Chapter 1: The Night of Ruin

On the day our kingdom fell, Didi hurriedly wrapped me in nothing but fear and shadows, hiding me away as chaos thundered through the palace.

A hot, humid wind swept through the shattered jharokhas, thick with the bitter smoke of burning sandalwood. My breath caught in my chest as I crouched in the darkness, Didi’s trembling fingers digging into my arm—the weight of her gold anklets pressing into her skin, sweat beading on her brow. The faint scent of burnt ghee drifted in from the kitchens, mixing with the acrid smoke.

"I am willing to offer myself, to calm the king's heart."

Her voice stayed steady, but her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her dupatta—like a girl on her first day at sasural. The heavy gold of her anklets jingled a final time before she walked away from me, as if leaving behind the last thread of our childhood.

Raghav Singh’s laughter rang out, sharp and merciless. He seized my sister and strode into the palace hall, his boots thudding on marble as I pressed my back against the cold wall, shivering. For a moment, silence stretched—broken only by the distant clatter of bangles and the wail of a conch shell, a sound that heightened the dread in my bones.

Thus, the once world-renowned Princess Meera gave herself to the new ruler, Raghav Singh.

The name 'Meera'—once songs and festivals in Lucknow’s bazaars, people pausing to watch her palanquin pass—now became a whispered warning among servants who tiptoed past her door at night.

My sister and I, in the end, had our lives spared.

But what kind of living was it, when every day began with the memory of that night? I remember the long silence after, when Didi returned to me, her eyes hollow, voice lost. Why did Didi choose pain for herself? Was I worth it? The guilt clung to me like another skin.

Ten years later, my sister summoned me to the palace, intent on arranging my marriage as a concubine to Prince Parth, Arjun Singh.

She had me brought to her rooms—air heavy with agarbatti, the windows shut tight against the low hum of whispered gossip from the kitchen. She made me sit and held my hand so tightly it hurt, as if afraid I would vanish again.

To become the concubine of a leisure prince was a hard-won mercy she had fought desperately to secure for me.

She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, refusing to let them fall.

The way she tried to smile, straightening my hair behind my ear, reminded me of childhood monsoons—when she’d spin stories to lull me to sleep, pretending the world outside was not broken.

"Ananya, go with Prince Parth to his estate. He’ll look after you, I promise. No one will dare trouble you there."

Her voice faltered at the end, the kind of falter that comes only when you have nothing left but hope you don’t believe in. Outside, a koel called, its song sharp as a broken promise.

I lowered my head, my gaze cold and unwavering, fidgeting with the bangles at my wrist.

So-called peace was never what I wanted.

The hatred for my ruined homeland, the pain of my slaughtered kin, and the humiliation my sister had endured for so many years—I could never forget.

I wanted to sow chaos in the court and overturn the Singh dynasty.

As I looked at her, a strange calm filled me, as if ten years of burning had forged my resolve into something cold and sharp. I was Ananya Rathore, last daughter of a fallen house, and I would not let our bloodline be forgotten so easily.

That night, as the palace slept, I made my first promise to the ghosts of Lucknow: I would not rest until every debt was paid.