❝𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎.❞

✨𝑷𝑳𝑨𝒀𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ✨

✨𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬 ✨

My grandfather, before he passed away, used to tell me stories of how Swarnagarh was once kissed by the Gods. And, from my experience, I swear it was true. 

I remember waking up at the time of dawn somedays, listening to the sweet voice of Koel singing, peacocks dancing under the Gul mohar trees and the flags of Swarnagarh fluttering high in the air, proudly. Not only the nature surrounding Swarnagarh, but people of our kingdom too. The most loyal, warm spirited and fierce by heart. My father, Raja Rajvardhan Rajput ruled Swarnagarh for the last twenty-seven years, with pure honour, truth and decree. 

I know that we were not the wealthiest kingdom of Bharatvarsha, but our kingdom, its people and its king was always respected by people around it. 

But it seems like respect wasn’t enough. Not even the strength of our army was enough because the siege of our kingdom didn’t happen by war. No burning fields, no elephants, no soldiers fighting against one another, no arrows blotting the sky. Instead, our Swarnagarh was captured by politics. And veiled proposals. And poisoned gifts. Until Swarnagarh was no longer ours. 

My mother had said, “Lies often come dressed in fragrance.” 

I hadn’t understood it then, but I understand it now. 

We offered trade routes, they sieged territories. We promised neutrality, they planted influence. We signed peace treaties, they rewrote borders. We opened our gates, they poisoned our wells. We built alliances, they buried them under thrones. We upheld our word; they twisted theirs into chains.

Rudrapratapgarh. 

They took our kingdom with words instead of weapons. They dressed treachery in silks and called it diplomacy. They wrote their victory into the soil before the war could ever begin. 

My father called it politics.

I call it betrayal.

And now, the same king who betrayed Swarnagarh offers peace once more.

In the form of a marriage.

To his son.

They call it peace. They call it marriage.

But I hear the war drums in every vow they offer.

He wants to tame a lioness with vows.

But he made one mistake.

He thought I would marry his sword, but I chose the one who hasn’t lifted a sword in years. 

Power does not always roar. Sometimes, it watches, listens, learns, and then strikes exactly where it hurts most.

This is not going to be just a marriage.

This is going to be a reclamation of what is taken from us, of who we are expected to become and of every story they try to bury beneath their throne.

This is not going to be a love story.

This is going to be revenge, dressed in royal red.