The following days in the palace unfolded like a quiet storm. Lessons with Guru Somdev continued, and though Aadhya maintained her façade of playful disinterest, she could sense the subtle shifts in his demeanor. He no longer regarded her as the careless princess who dismissed every word. Behind his patient tone lingered a new sharpness, as if he, too, was beginning to weigh her more carefully.
But Somdev was not the only one who had changed. The entire palace seemed to move with renewed urgency. Servants rushed through the corridors carrying bolts of silk and trays of precious jewels. Couriers on horseback were sent to distant kingdoms with scrolls sealed in wax, each bearing the crest of Veerani. The grand celebration of Princess Aadhya's twentieth birthday had been announced, and already the royal halls whispered of who might attend.
For Aadhya, it was strange to witness her rebirth unfolding toward a familiar path. In her past life, this very celebration had marked the beginning of her downfall—her first introduction to suitors, the seed of her marriage that would eventually strangle her fate. Now, walking once again through those same marbled corridors, she carried a bitter awareness no one else could suspect.
She allowed her stepsisters to chatter endlessly, their sweet venom hidden beneath smiles.
"Do you think," Tanishka murmured one afternoon, adjusting the embroidery of her pale-blue dupatta, "that the princes of the northern kingdoms will be present this year? Imagine—so many royal heirs, all in one hall."
Ridhima giggled, leaning close to Aadhya as though sharing a secret. "Surely they will come. After all, our dearest sister is turning twenty. What better time for suitors to see her grace?"
Their eyes glittered as they looked at her, their tones dripping with false warmth. Aadhya remembered, with bitter clarity, how in her past life she had blushed under their teasing, believing their words to be affectionate sisterly banter. Now, she only pressed her lips into a faint smile and lowered her gaze, feigning modesty.
"If Father wills it," she replied softly, letting her voice sound uncertain. "I hardly know what use I would be to any prince."
The sisters exchanged quick glances, pleased at her display of self-doubt. Rajeshwari, who had been seated nearby with her embroidery frame, looked up with a tender sigh.
"My sweet child," she cooed, her voice dripping with syrup, "you are far more precious than you think. When the right man comes, you will see how dearly you are loved."
Aadhya's heart tightened. Loved? She remembered the hands that had bruised her, the voice that had mocked her as she bled. In her past life, those very words from Rajeshwari had coaxed her into trust. Now, though the pain surged hot beneath her skin, she forced herself to smile, leaning into her stepmother's warmth as though it were the only comfort she had.
Preparations for the birthday grew heavier with each passing day. The palace's great halls were swept and decorated, courtyards polished till they gleamed under the sun. Jewelers arrived with boxes of ornaments, and tailors spread fabrics across tables, bowing low as they awaited the princess's approval.
"Pearls," Rajeshwari said decisively, examining a string of them against Aadhya's neck. "They will suit her innocence best. What do you think, daughters?"
"Innocence, yes," Tanishka answered, her smile sly. "Pearls will make her appear gentle, docile... everything a suitor dreams of."
Ridhima laughed, clasping her hands. "Like a lamb dressed for a festival."
Their laughter rang light, and Rajeshwari joined in, brushing her fingers against Aadhya's cheek. "My poor child, don't mind them. They only tease out of love."
Aadhya bowed her head, allowing their cruelty to pass over her. Laugh now, she thought, her chest burning, for every echo of it will return to you one day.
The political undercurrents grew harder to ignore. At supper one evening, King Veer Rajan Veerani entered the dining hall later than usual, his brow furrowed with the weight of letters he carried. He placed them beside his plate, the wax seals of several kingdoms gleaming under the lamplight.
"The western provinces will attend," he announced, his tone grave. "So too will the royal family of Durgapura. Their envoy writes that their eldest son will be among them."
At once, the table erupted in murmurs. Tanishka's eyes shone. "The eldest son of Durgapura? Father, is it true he is as brave as the bards sing?"
"And as handsome," Ridhima added, laughter spilling from her lips.
Rajeshwari placed a calming hand upon them both before turning her gaze to Aadhya. "Do you hear, child? Even kingdoms as far as Durgapura know of your birthday. Imagine the honor."
Aadhya's chest constricted. She remembered well—Durgapura's prince, Pranay Malhotra, had been among the first to flatter her in her past life, his words like honey masking a pit of cruelty. It was not he whom she had married, but his presence had helped weave the web that ensnared her.
She swallowed, forcing herself to appear timid. "I... I do not know if I am worthy of such attention."
Her father's gaze lifted to her then, sharper than usual, though weary. "A princess is not measured by worth, Aadhya. You are measured by duty. This celebration is not only yours—it is the kingdoms. Through you, alliances may be forged that strengthen our people. Remember that."
His words struck deep. In her past life, she had only heard scorn in his voice, never the weight of responsibility he carried. Manipulated by Rajeshwari's whispers, she had believed him cold and uncaring. But now, through the veil of her act, she saw the truth: he was a king before he was a father, and the future of the kingdom pressed heavily upon him.
She lowered her eyes, feigning resentment, though inside she whispered, Forgive me, Father. I will not waste this chance again.
That night, whispers of another name floated through the corridors, carried by the servants who prepared the guest lists.
"Will King Rudra Pratap Singh Rathore attend?" one asked, lowering his voice as though invoking a storm.
The other servant shuddered. "They say he seldom leaves his own dominion. But imagine if he did. His very presence would silence these halls."
Aadhya, passing by with Meera at her side, caught the words. Her heart jolted, a shiver trailing her spine. She had never seen him, never spoken his name aloud, but her sisters' whispers from years ago returned—ugly, cruel, a beast of war. They had told her tales of his monstrous deeds until she had hated him without cause.
Meera glanced at her, sensing her unease. "Pay no mind, Princess. Rumors are the weapons of those who cannot wield swords. The truth of men is rarely what others speak of."
Aadhya offered her a small smile, warmed by the servant's steadfast loyalty. "You are right, Meera. Perhaps I am foolish to let such stories trouble me."
But deep inside, unease coiled like a serpent. She did not yet know whether Rudra was the devil her sisters had painted—or something far more dangerous.
The days slipped forward like beads on a string, each one bringing her closer to the night of her birthday. Though the palace glittered with celebration, Aadhya felt the tightening noose of politics and deceit. She had been given this second chance, yet the same pieces were falling into place: the suitors, the whispers, the alliances.
Only this time, she promised herself as she stared into the mirror Meera held before her, she would not walk blindly into the snare.
She would smile. She would obey. She would play the role of the naïve princess they believed her to be.
And behind that mask, she would wait for the perfect moment to strike.