The palace bustled with false concern after the horse incident. Courtiers murmured, guards whispered, and handmaidens clutched at their pearls as if the heavens themselves had shaken. Yet, in the quiet of her chamber, Aadhya sat still, her dark eyes reflecting the flickering lamplight.
On the surface, she played her part—nervous, pale, shaken by her near fall. But beneath the fragile mask, her mind churned. The saddle strap had been too cleanly severed, the loosened buckle too deliberate. That was no accident.
Still, she let them believe she was none the wiser.
"Princess, you must rest," Rajeshwari's voice cooed as she swept into the room draped in silks of muted gold. Behind her trailed Tanishka and Ridhima, their matching faces painted with worry. "You've frightened us all."
Aadhya lowered her lashes, as though ashamed. "I—I shouldn't have ridden so recklessly. Forgive me, Mother."
The words tasted bitter, but her tone was sweet as nectar. Rajeshwari's lips curved in satisfaction, her hand brushing Aadhya's hair with feigned tenderness. "My dear child, you mustn't blame yourself. Some are simply not meant for such... demanding tasks. But do not worry—you have us."
Her stepmother's eyes gleamed, a flash of triumph hidden beneath motherly warmth.
Later, in the echoing marble corridors, Rajeshwari walked side by side with her daughters. Their whispers slithered between them like serpents.
"She lives," Ridhima hissed, her mouth twisting. "That guard swore the buckle would not hold."
Tanishka's jaw tightened. "If she had broken her neck, it would have been over. Now we must wait again."
Rajeshwari silenced them with a flick of her wrist. "Patience. Every thorn pricks at the right time. Today's scare will make her look weak—tomorrow, another stumble will make her appear fragile. Soon, no noble family will want her... except the one I choose."
Her voice lowered, venom lacing every syllable. "Pranay waits. He grows restless. We must move swiftly."
That evening, Aadhya sat at the long dining table beside her father, King Veer Rajan Veerani. His presence was stern, weighed down by endless duties, his eyes rarely meeting hers. She had once believed him indifferent—perhaps even uncaring. Now, she understood how much of that belief had been crafted by Rajeshwari's sweet poison.
The king spoke little as servants laid out the feast—steaming rice, fragrant curries, jeweled platters of fruits. A golden goblet was placed before Aadhya, filled with pale, sweet sherbet.
She lifted it slowly, her gaze flicking—just briefly—to Rajeshwari at the far end of the table. The queen's lips curved almost imperceptibly.
Aadhya's chest tightened.
She smiled faintly, as if unaware, and set the goblet down untouched. "I'm not thirsty tonight," she murmured, pushing it aside.
Moments later, Meera, her faithful attendant, reached for the drink to clear it away. Aadhya's hand shot out instinctively, halting her. "Leave it," she whispered sharply, too quickly. Meera blinked, surprised, but obeyed.
All through the meal, Aadhya felt her stepmother's eyes on her, probing, calculating.
When the feast ended, the princess returned to her chambers. Alone with Meera, she finally allowed the mask to slip, her fingers trembling slightly as she poured the sherbet into a bronze bowl. The liquid shimmered faintly in the lamplight.
"Meera," Aadhya whispered, her voice low, "bring a stray dog from the palace grounds. Quietly."
Meera hesitated. "Princess..."
"Do it."
An hour later, the truth lay bare. The dog convulsed after a few sips, whimpering until it fell still. Aadhya's chest burned with fury, yet her eyes held no tears.
So it begins again, she thought. The game of poison, of whispers, of slow death.
But this time, she was ready.
Far away, in the soldiers' barracks, a different kind of whisper stirred. A guard spoke in hushed tones to another, their voices carrying through the torchlit hall.
"Have you heard? King Rudra Pratap Singh Rathore marches again. They say he crushed three border clans in a single night."
The second guard shivered. "He's no man, but a beast in human skin. They call him the Devil of the Battlefield."
Their voices faded into the dark. Aadhya, passing by unseen, caught the name and paused only briefly. A shadow of unease crept down her spine. She had heard the name before, always twisted on her sisters' tongues, painted with cruelty and dread.
She shook the thought away. Her world was already drowning in venom and betrayal—what care did she have for devils beyond her borders?
For now, she had one truth: the palace itself was her battlefield. And if her enemies thought her still a naïve child, they would bleed for their mistake.
Aadhya blew out the lamp, her eyes blazing in the darkness.