The days following Aadhya's birthday unfurled like petals of a dangerous flower—beautiful, fragrant, but edged with thorns. The palace remained alive with whispers, letters arriving daily, each bearing proposals from distant kingdoms, merchants, and nobles who sought the princess's hand.
King Veer Rajan Veerani devoted hours to these correspondences, his advisors counseling him on the political weight of each offer. But amid the flood of names and promises, one suitor had already gained an early foothold: Prince Pranay Malhotra of Durgapura.
He wasted no time in weaving his charm. Flowers arrived for Aadhya's chambers, always accompanied by flowery verses he claimed to have composed. Couriers brought small, jeweled trinkets with notes that praised her beauty, her grace, her voice.
In another life, Aadhya might have blushed, smiled shyly, and treasured these gifts. But now, as Meera carefully unwrapped the tokens, Aadhya's gaze was steady, her mind cold.
"Pretty words," she murmured softly, setting aside a golden bracelet. "But they weigh nothing."
Meera tilted her head. "Do you wish me to send them back, princess?"
"No," Aadhya said quickly, hiding the sharper edge of her thoughts behind a smile. "That would be unkind. He means well. Let us accept them graciously. But..." Her fingers brushed the bracelet, delicate but firm. "...we will remember the kind of man who needs gifts to make himself heard."
One afternoon, Pranay himself came to the gardens, where Aadhya was said to spend her leisure hours. He arrived dressed in emerald silk, a practiced smile on his lips. Rajeshwari, conveniently "passing by" with Tanishka and Ridhima, lingered nearby, their eyes gleaming with interest.
"Princess Aadhya," Pranay greeted, bowing low. "The roses pale beside your radiance."
Aadhya inclined her head, a shy smile painted on her lips. "You flatter me, my lord."
He strolled beside her as she walked among the trimmed hedges, feigning interest in the blossoms. His words flowed like honey—tales of his kingdom's wealth, his victories in tournaments, his admiration for her gentleness.
"Gentleness is rare among royals," he said smoothly. "Too many seek war, blood, and power. But you, princess... you are like the moon, soothing the world with light."
Aadhya lowered her gaze, letting a blush rise to her cheeks. Inwardly, she recognized the trap—appeal to her softness, make her feel special, then bind her with words.
"You are kind to see me so," she said softly.
Tanishka and Ridhima exchanged gleeful looks, whispering behind folded fans. Rajeshwari watched with quiet satisfaction, convinced that her careful guidance was bearing fruit.
But when Pranay offered his arm, expecting her to take it, Aadhya hesitated for the briefest second—just enough for him to notice, though she quickly covered it with a delicate laugh and accepted. That moment of hesitation was deliberate, a tiny crack in the illusion.
Let him wonder. Let him think me naïve, yet uncertain. The more he underestimates me, the easier it will be.
That evening, Aadhya dined with her family and their guests. King Veer sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding, though weariness lined his face. The meal was filled with polite conversation, yet beneath it ran currents of ambition and rivalry.
One of the visiting ministers spoke of strengthening alliances. Another asked whether Princess Aadhya had chosen a favored suitor. Laughter followed, light and teasing, but Aadhya noticed how sharply her father's eyes studied her when the question was raised.
"She is still young," Rajeshwari interjected sweetly. "Let her enjoy her days before binding her future."
But Aadhya caught the sly curve of her stepmother's lips, the glance she exchanged with her daughters. They were already weaving their web.
"I am honored by the attention shown to me," Aadhya said gently, her tone perfectly composed. "But as Father says, such decisions are not only mine to make. I trust in his wisdom."
Her words brought a flicker of surprise to Veer's eyes. It was subtle, almost hidden, but Aadhya caught it—the faintest glimmer of pride, or perhaps confusion. In her past life, she would have sulked, protested, declared that her father never cared. Now, she had spoken with obedience and trust.
The shift was small, but it planted a seed.
Later that night, Aadhya lingered by her window, gazing at the moonlit courtyard. She thought of the whispers she had overheard before—her sisters plotting, her stepmother's sweet poison, Pranay's honeyed words.
Each one believed her blind. Each one thought her pliable.
And yet, another name lingered in the corners of conversation, one not bound to her yet but ever-present—King Rudra Pratap Singh Rathore.
His absence was almost as loud as his presence. Nobles spoke of him in hushed tones, recalling his battles, his victories, his ruthlessness. Her sisters had painted him as a beast, ugly and cruel, a devil who thrived on blood.
Aadhya pressed her hand against the stone sill, her gaze far away.
I do not know him. Perhaps he is what they say, perhaps not. But I will not let others' whispers decide for me again. If he enters my path, I will see him with my own eyes, not through theirs.
The thought steadied her, sharpened her resolve.
The next morning brought another subtle test. During her royal lessons, Pandit Somdev placed before her a map of allied and rival kingdoms.
"In time, Princess," he said, "you must understand not only your lands, but those beyond. Each alliance, each enmity, has shaped who we are."
Aadhya traced the map carefully, her fingers brushing over borders and symbols. She listened intently as Somdev spoke of past treaties, betrayals, and battles.
When he asked, "Which kingdom do you believe poses the greatest threat?" she paused thoughtfully before answering.
"In truth, all kingdoms are dangerous, depending on whose ambition burns brightest," she replied.
Somdev's brows rose. Rajeshwari, who had come to "observe," tilted her head with a curious frown. In her past life, Aadhya would have dismissed the question, claiming such matters were boring or useless. Now, her words carried a quiet insight that surprised the room.
Yet she lowered her gaze immediately after, adding softly, "But I am no scholar, my lord. It is only a thought."
Somdev studied her, something unspoken in his eyes. Rajeshwari's smile was tight, too perfect.
That night, as she lay in bed, Meera tucked the covers around her. "You are changing, princess," she whispered softly. "But you hide it well."
Aadhya met her loyal servant's gaze, her own expression unreadable. "Hiding is necessary. If they see too much, they will strike too soon."
Meera bowed her head. "And if they strike, I will stand before you."
Aadhya's throat tightened at the promise. In her past life, Meera had stood, had suffered, had died. This time, she swore, I will not let you fall for me again.
The fire within her burned brighter than ever. The game of masks had only begun.