The morning sun streamed through the jali-carved windows of the palace, scattering golden patterns across the marble floor. The fragrance of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the faint hum of voices from the corridors.
Aadhya's steps echoed softly as she made her way toward the audience hall. Her heart pounded louder than her anklets.
King Veer Rajan Veerani.
Her father.
The man she had once blamed for every wound in her heart. The man she had despised in her past life, thinking he cared nothing for her. It was Rajeshwari's poison that had painted his sternness as cruelty, his distance as indifference. And blinded by her own arrogance, she had believed it.
Now, walking these same halls once more, Aadhya's chest tightened. How could I not see? How could I not feel it before?
The great doors opened, revealing the vast chamber. Pillars lined with carved lotuses rose to the ceiling, and a long red carpet stretched to the dais where her father sat.
King Veer Rajan Veerani—broad-shouldered, tall even in his age, his thick beard streaked with silver. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned a parchment in his hands. Around him stood two ministers, their heads bowed, whispering about state matters.
The King raised his head as Aadhya entered. His eyes narrowed, unreadable, as they fell upon her. With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the ministers. They bowed and slipped away, leaving the chamber echoing with silence.
"Come forward, Aadhya," his deep voice commanded.
She obeyed, her chin lowered, her pace measured. She stopped a few steps away and folded her hands in respect.
For a long moment, he studied her as though weighing her worth, as though peeling away every defense she could ever wear. His silence was more daunting than anger.
"You missed your royal lessons yesterday." His voice was calm, but it cut like a blade.
Aadhya's breath caught. In the past, this was the moment she would have exploded. She would have accused him of not caring, of never appreciating her, her voice fueled by Rajeshwari's whispers. She would have stormed out, leaving him with disappointment shadowing his face.
But not now.
This time, she bent her head slightly. "It was careless of me, Father. It will not happen again."
His brows lifted a fraction, surprise flickering in his gaze. "Careless?" he echoed, as though tasting the unfamiliar word from her lips.
She kept her tone steady, her eyes lowered. Inside, her heart burned with all the things she wanted to say—that she knew his grief, that she remembered his broken body in her last life, that she regretted every harsh word she had once thrown at him. But none of that could be spoken. Not yet.
Before silence could stretch further, a familiar voice laced with sweetness floated into the chamber.
"My lord," came Rajeshwari, gliding gracefully through the side entrance. Draped in rich silk, her jewels chimed softly as she walked, her smile tender, her eyes filled with practiced devotion. To any observer, she was the picture of the perfect queen. But Aadhya knew better.
Rajeshwari bowed lightly. "Forgive me for intruding, but the council awaits your review of the trade decrees. I feared you might be delayed."
The King gave her a curt nod. "I will attend shortly."
Her gaze shifted to Aadhya. To anyone else, it would have seemed affectionate. But Aadhya caught the sharpness beneath, the warning in those honeyed eyes.
"My lord," Rajeshwari continued, her voice dripping with concern, "Aadhya has been distracted of late. I worry she does not grasp the importance of her lessons. I try my best to guide her, but perhaps she lacks the discipline expected of a princess."
Her words were smooth as silk, daggers wrapped in velvet.
Aadhya's fingers curled into her palm, but she forced her voice to remain even. "I will do better, Father. You will not be disappointed."
Her father's sharp eyes flickered between them, as if sensing currents hidden beneath the surface. He said nothing, but the weight of his gaze lingered on her longer than usual.
Rajeshwari's lips curved in a tender smile, but there was a faint falter in it—only Aadhya noticed.
The King leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke. "You are nearing the age where lessons are not simply for your benefit. Soon, suitors will come with proposals. A princess must carry not only herself but also the pride of her kingdom." His voice grew heavier. "Marriage is not a matter of desire—it is a bond of power, of alliance, of legacy. Do you understand this?"
Aadhya swallowed hard. The memory of her past life surged—the glittering wedding hall, the praises for her beauty, the tender words of her husband that later turned to venom. Her heart clenched, but she kept her face serene.
"Yes, Father," she said softly. "I understand."
The King's eyes lingered on her, searching. Perhaps he sensed something new in her tone, a depth he hadn't heard before.
"She will, in time," Rajeshwari interjected sweetly. "Until then, allow me to guide her gently. After all, she trusts me as she would her own mother." Her hand brushed Aadhya's shoulder with mock affection, her touch light but burning like fire.
Aadhya forced herself not to recoil. Instead, she lowered her head, as though obedient. "Yes, mother."
Rajeshwari's smile widened, satisfied. To her, it was a victory—proof that Aadhya was pliant, gullible, still within her grasp. She did not see the flicker of resolve hidden in Aadhya's lowered eyes.
The King rose from his chair, his presence filling the hall. "Attend your lessons today. No excuses. If you wish to uphold this family's honor, you must prove yourself as a daughter of the Veerani line."
Aadhya bowed low. "Yes, Father."
He left the hall, his guards trailing him, his footsteps echoing against the stone.
The chamber fell silent, leaving Aadhya and Rajeshwari alone. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Rajeshwari leaned close, her whisper silken and poisonous.
"You learn to speak well, child," she murmured, her smile angelic. "But remember—words mean nothing without power."
Aadhya tilted her head slightly, letting a faint smile touch her lips, careful to keep her voice soft, almost submissive. "Yes, mother."
Rajeshwari's smirk deepened. Satisfied, she glided away, her sari trailing like the tail of a serpent.
Aadhya's eyes lifted slowly, her calm mask cracking only when she was alone. Beneath it burned fire—of regret, of hatred, of unyielding resolve.
You may think you've won. But this time, I will not be blind. This time, I will rewrite the story.