The drums of the royal courtyard thundered like war.
Each beat echoed through the marble pillars of the Rathore palace, shaking the stillness like a coming storm. Crimson rose petals rained from above, catching the golden glow of sunset as they scattered across white marble steps and onto the sacred wedding mandap. Rajasthan had never seen a wedding like this one—an event soaked not in joy, but in dread.
And at the center of it all stood the groom.
Crown Prince Veer Singh Rathore, Soon to be King Of Rajasthan.
Clad in a sherwani of deep maroon and ivory silk embroidered with gold threads and war symbols, he was the image of nobility and wrath. His broad shoulders bore the weight of a kingdom, his jaw locked in stone-cold fury. The ceremonial sword at his side was more than a symbol. It was a warning.
His dark eyes—unblinking, merciless—never once shifted toward the bride coming towards him clearly trembling .
The throne ministers whispered behind jeweled turbans. Courtiers stiffened with fear. Everyone had heard the story: the bride had fled. On the day of peace—on the very hour meant to end the blood feud between House Rathore and the Rajpur family—the woman Veer was meant to marry had run away without a trace.
The prince's fury had been immediate and explosive.
"I don't care if she's in heaven or buried six feet beneath hell," he had roared, his voice shaking chandeliers. "Bring her back. Or the Rajpur name will be reduced to ashes before nightfall Or send a replacement Don't let my pride fall in front of my people or else.... I want a bride alive on the wedding mundup"
But the Rajpur family had not brought her back.
But...
They had brought another.
Wrapped in bridal red and veiled in heavy gold silk, the girl being led toward the mandap was not the princess of Rajpur. She was no noble daughter. She was Aranya—the orphaned child of a loyal servant woman, raised quietly in the shadows of the Rajpur palace like a kept secret.
Now, she was being sacrificed to save their family's name.
Every step she took was weighted with dread. Her bare feet touched the cool marble lightly, anklets chiming like warning bells. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she neared the sacred fire. The veil was too thick. She couldn't breathe. Her palms were damp beneath the layers of gold bangles forced onto her wrists.
"Walk slowly. Don't trip. Don't lift your head," her adoptive mother hissed through clenched teeth earlier. "If he sees you're not her——he'll kill us all."
Aranya had nodded. What choice did she have?
Now, standing just steps away from the man who was now her husband, she could feel the heat of his anger like flames licking her skin. Though he hadn't looked at her—not once—his presence was like a blade against her throat. Cold. Unforgiving.
The priest's chant began.
"Havan shuru karte hain…"
(Let's begin the ceremony)
The fire was lit. The sacred flames danced, casting golden shadows over Veer's face—shadows that made him look even more brutal, like a prince carved from stone.
"Bring the bride forward,"the priest announced.
Aranya sat beside him, barely brushing his side. The warmth of his body was near, yet he was oceans away. Her knees trembled, but she kept her head bowed. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers curled in tightly, nails biting into skin. She dared not lift her eyes.
The court watched in eerie silence.
The garland exchange followed. A servant handed her the fragrant jasmine mala. Her hands shook as she reached forward to slip it around his neck. He did not bend.
She stood for a moment, hesitating.
Then he slightly inclined his head, just enough for her to complete the ritual. The scent of his cologne—a dark mix of oud and sandalwood—filled her lungs as she leaned close. His hands moved next, strong and efficient, completing the gesture without pause or emotion.
Not a single word passed between them.
"Now for the kanyadaan," the priest declared.
Her adoptive father approached with a silver tray, hands trembling. He didn't look her in the eye. No one did. She was no longer a person—just a body to fill the bride's role.
Veer placed his hand above hers during the symbolic offering. His palm was large, rough, and heavy. She flinched slightly.
He didn't notice.
Or maybe he did—and simply didn't care.
Then came the most sacred moment.
The saat phere.
Seven circles around the holy fire, sealing the bond between husband and wife.
He rose first. His movements were fluid, commanding. Every step he took was filled with purpose, like a man marching into battle.
The priest called out the vows.
"Pehla phera—may we have nourishment..."
She followed behind, the silk of her lehenga dragging across the marble. Her steps were unsure, her gaze never leaving the ground. As each vow echoed into the night, she repeated it in a whisper that only the fire could hear.
"Dusra phera—may we grow in strength..."
She stumbled slightly. Her heart was thundering now. Every circle tightened the noose.
"Teesra phera—may we walk in wealth and prosperity..."
He didn't offer a hand. Didn't even glance her way.
By the seventh phera, her throat was dry. Her lips trembled as she repeated the final vow:
"Sathva phera—may we remain companions, loyal and true."
A lie.
A beautiful lie.
The crowd erupted in applause. Drums roared once more. Aranya felt her body jerk slightly as the ceremonial red veil was adjusted by a lady-in-waiting. Still, the prince made no effort to lift it. No words of welcome. No gesture of warmth.
The priest declared the final rites.
"Apply the sindoor."
A royal attendant handed the small golden box to Veer. He opened it without looking down. Dipped his fingers into the red powder. Then, finally—finally—he leaned forward.
Aranya felt the briefest brush of fingers at her parting. Her breath caught.
It was done.
They were Husband and wife.
SHE WAS NOW HIS...
But not once… had he looked at her face.
Not once… had he asked her name.
He stood and turned, his voice sharp. "Escort her to my chamber."
He didn't offer a hand.
Didn't walk beside her.
He left.
Aranya sat frozen for a moment before two royal maids gently helped her up. Her legs shook as they led her through the royal courtyard, past rows of silent guards, and toward the private quarters of the palace. She couldn't hear the drums anymore. Only the pounding of her heart.
As she was led into the candlelit inner hall, the full weight of the bridal jewels made her stagger. Her veil was still in place. Her face still hidden. And her soul—quietly shattering.
She was married to a man who wanted another.
And now, she was the queen in name only.
The unwanted queen of Rajasthan....
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Chapter 2 coming next: The First Night—Silence Behind the Veil
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Author's Note...
Hey sweethearts this is my new novel I just updated this chapter to let you know about the concept I don't start working on it right now maybe after I finish my remaining stories ! (ahh so much work)
Or do you want me to start work on this and complete this first ?
Yes or no?
But I will only start working on this if you guys support me cuz you know naa reader's support are everything for author's,
"if you enjoy reading only then we author's enjoy writing so try to support every author if not by gifts but at least you can comment right "
maybe your beautiful comment made her day ?