It had been seven days since the palace attack.

Since the diary.

Since the bullets fires.....

And yet, everything had returned to... normal.

Too normal.

---

Morning Aarti at the Royal Temple

The palace bell rang sharply at 5:45 AM, echoing through the ancient sandstone arches.

Aarohi, draped in an elegant ivory saree with minimal gold embroidery, sat beside Rajmata, holding the aarti thali with steady hands.

Priests chanted mantras in low, rhythmic tones. The flame flickered as Aarohi moved the thali in circular motions before the deity.

Rajmata, watching silently, finally whispered,

“Tumhara hath ab kaapta nahi.”

Aarohi replied softly, “Dar ab bhi hai, par ab samajh aa gaya hai… raani banna ka matlab.”

Rajmata only nodded, expression unreadable.

---

Royal Durbar – Aviraj’s Court

By noon, Aviraj sat in the durbar hall, dressed in a black bandh-gala and a gold-embroidered safa, hearing petitions from village heads, ministers, and legal officers.

He listened, gave verdicts, signed papers. His face was calm — regal, unreadable.

But every fifteen minutes, his eyes would shift slightly toward the door.

Waiting.

Watching.

For her.

At 1:12 PM, Aarohi entered with the palace steward — there to learn “royal responsibility.”

Aviraj’s tone shifted subtly. From commanding to softer, measured.

When she stood beside him, holding the ceremonial scroll, their fingers brushed.

She didn’t pull away this time.

---

Evening Garden Walks

At twilight, Aarohi walked the palace gardens — now heavily guarded — surrounded by marigold hedges and white lilies. A faint breeze carried the scent of mogra.

She paused at a marble bench.

Aviraj appeared from behind a pillar, quietly walking up to her.

“Tumhe phool pasand hai?”

She nodded. “Zinda cheezein pasand hai. Mahal ke patthar toh sirf khamoshi rakhte hain.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Tum khamoshi ko bhi jeet leti ho.”

A moment of quiet stretched between them.

“Ek sawal poochhun?” she asked, not meeting his eyes.

He tilted his head. “Hamesha.”

“Agar main is rajmahal ki asli vaaris hoon... kya tum mujhe usi izzat se dekhoge? Ya sirf apni patni ke roop mein?”

Aviraj didn’t speak for a moment. Then leaned close, voice low and honest:

“Main tumhe har roop mein chahta hoon. Rani, patni, ya talwar uthane wali.”

Aarohi blinked, unsure whether to smile or be scared of what that meant.

---

But beneath the calm...

In the west wing, a shadow moved quietly between shut doors. Slipping a message under Rajmata’s chamber.

A blood-red seal on white paper.

> "The girl is playing queen.

Should we let her believe it much longer?"

Rajmata read it that night, alone in her prayer room.

She placed it beside a flickering diya and whispered:

“Ek shatranj ki chaal kabhi jaldi nahi chalni chahiye. Let her taste peace… before I take it all.”

---

The morning sun cast a honey-gold glow over the palace courtyard. Birds chirped their familiar tune, and the gentle rustle of silk whispered as Aarohi twirled barefoot on the grass, her laughter echoing softly through the marbled arches. Aviraj leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, watching her with an amused smile.

“You know,” he said, feigning a frown, “Queens aren’t supposed to steal mangoes from the royal orchard.”

Aarohi held up the stolen fruit like a trophy. “What’s the point of being queen if I can’t break a few rules?”

He walked over, took the mango from her hand, and took a bite. “Then let’s break them together.”

They spent the day away from politics and shadows—sneaking into the kitchens to steal laddoos, racing horses along the palace trail, and even painting on old scrolls like misbehaving children in royal garb. In those fleeting hours, the weight of their crowns slipped off their heads.

But peace, as always, was temporary.

Far from the palace, in the dilapidated haveli near the old city ruins, shadows stirred. The air was thick with incense and something fouler—like betrayal wrapped in velvet.

A man stepped forward, his face veiled by a saffron scarf, eyes burning with ambition. “Tonight, we sow doubt. Just one whisper. A forged letter in the wrong hands… and the queen will never see it coming.”

A woman beside him, her bangles clinking, nodded. “Divide them before they grow stronger. Aviraj trusts too easily. Let’s poison the trust before it blooms.”

Back in the palace, Aarohi leaned against Aviraj as they watched the sunset paint the sky. “You ever feel like something is about to change?” she asked quietly.

He looked down at her. “Every time I hold your hand, I hope nothing ever does.”

But even as he said it, a messenger was galloping through the eastern gates—his satchel holding the first lie.

The palace was unusually still. No sitar echoed through the sandstone halls, and even the fountains seemed to murmur more quietly than usual. Aarohi sat in the library, a place she had once claimed as her own refuge. Today, it felt different.

She traced the edge of the letter in her hands—the one that had arrived wrapped in gold-trimmed parchment, sealed with the insignia of a house long thought extinct.

It was addressed to her.

And it carried one line that made her heart thud painfully:

“Ask Aviraj about the fire that took your family.”

She read it again. And again.

The ink never changed. But her belief did.

---

Aviraj was in the training grounds, sparring with his guards, sweat gleaming on his forehead. He was laughing—carefree, unaware. Aarohi watched him from the shadows of the balcony, her fingers curled around the railing.

He had never spoken of that night in detail. Said it pained him too much. Said he had tried to save them.

But now…

Did she believe him?

Yes. No. She didn’t know anymore.

That scared her more than the letter itself.

---

Elsewhere, the woman with the bangles removed her veil, smirking as a new message was prepared.

“Now she questions him. And when she asks, he will stumble.”

The man nodded. “And the seed will root. Trust once broken can never be whole again.”

---

That evening, Aarohi didn’t bring up the letter. She watched Aviraj as he traced her fingers absentmindedly, speaking of trivial matters—upcoming festivals, his desire to visit the lakes in Udaipur with her, the little things that once made her smile.

But the smile never reached her eyes.

And Aviraj—sharp as he was—noticed.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally.

She hesitated. “Just tired.”

He nodded, but a flicker of worry passed across his features.

Neither of them sai

d more.

But that night, when Aviraj left her chambers, Aarohi opened her journal and, for the first time in weeks, wrote:

“What if he’s not the man I thought he was?”

End of chapter

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