The morning sun crept slowly into Aadhya's chamber, slipping past the gauzy curtains and spilling golden light across the polished floor. The air smelled faintly of rosewater and sandalwood, the fragrance clinging to the silken fabrics that adorned her room.
Aadhya sat quietly before her mirror, her face pale but composed. Behind her, Meera, her late mother's loyal servant, moved with gentle care as she combed through Aadhya's long, black hair. Each stroke of the comb was steady, practiced, filled with the kind of tenderness Aadhya had almost forgotten existed in this palace.
"Hold still, child," Meera murmured, her voice soft as a lullaby. "Your hair tangles easily when you toss in your sleep."
Aadhya's lips curved faintly. In her past life, she would have snapped at Meera for speaking so, dismissing her care as meddling. Manipulated by Rajeshwari's words, she had treated this woman cruelly, blind to the loyalty that had never wavered. The memory of how Meera had met her end still burned in Aadhya's heart.
But not this time.
"I didn't sleep much," Aadhya admitted quietly.
Meera paused, her hand resting lightly on Aadhya's shoulder. Concern flickered in her tired eyes. "Was something troubling you, Princess?"
Aadhya met her gaze in the mirror. For a heartbeat, she wanted to spill everything—the truth of her rebirth, the weight of betrayal, the fire of vengeance. But no, she could not. Not yet. The time would come, but for now, she had to wear her mask.
"Nothing," she whispered instead, her voice soft. "Just dreams I cannot remember."
Meera's eyes lingered on her for a moment before she nodded and resumed her work. She braided Aadhya's hair carefully, weaving delicate flowers into the strands as she had done since Aadhya was a child. Each touch was steady, patient, filled with a love that expected nothing in return.
Aadhya's heart tightened. She would protect Meera this time. No harm would come to her.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the calm.
The door opened, and Rajeshwari's maid, a thin woman with a pinched face and sharp eyes, stepped inside without bowing. Her tone carried the arrogance of one who spoke under the Queen's authority.
"Princess Aadhya," the maid said curtly, "the Queen requests your presence in the prayer hall. Immediately." that maid once again reminded her.
Her voice was void of warmth, as though Aadhya were nothing more than another servant to command.
Meera's hands stilled, her jaw tightening in quiet disapproval, but she said nothing. Aadhya, however, only gave a serene nod.
"Tell the Queen I will come," Aadhya replied softly.
The maid sniffed, muttered something under her breath, and left with hurried steps.
Silence lingered in the room for a moment. Meera's hand brushed Aadhya's braid one last time before letting it fall over her shoulder. "Be careful," she murmured. "Even kindness in this palace is sharpened like a blade."
Aadhya rose gracefully, her robe trailing behind her as she walked toward the door. "I know," she whispered, more to herself than to Meera. And I will be sharper than all of them.
The corridors of Veerani Palace stretched before her, lined with carved pillars and walls painted with tales of gods and warriors. Sunlight streamed through the latticed windows, casting patterned shadows across the marble floors. Servants passed by, heads bowed, their silence as heavy as the air itself.
When Aadhya entered the prayer hall, the scent of burning incense enveloped her. The shrine gleamed under the glow of oil lamps, marigold garlands draped in perfect symmetry before the deity. The air hummed with an aura of false piety.
At the center knelt Rajeshwari. Draped in a crimson sari, her forehead adorned with vermilion, she looked the picture of devotion. Her hands folded in prayer, her face serene, her lips curved in the gentlest of smiles. To the world, she was a saintly queen, a mother devoted to both gods and children alike.
But Aadhya knew better. That smile hid venom, those hands had pulled invisible strings that had once strangled her.
Beside Rajeshwari sat the twins, Tanishka and Ridhima. Identical in beauty, identical in cruelty. Tanishka's lips already curved in a mocking smirk, while Ridhima's eyes gleamed with concealed mischief. Their pastel silks shimmered in the lamplight, their pearl-adorned braids swaying as they shifted.
Rajeshwari lifted her head as Aadhya approached. "Aadhya, my dear," she said sweetly, her voice dripping with honey. "Come, join us. A princess must always begin her day with the blessings of the divine."
Aadhya lowered her gaze. In her past life, those words had always filled her with shame, making her desperate to prove herself. Today, she only walked forward calmly and folded her hands before the deity.
She knelt, lips moving in silent prayer. But her prayer was not for blessings.
Give me strength. Give me patience. And when the time comes, give me fire to reduce them all to ash.
When she rose, Rajeshwari reached out, cupping Aadhya's cheek with a touch so gentle it would have fooled anyone watching. "You must learn discipline, child," she said softly. "Your father is losing patience with you. It breaks my heart to see his love for you fade. You must not drive him further away."
A pang twisted in Aadhya's chest. In her past life, she had believed those words. She had hated her father, thinking he cared nothing for her, when in truth, it was this woman who had poisoned their bond. And she had realized the truth only when it was too late.
Not this time.
Still, she let guilt flicker across her face, the expression Rajeshwari expected. "Yes, Mother," she murmured, her voice obedient, her eyes lowered.
Rajeshwari's smile widened, satisfied. To anyone else, it was the smile of a mother pleased with her daughter's humility. To Aadhya, it was the grin of a snake that believed it had sunk its fangs deep.
Tanishka chuckled, her tone cutting. "Discipline? Even the gods would fail to teach her. She has no interest in royal duties. While Ridhima and I study politics, she wanders the gardens like a child."
Ridhima giggled, leaning against her twin. "Perhaps she thinks the flowers will crown her queen. Or perhaps she isn't truly Father's daughter. She certainly doesn't act like one."
Their words, sharp as daggers, rang in the hall. Once, they would have pierced her. Once, she would have flushed, stammered, or sulked—then lashed out at her father later, misdirecting her pain.
But not today.
Aadhya lifted her gaze slowly, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Perhaps I am foolish," she said softly, her tone mild. "But at least the flowers show their true colors. People, I find, are rarely so honest."
The twins blinked. Tanishka's smirk faltered. Ridhima frowned, uncertain whether to be offended or amused. Rajeshwari's serene smile tightened, a crack in her perfect mask.
Aadhya lowered her eyes again, her face calm, concealing the spark of satisfaction in her gaze. Let them think her still naive, still pliable. Their blindness would be her armor.
Rajeshwari recovered quickly, her tone dripping sweetness again. "Do not mind your sisters, child. They tease you only because they love you. You are all my daughters, and I want only the best for you."
Aadhya almost laughed. Love? Their confessions at her death still echoed in her ears—how they had schemed, how they had rejoiced in her suffering. But she bowed her head, masking her rage with a gentle smile.
"I know, Mother," she whispered. "I am grateful for their care."
The lie slipped from her lips like silk, and Rajeshwari's eyes gleamed with triumph, certain she had secured her hold once more.
But deep inside, Aadhya's heart whispered coldly: Laugh while you can. When the time comes, I will make you weep.
The morning prayers ended. Rajeshwari rose gracefully, giving instructions to the servants. Tanishka and Ridhima walked ahead, whispering and laughing about trivial things.
Aadhya followed behind, her steps measured, her expression serene. But in her chest, her hatred burned bright, her resolve unshakable.
This time, she would not fall for their tricks. This time, she would not turn her anger on her father. This time, she would smile, obey, and play their game—until she was ready to strike.
And so, the war had begun.