The first morning in Suryagarh dawned with a silence that felt heavy with ghosts. Viddhi awoke long before the sun had properly crest the horizon, the unfamiliar silks of her bed feeling like a stranger's skin. Dismissing the maids who waited outside her door with a quiet word about needing solitude for morning prayers, she embarked on a solitary, painful pilgrimage through the halls of her past.
Her feet, moving with a will of their own, carried her first to the royal gardens. The same fragrant night-blooming jasmine her mother, Devyani, had loved still clung to the air. She stood by the same marble bench where her mother would sit, pulling a young Vidhika onto her lap to recount grand tales of gods and warriors. Viddhi could almost hear the soft, melodic lilt of her laughter, a sound that had once been the palace's sweetest music. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, the memory was so vivid it was a physical ache.
From there, she drifted towards the practice grounds. The air here was different—it smelled of dust, sweat, and polished metal. She could almost see the phantom of her brother, Veer, his tall frame moving with powerful grace, his sword a silver blur in the morning light. The echo of his confident shouts as he trained, his deep, reassuring laughter when he spotted her watching—these sounds haunted the empty arena. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold stone of a pillar where he would often lean, catching his breath. It was damp with morning dew, feeling like cold tears.
Her journey then led her to the throne room. She did not enter, but stood at the massive, carved doorway, peering inside. The morning sun streamed through the high windows, illuminating the majestic lion throne. But in her mind's eye, she did not see Vidhaan seated there. She saw her father, Maharaja Veerendra Pratap. She saw his strong, kind face, his posture radiating a calm, unwavering authority. She remembered sitting on the steps beside the throne as a little girl, listening to him dispense wisdom and justice, his voice a steady, comforting anchor in her world. The room now felt colder, the authority it projected harsher.
Finally, her feet carried her to the one place she had both dreaded and needed to see—the long corridor leading to the family's private wing. It was here, amidst the beautiful arches and serene murals, that her world had ended. As she walked, the memories of that night, usually suppressed with iron will, came flooding back unbidden. The sounds of clashing steel, the shouts of betrayal, the smell of smoke and fear. She reached the exact spot. The marble floor was pristine, scrubbed clean of any physical stain, but for Viddhi, it would forever be marred. It was here she had seen her mother, the noble Maharani Devyani, struck down by a traitor's blade, collapsing in a swirl of silk and a final, gasping breath meant for her daughter's name.
Standing there, the dam finally broke. The regal composure of Maharani Viddhi shattered, and Princess Vidhika's grief erupted. She leaned against the cold wall, her body shaking with silent, heaving sobs that quickly gave way to loud, anguished weeping. A year's worth of suppressed pain, of forced smiles, of carrying the immense weight of her secret, came pouring out. The polished floor witnessed the tears that had been withheld at her wedding, during her farewell, and throughout the grand celebrations.
"Maa... Pitashree..." she whispered between ragged breaths, her voice choked with a sorrow so profound it was a physical pain. "I cannot forgive... I will never be able to forgive." She slid down the wall, hugging her knees. "Bhaiya... where are you? Are you even alive?"
Her tear-filled gaze then drifted towards a small, secluded wing of the palace visible from a nearby window. It was the modest, beautiful home that had been prepared for her and Ayaan. Her husband. The man who had shown her a love that was gentle, passionate, and full of promise, all within the tragically short time fate had allotted them. The memory of his smile, his unwavering support, the future they had dreamed of, brought a fresh wave of tears. He was another soul stolen by Vidhaan's ambition.
But then, as suddenly as the storm had come, it began to recede. The torrent of grief began to crystallize into something harder, sharper, and far more potent: a renewed, unbreakable resolve. She roughly wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, smudging the kohl around her eyes. She pushed herself up from the floor, her body trembling not with weakness, but with a surge of fierce energy.
'Stop crying, Vidhika,' she commanded herself, her inner voice becoming steel. 'This is not a place for mourning. This is the ground you must reclaim. This is the palace where you must deliver justice.'
She stood tall, her fists clenching at her sides until her knuckles were white. She looked towards the throne room, her eyes now dry and blazing with a cold fire.
'Mother, Father, Ayaan... I will get justice for you all. Vidhaan will pay for his crimes. He will kneel before the memory of those he slaughtered.'
'And Bhaiya... wherever you are, I will find you. I swear it. Together, we will restore Suryagarh to its lost glory. We will wipe the stain of this usurper from our home.'
Viddhi walked to a large balcony, facing the rising sun. The golden light washed over her, but it did not warm the ice in her heart. Her eyes, red-rimmed but clear, held no more tears. Instead, they held an iron will, forged in the fires of her loss. She knew, with absolute certainty, that her true war had now begun in earnest. She was a stranger in her own home, but her soul was its true legacy. And she would reclaim it, no matter the cost.
̤: Recognition in the Court
The next day, Raja Vidhaan officially presented Maharani Viddhi to his royal court. The darbaar hall was packed with ministers, generals, and noblemen, all eager to get a look at the woman who had so captivated their formidable king. Viddhi stood beside him on the dais, a step below the throne, dressed in resplendent royal blue and gold silks. A confident, serene smile was perfectly placed on her lips, a masterful veil over the tempest that had raged within her just hours before.
"Maharani Viddhi," Vidhaan announced, his voice filled with unmistakable pride, "these are the esteemed members of my council, the pillars of Suryagarh."
Viddhi offered a graceful, namaste to the assembly, her eyes, however, were not passive. They were active instruments of assessment, scanning each face, reading the subtle tells in their expressions—the genuine curiosity, the sycophantic approval, the guarded skepticism. She was cataloging potential allies, identifying sycophants, and sensing hidden enemies.
It was then that an elderly nobleman stepped forward from the front row. He moved with a slow, dignified grace that commanded respect. His face was lined with age and wisdom, but it was his eyes that caught Viddhi's attention. They held a strange, profound softness, and within their depths, she saw a reflection of the deep, personal pain she herself carried. It was more than just the weariness of age; it was the grief of someone who had lost much.
Raja Vidhaan, noticing his approach, inclined his head in a gesture of genuine respect, a stark contrast to the arrogant nods he gave others.
"Viddhi," Vidhaan said, his tone noticeably warmer. "This is my uncle, Veervar Singh. He is the one who raised me and guided me after my own parents passed. He is the wisest man I know."
Viddhi's heart hammered for a different reason now. This was the man who had shaped the monster. She looked into Veervar Singh's eyes, searching for the cruelty that must lie within, but she found none. Instead, she found a quiet, penetrating intelligence and that inexplicable sorrow. She offered him a deep, respectful bow, her mind racing. Was this sorrow for the boy he had lost to ambition? Or was it for the family his nephew had destroyed? In that brief, silent exchange, Viddhi knew that the political landscape of Suryagarh was far more complex than she had imagined