," Shaurya muttered, falling into a plush armchair. "You've got all the hospitality of a cactus."
"Must you call me that in front of others?"
"In front of ghosts too, if it annoys you enough."
Siddharth sighed. "Focus."
Ahaan leaned back, stretching. "Ahh, the tension. The trauma. Really brings back childhood. All we need is a screaming match and a broken vase."
Dev raised an eyebrow. "Don't tempt fate."
"Boys, stop it." Shona scolded, making Shaurya roll his eyes.
The Raj Purohit entered, scroll in hand, saffron robes flowing like candlelight. The room stilled.
"The testament of His Majesty, King Rajendra Rajvardhan."
Chairs creaked as backs straightened.
"To Veerbhadra Rajvardhan, I leave Agnivardhan Fort—ancestral, sacred, and strategic. With it, the crown."
Veer gave no reaction. None needed.
Shaurya gave a theatrical bow. "All hail the king."
"To Siddharth Rajvardhan, Chandrabagh Palace. For diplomacy. For discretion."
A nod. Of course.
"To Shonali Rajvardhan, Devanagri Palace. For healing. For beauty."
Shona blinked. "He remembered I liked that place?"
"To Shaurya Rajvardhan, Sitaragarh Palace. Where wild hearts find stillness."
Shaurya chuckled. "He knew me better than I thought."
"To Devendra Rajvardhan, Vijaygarh Fort. For knowledge. For solitude."
Dev narrowed his eyes. "Poetic. And suspicious."
"To Ahaan Rajvardhan, Jashn Mahal. For music. For mischief."
Ahaan beamed. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
The priest unfurled the last line. "Let my children remember: Legacy is not stone or throne. It is memory. It is unity."
A moment passed. Then two.
"Touching," Siddharth said, adjusting his glasses.
"We cried, we split kingdoms, we grew character arcs," Shaurya said, standing. "Now, can we eat?"
The doors opened. Queen Yamini entered, regal in her restraint.
"Before that—there is the matter of the coronation."
Everyone froze.
"And the engagements," she added, settling into the main sofa like it was a throne.
"What engagements?" Veer asked.
"Yours. And Siddharth's."
Siddharth choked on his composure. "Pardon?"
"You'll need a queen beside you."
"I'm not ready," Veer said flatly.
"It's not about readiness. It's about tradition."
"And Siddharth?" Shonali asked.
"A proposal. From the House of Somendra. Princess Aaliya."
"Didn't that kingdom surrender years ago?" Dev asked.
"Exactly. A union brings stability. She's... adequate."
Shaurya barked a laugh. "Well, that's romantic."
"I'll speak to her," Siddharth said coolly. "But I promise nothing."
Veer turned to him. "Be careful. She's clever."
"She's our mother," Dev added, staring at the Queen.
"Exactly," Veer muttered.
The room was scattered like a deck of cards. Fireworks burst in the far city—someone else's wedding, someone else's joy. Suryaabad sparkled while the House of Rajvardhan merely smoldered.
Back in the Darbar Hall, only the scent of incense remained. And upstairs, behind closed doors, Queen Yamini dipped her pen into ink and began drafting a list of brides. The chessboard was far from cleared.
And the game had only just begun.