The temple bells tolled in the fading twilight, their echoes weaving through the forest as if trying to cleanse away the taint of blood and fear. Aadhya's hands still trembled as she placed her final offering before the deity. Her lips moved silently in prayer, but her mind was elsewhere—back on the forest road, on the bandits' mocking laughter, on the terrifying heat of a stranger's touch as he caught her mid-fall.
The mysterious man's voice still lingered in her ears, deep and commanding, every syllable seared into her mind.
Not while I am here.
She pressed her dupatta more tightly against her chest, cheeks warming at the memory of his gaze—a gaze that had stripped her bare in a single heartbeat, not with lust, but with something darker, something primal. She had wanted to claw at him, to scream at him, yet part of her had felt frozen, small, like a cornered kitten caught in the claws of a beast.
No... not a beast. Something worse. Something she could neither define nor forget.
By the time the carriage rolled back into the palace gates, night had fallen. Torches lined the courtyard, casting flickering shadows across the grand pillars. The guards whispered among themselves as they escorted her carriage inside. Rumors would spread like wildfire before dawn: the princess ambushed in the forest, rescued mysteriously, her carriage nearly destroyed.
Meera touched Aadhya's hand as she stepped down, her eyes glistening. "Princess... forgive me for begging you to run. Had you stayed—"
Aadhya squeezed her hand quickly, her tone sharp but steady. "You saved me, Meera. But this—" Her gaze flickered toward the guards who lingered nearby, straining to overhear. "—this must not leave your lips. Not one word."
Meera bowed her head. "Yes, Princess."
The palace gates swallowed the returning carriage in a hush of torches and murmured concern. Night had tucked itself over the courtyard, and the torchlight threw Aadhya's shadow long and thin against the marble. She stepped down with practiced grace, head bowed, dupatta gathered carefully across her chest, though her limbs still trembled from the run and the closeness of the stranger in the forest. Meera's fingers were warm and fierce around her wrist; the servant's eyes pleaded, grateful and guilty all at once.
Aadhya's jaw tightened. The memory of being pressed to that stranger's chest, the feel of his palm at her waist, the command in his voice — it looped through her mind like a flame she would neither extinguish nor confess to. She squeezed Meera's hand, and in that silent squeeze lay both gratitude and an unspoken warning.
Inside the great hall, the noise rose to meet them — a ripple of voices, a scattering of startled courtiers and anxious stewards. News traveled fast. Servants had already begun to spin the tale: how the princess's carriage was beset, how the guards fought, how she had run. Rumors, as always, swelled with each retelling; someone would have already embellished the rescue. Aadhya moved with the same measured composure she had used since her rebirth, dutiful smile, soft voice, eyes lowered when she bowed to those assembled. She would wear the mask until the blade of truth was ready.
Then she saw him — at the far end of the hall, standing like a dark constable of the old order. King Veer Rajan Veerani rose before she could reach him, his cloak sweeping the floor, face drawn in that hard, regal set she had known all her life. He crossed the room with long strides and took her hands in both of his, not with cold ceremony but with something rawer — a father's iron relief.
"My child," he said, voice low and breaking with an edge she had rarely heard before. The hall hushed with the weight of his tone. "You have returned. Are you injured? Show me where."
For a split second, Aadhya's breath snagged with the urge to tell him everything — the shove of the attackers, the rude phrases, the panic, the feel of a stranger's firm hand at her back. But she had promised herself a different path this time: no impulsive accusations at a father she now understood. She bowed, controlled. "I am unharmed, Father. There are only scratches. We were shaken, that is all."
Veer Rajan's hands tightened at her shoulders then, the grip confirming his fury even as his face softened. "Scratches or not," he said, the king's voice wrapped around the hard edges of command, "this is an outrage. Guards — where were you? Explain." His eyes swung to the captain of the guard, who was already advancing, head lowered, sweat gleaming on his brow.
The captain stammered through a fumbling explanation — the ambush was sudden, too many of them, darkness aided the attackers — while Veer Rajan listened like a man measuring distance to a wall he would soon hit. Then he turned to the assembled officers. "Send riders to every post. Seal the main roads. Increase patrols along the border paths. Bring the names of every man who had leave today. Find the men who planned this and find them before dawn. I will not have my household mocked and my daughter endangered."
The hall hummed with the ripple of a king issuing orders. Courtiers whispered their assent; the captain bowed and hustled men into motion. Veer Rajan's face, for one hot, honest second, was not the austere ruler the world saw — it was the father whose hands had once steadied a slipping child on the palace steps. Aadhya felt that softness and let it sit with a small, private ache. She had been so cruel to him in her former life; this time, she would repay him with her silence and with the trust she would demonstrate in action.
Rajeshwari glided forward then, robes rustling like an orchestra making entrance. Her expression was a masterpiece of maternal terror and polished composure. "My lord," she intoned, voice trembling carefully, "our prayers protected her. I cannot stress enough how dangerous the roads have become. Perhaps—perhaps she should remain indoors until the patrols are increased."
Her smile was sugar; her eyes, to Aadhya, betrayed a spark of something less kind. The queen's hands reached for Aadhya's as if to shelter her, and the pressure of those fingers was almost familiar. Aadhya let the moment pass, letting the stepmother play the part her station demanded.
From the periphery, the murmurs found other ears. Devendra Singh Chauhan — who had been staying as an honored guest in the palace after his formal audience — was present in the hall, his smile smooth and pitying as he watched Aadhya approach. He offered a bow that looked polished and genuine to everyone else; to Aadhya it was a needle. His presence hotwired her skin with a cold memory. She had seen his smile before, tasted its sweetness, and known the rot beneath.
Devendra stepped forward as Veer Rajan barked more instructions. "Maharaja, if I may—my men could ride out and scour the nearby lanes. My hunters are familiar with these paths; perhaps they might lend assistance?" His tone was eager to be useful, a practiced generosity many men used to gather influence.
Veer Rajan did not look pleased. He gave Devendra a measured glance before answering. "Your offer is noted, Prince Chauhan. We will call on all capable hands. For now, ensure your men do not spread rumors that might alarm traders. The kingdom's reputation depends on control." The king's words were firm, an unmistakable boundary drawn. Devendra's smile did not falter; he bowed once more and melted back into the current of concerned courtiers, all charm and unchecked appetite.
Aadhya drank in the exchange with quiet fury. Devendra's presence was a jagged thing in her memory — a man who had once been both a husband and an executioner of tender trust. She had felt his breath close against her ear, his mockery of her naive heart. Now he stood in her father's hall with the gilded air of a prospective ally. She forced her lips to curve politely and bowed her head. Her fury would be stored, sharpened, and spent at the right hour.
The council convened almost at once. Veer Rajan called for the captain's full report and for the names of every courier and servant who had been near the cart that afternoon. "Anyone who colluded, anyone who looked away," he said, voice like a blade. "I want them found. There will be no leniency for those who betray this house."
As the discussion swelled around him, Aadhya moved to a quiet corner, breathing on shallow cycles. She let the public gratitude toward her father settle into something warmer, something she would not reveal. She understood now the awkward balance between protecting a daughter and wielding a kingdom. She would not cheapen his care with accusations. She would let loyalty be proven by action.
Meera stood close, eyes red-rimmed but steady. When their hands brushed, the touch was a small lighthouse in a fog. "You kept your head," Meera whispered. "You should rest."
Aadhya gave a small, steadying smile — the smile she would show the palace. "I will rest," she answered, but the thought behind it was different. Resting was for those who could afford to close their eyes. She would not let sleep mask her watchfulness. Every word in the great hall had been a stone she could use later. Rajeshwari's too-quick grief; the sisters' mocking concern; Devendra's gilded offer — each was a shape to be learned, memorized, and used.
Before she slipped away to her chambers, Veer Rajan approached and laid his hand on her brow as if to check fever. His palm was warm and steady; his face softened for a sliver of time. "Do not wander unsupervised for a week," he murmured, voice low. "And tell me if anything—if anything troubles you. I will not have the house endangered."
Aadhya inclined her head and let him see the submission he expected. "Yes, Father," she said, and meant it in the way she had meant few things in her past life. She would bear the mask of obedience — and under it, she would sharpen her plan.
As the doors closed behind them and the corridor swallowed the last of the council's bustle, Aadhya allowed herself one breath where she did not have to hide anything. Her heartbeat slow and certain: the ambush had changed things. It had revealed weakness in the palace's seams and had shoved two men toward her — one who offered velveted power, one who remained a dark, unknowable force at the edge of her memory. Between them, she would move with ice and fire.
Tonight, the palace called upon its king. Tomorrow she would begin calling upon fate.