Page 16 of The Promised Queen
I bow my head respectfully. “Namaste, Rajmata.”
But she raises her hand slightly, her voice crisp, cold enough to sting. “This temple is not for outsiders. You may stop at the steps.”
The words land heavy, sharper than I expected. Something in my chest twists, but I force myself to keep my face neutral.
Sitara jumps in quickly, “Rajmata, she’s not an outsider. She’s—”
“She is no Maharani in my eyes,” Rajmata cuts in smoothly, her voice carrying enough authority to silence the temple bells themselves. “A promise may bind the King, but not the heavens. Do not defile this place with pretenses.”
The insult is deliberate, her gaze steady as if daring me to respond.
Sitara grips my arm tighter, her voice soft, pleading. “Rajmata, please… she means no harm.”
Rajmata’s eyes don’t leave me. “Harm is not always in action. Sometimes it is in presence.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck, my palms clenching at my sides. For a second, I consider staying silent, swallowing it down likeI’ve always done with stray barbs thrown my way. But something inside me resists. Not today. Not here.
I lift my chin, meeting her gaze directly. My voice is steady, low, but it doesn’t waver. “With all due respect, Rajmata… I didn’t ask for this place, or this title. I didn’t even know of the vow that bound me here. But if I am insulted as though I forced myself into this family, then I will not remain silent. This marriage was Maharaj’s vow, his words, his decision—not mine. If you have anger, direct it at him, not me. I will not tolerate being treated as if I begged for this.”
The silence after my words is deafening. Even Sitara seems frozen, her grip slackening on my arm.
I bow once, briefly, then turn on my heel and walk away before anyone can say another word.
Behind me, Sitara whispers my name, but she doesn’t follow. Neither does the maid who had been trailing behind us since morning. Of course she doesn’t. Why would she risk her position after I’ve just spoken against the Rajmata herself? Loyalty bends easily when wages are at stake.
As I step down the temple stairs, my heart is pounding, each beat echoing in my ears. My hands tremble slightly, but not from regret—from the adrenaline of finally speaking out.
If anyone dares complain to Maharaj about this, I know what I will say: I won’t tolerate comments that reduce me to a beggar of this throne. Because I am not. I didn’t plead for this marriage, didn’t weave traps for it. It was his vow, his need, and I refuse to let anyone paint me otherwise.
For the first time since entering this palace, I feel strangely steady. Hurt, yes. Alone, certainly. But steady.
And maybe, that’s enough for today.
CHAPTER 13
The Sound of Ghungroos
DEVRAJ
The meeting stretches longer than it should. A dozen men in pressed white kurtas and tailored suits argue across the polished teak table, their voices rising and falling as if each believes volume is equal to reason. Numbers are spoken, policies suggested, graphs shown on the projector. At some point, the debate narrows to one question—how much more can we demand from the people without turning their resentment into rebellion?
I listen, intervene when necessary, but I mostly let them argue. I was raised to understand that power is often in silence; my presence is enough. They look at me before finishing their sentences, searching for approval they are too afraid to name aloud.
When the final draft is drawn, the Chief Minister himself clears his throat and reads it out. Taxes on luxury imports, a marginal increase on tourism services, and stricter controls on land leases. Practical. Manageable. Enough to keep the treasury flowing without bleeding the people dry.
I nod once. That is all the confirmation they need. The meeting ends.
As I rise, the scrape of my chair against marble echoes in the chamber. Papers shuffle, chairs push back, but all I notice is the way the CM himself bends slightly, bowing before me as though centuries of monarchy still anchor his spine. A king without a throne is still a king, it seems.
I leave without another word. The heavy doors close behind me, sealing away the stifling scent of politics and paper. The corridor stretches long, lined with arches and oil paintings of men who ruled before me, each frame a reminder that duty does not end with signatures and speeches.
My shoulders ache, my head pounds with the residue of debate, but the palace is quiet. It’s late enough that most wings are empty, shadows stretching across sandstone walls, broken only by the faint glow of lanterns. I tell myself I’ll go straight to my chamber, let the silence swallow me for a few hours.
And then I hear a faint metallic rhythm, sharp and delicate all at once. Ghungroos.
The sound is so out of place in the stillness that I pause mid-step, convinced I’ve imagined it. But there it is again—soft, patterned, threaded with music I cannot hear but can somehow feel.
Curiosity pulls me before thought does. I follow the sound through the side corridor, down the steps into the garden attached to the private wing.
