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The air was unusually quiet in the Raghuvanshi Palace. Even the birds seemed to have silenced their songs as if they sensed the weight that hung in the corridors like ancient cobwebs.
Aarohi had woken up to an unfamiliar hush. No clinking of silver trays. No faint sound of classical music echoing through the stone arches. Just… silence.
She walked out of her chamber barefoot, her dupatta loosely falling over her shoulder, trailing behind her like a whisper. The guards didn’t stop her—they never did—but their eyes followed her with the kind of stillness that made her stomach turn.
She wandered through the palace’s left wing—one she had never dared enter. Until now.
The doors were carved in dark mahogany, older than the rest of the palace. A lion-shaped knocker hung on the wood like a warning.
Still, her fingers trembled forward. Click. It wasn’t locked.
Inside, the air turned cold. Cobwebs hung like forgotten memories. Old paintings stared at her—eyes too real, expressions too sad.
One canvas stopped her. A young girl… maybe 17… in bridal red… her eyes hauntingly similar to Aarohi’s.
She blinked. The nameplate read:
> “Rajkumari Devyani Raghuvanshi – 1998–?”
The end date was a question mark.
She backed away, heart racing. Why didn’t anyone speak of her? Who was she?
“You shouldn’t be here.”
A deep voice echoed behind her.
Aviraj.
He was dressed differently today—black kurta, sleeves rolled, no royal embroidery. His eyes were darker than usual. Guarded.
Aarohi swallowed. “Who is she?”
He paused. A storm crossed his face.
“Someone the palace buried... because she knew too much.”
“What happened to her?”
He stepped closer. “She disappeared the night before her coronation. No body. No note. Just blood on the marble.”
Aarohi shivered. “And no one looked for her?”
“No one wanted to. Not even the Rajmata.”
Silence.
And then, without warning, Aviraj pulled something from his pocket—a locket, old and rusty.
“She left this behind… and it has your birthmark inside.”
Aarohi’s world tilted.
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’m saying… maybe she didn’t vanish. Maybe she lived. Maybe she had a child.”
Her knees nearly buckled. The locket slipped from his hands into hers.
Inside was a mirror… cracked. And behind it, a tiny folded note.
It read:
> “They will come for her. Protect the blood. Even if it costs your crown.”
The silence th
at followed wasn't empty. It was full of prophecy.
---
Chapter end
"A Royal Decree of the Quill: The Noble Pursuit of Fan Allegiance" In the hallowed halls of the Written Realm, where ink flows like the lifeblood of kingdoms long forgotten, and parchments whisper secrets beneath candlelight, there resides a sovereign—neither garbed in gold nor armored in steel—but cloaked in words, crowned by imagination, and armed with the pen. This sovereign is none other than the Writer, the eternal monarch of stories. To this noble Ruler of Realms, the greatest treasure is not the weight of gold or the praise of kings—it is the loyal allegiance of the realm’s people: the Readers, the Admirers, the Followers, and most esteemed of all, the Fans. And so, beneath moonlit scrolls and beside ancient inkstones, the Writer crafts a charter—a manifesto carved in prose and passion—setting forth the grand ambitions for fan support. These ambitions are not born from vanity but from a sacred bond between creator and beholder, a covenant of hearts bound by story.
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