Chapter 3: Ashes and Aftermath

During the spring hunt, the new Maharaja finally remembered me—the failed contender for the throne—and summoned me to the hunting grounds.

When it was time to depart, a young attendant arrived.

By the carriage, laughter echoed.

The new Maharaja’s voice was light. "I just made a wrong move—I won’t play this one."

Amit replied, "Your Majesty, once you place the piece, there’s no taking it back."

"So what if I regret it?"

Amit’s sigh was patient. "It doesn’t matter. You are the Maharaja. Whatever you do is right."

The new Maharaja laughed, then started coughing.

The young attendant quietly announced me.

I kept my eyes lowered and entered the carriage, kneeling and bowing. "Your servant Rajeev greets Your Majesty. May Your Majesty live forever."

A hush fell.

The Maharaja coughed, then spoke gently: "It’s only been a few days, and you’re already so obedient. In the end, you’ve grown distant from me."

I kept my head down. "Your servant does not dare."

The new Maharaja sounded displeased. "Don’t kneel. Get up."

I stood.

I saw Amit holding a bowl, stirring nashpati sherbet, waiting for it to cool before offering it to the Maharaja. "Drink."

The nashpati sherbet shimmered, its sweet scent filling the small space. I remembered when Amit served me mango lassi in summer, pressing the cold glass into my palm with a rare smile. Now, his care was reserved for Arjun.

All the gentleness in the world—just never for me.

Amit’s loyalty, from start to finish, belonged to Arjun.

Even the throne was won for Arjun by Amit.

Once, I was my father’s favourite, but in the end, Arjun was chosen.

Amit delivered the decree.

I didn’t believe it, nor did the ministers.

But Amit overruled all, removed dissenters, and forced Arjun onto the throne.

He knew how much I yearned to be Maharaja.

He knew what Amma and I sacrificed for the throne.

He knew that between Arjun and me, only one could survive.

He knew everything.

But he chose Arjun.

Amit always chose Arjun.

It was foolish to think I could compete.

Only after my fall did I realise—what was never mine could not be taken.

Now that I have nothing, I try to accept it.

I am a son of the royal house—what servant could I not have?

Is it worth grieving over a eunuch?

But the words rang hollow, echoing in the marble chambers of my heart. I repeated them, hoping one day I’d believe them.

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When Arjun played chess with me, he said I was no longer young and would arrange my marriage.

The chessboard, ivory and rosewood pieces set between us, gleamed. Arjun moved a pawn, his face unreadable. I watched his hands, wondering if he saw me as another piece to be moved.

I was frightened, yet grateful, and thanked him stiffly for his favour.

The words came out formal, for the servants more than for him. I folded my hands, bowing my head as custom demanded.

Amit lowered his gaze, turning his sandalwood prayer beads—click, click, click. Was he praying for me, or for himself?

That afternoon, Arjun sent portraits of eligible women. I examined them in the carriage.

They were daughters of former Second Prince supporters, now loyal officials and generals.

Arjun wanted to bind me to him with marriage.

He feared for his throne.

To me, Arjun was too soft, too mindful of reputation, too slow to deal with me.

If I had ascended, I’d have finished him in one stroke.

The thought chilled me. When did compassion become a flaw in our bloodline?

When Amit arrived, I’d picked two.

He picked up the sheets, examining them closely.

"The Mehra girl practices martial arts—she’s fierce. You can’t handle her."

"The Singh girl..." Amit held the paper over the candle, "she’s frail, not a good match."

Both portraits were burned.

The flame caught, curling the painted silk. I watched the faces blacken, the way old hopes turn to ash during Holika Dahan.

I wasn’t angry. Arjun had sent a thick stack—there would always be another.

Propping up my head, I pulled another. "Priya Kapoor—her family is clean, her temperament is good, and she’s adorable."

I remembered the girl, smiling at her portrait. "I’ve seen her—small and round, like a rabbit. Why did the artist make her so ugly?"

Amit said, "The Kapoor girl was engaged a few days ago."

I frowned. "How come I didn’t know?"

Amit snatched the paper from me. "If I say she’s engaged, then she is."

He crumpled it slowly, voice flat. "I’ll tell His Majesty you found none to your liking."

I was displeased. "But I do have one."

Amit’s gaze turned dark. "Your Highness wants to marry?"

His stare was intense, almost possessive. My hand tightened on the chess piece, a thrill of fear and longing running through me.

I sneered. "Why not?"

Amit smiled, raising his hand to cup my face. "If I and Your Highness have our wedding night, where will the bride go?"

His touch was cool, thumb tracing my jaw. I tried to turn away, but his grip held me.

"Amit. You wouldn’t dare."

"Does Your Highness really think I wouldn’t?" Amit smiled—a calm madness glinting in his eyes.

His gaze trapped me. The world narrowed to just us—prince and tormentor, chained by memory and resentment.

"With me here, Your Highness still wants someone else?"

Amit’s touch made my waist weak, and I clung to his sleeve.

He lifted my face, lips brushing mine. "Can anyone else make Your Highness feel this good?"

"Will anyone serve Your Highness better than me?"

Outside, the mango tree rattled in the wind, but inside, I could not move.

His words hung in the air, heavy as the monsoon cloud, and I realised—even in defeat, our game was far from over.