Chapter 5: Blood and Silk

Raghav Singh flew into a rage. In his fury, he snatched a sandalwood fan from a nearby maid and hurled it hard at Kabir Singh.

The fan split mid-air, scattering sandalwood dust everywhere. A few maids gasped, ducking for cover.

"Useless son!"

The fan struck Kabir Singh's shoulder and neck. He frowned but did not move, only continued to bow, never mentioning the possibility of being drugged, taking all the blame upon himself.

There was something strangely noble in the way he stood, the welt already rising on his neck.

"It is all my fault. I could not restrain myself and committed a grave mistake, defiling Miss Meera's purity. I beg Father to grant her to me in marriage."

He spoke with humility, not looking up once, the folds of his kurta stained with sweat.

Raghav Singh was livid, trembling as he pointed at Kabir Singh, nearly losing his senses.

His eyes bulged with anger, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword as if itching for violence.

"You are mad! Today is your aunt's birthday banquet, and you do such a disgraceful thing. Besides, she was meant for Prince Parth, your future sister-in-law. How could you... how could you..."

He spat the words as if they burned his tongue. The courtiers exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale.

His gaze swept to me. Suddenly, he drew his sword and thrust it straight at me.

The air seemed to freeze. I saw the blade flash, saw my own reflection in the steel for a heartbeat.

"This woman has bewitched you. I will kill her right now!"

He had led troops in rebellion, fought in countless battles—the sword moved as fast as lightning. I had no time to dodge and could only close my eyes, resigned to my fate.

My heart thudded in my chest. I thought of my sister, of Rajpur, of the rose garden where we played as children. I prayed quietly, "Ma, if you are watching, please hold me now."

But someone threw himself in front of me, shielding me tightly. In his urgency, Raghav Singh barely managed to halt his sword, but the blade still pierced Kabir Singh's shoulder. Blood seeped out.

Kabir’s grip on my wrist was iron-strong, his body sheltering me from the king’s rage. The blood blossomed on his kurta, dark and terrifying.

Raghav Singh pointed at Kabir Singh, so enraged he was almost deranged.

The veins in his forehead stood out, his voice shaking. Even the courtiers looked away in fear.

"You, you... you would take a sword for a woman?"

Maharani Gautami, who had not dared make a sound, saw Raghav Singh draw his sword and hurried out to kneel, pleading for Kabir Singh. The sound of her bangles hitting the marble was lost in the chaos. She folded her hands, her forehead pressed to the ground, voice trembling.

"Your Majesty, please calm your anger. Do not harm the crown prince over this."

She turned her head, glaring at me with hatred.

Her eyes were like burning coals, accusing me of every calamity that had befallen her family. I lowered my gaze, unwilling to meet her fury.

"Just a lowly woman, dispensable. If the crown prince insists, Your Majesty can simply decree her as his concubine. Why harm the father-son bond over this?"

I knelt, head bowed. Maharani Gautami's gaze seemed to want to devour me alive. She must hate me bitterly, blaming me for ruining Kabir Singh's reputation and causing him to be scolded by Raghav Singh, nearly destroying his bright future.

I kept my head low, feeling the weight of her anger like a stone on my back. The scent of her sandalwood perfume was sharp, almost choking.

But my sister—who would stand up for her?

Before the fall of our country, she too was praised by everyone in Lucknow as Princess Meera. Her life should not have turned out like this.

Her laughter once filled the palace gardens, echoing off the marble. Now, no one dared to mention her past.

She and the heir of the Rajput noble family, Vikram Chauhan, were betrothed since childhood, growing up together. After coming of age, she should have married her beloved and lived in harmony until old age—not been forced to submit to the over-forty Raghav Singh.

I remembered how they used to exchange glances during Holi, their faces streaked with colour and joy. All that was stolen by a single night of violence.

My eyes suddenly filled with tears.

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to stay silent. My tears would not bring back what we had lost.

The day after my sister was granted the title Lady Meera was the celebration banquet for Raghav Singh's enthronement. She sat beside me, trembling with fear.

Her saree was too bright, the jewels too heavy, as if she were dressing for her own funeral. I reached for her hand under the table, squeezing her fingers in silent support.

Raghav Singh gave her a lecherous smile.

His eyes roamed over her face, and I felt sick to my stomach. The courtiers laughed too loudly at his jokes, trying to curry favour.

"Since my beloved consort is so sensible, I will give you a great gift."

The words sent a chill down my spine. I knew nothing good could come from a man who enjoyed watching others squirm.

That gift was Vikram Chauhan's head, blood still dripping, served on a silver platter.

The silver flashed in the lamplight, the red more vivid than any gulal thrown during Holi. My sister’s grip on my hand tightened so much I almost cried out.

My sister's face turned ashen in an instant. Raghav Singh, wiping his dagger, said:

He wiped the blade with a piece of muslin, never taking his eyes off her. There was a twisted pride in his smile.

"When I entered Lucknow, all the noble families surrendered except Vikram's household, who swore to fight to the death—especially this heir, who wounded my general with an arrow. After being captured, he even insulted me. Just now, I was too angry and had to kill him."

He smiled and turned to my sister. "Does my beloved consort like this gift?"

The silence in the room was like a suffocating blanket. Even the musicians put down their instruments.

My sister gritted her teeth. She smiled at Raghav Singh.

Her lips trembled, but her eyes were steely. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen.

"Your Majesty, may I borrow your sword?"

Raghav Singh handed her the sword, watching with interest.

My heart stopped. I prayed she wouldn’t do anything rash, not with all those eyes on her.

My sister took a deep breath, then stabbed the sword into Vikram Chauhan's mouth. Turning to Raghav Singh, she smiled sweetly.

Her saree’s pallu slipped from her shoulder as she wiped the blade, the gesture strangely intimate and chilling at once.

"I like it very much. Since he dared disrespect Your Majesty, I will cut out his tongue. What does Your Majesty think?"

Raghav Singh laughed and embraced her. But I did not miss how her hands never stopped trembling, nor how that night, back in her palace, she wept bitterly, hiding her face in her pallu, clutching the token of love Vikram had given her.

She pressed her face into a silk handkerchief, the sound of her sobs muffled by pillows. I watched from the doorway, powerless to comfort her.

She knew well that Raghav Singh was violent and suspicious by nature. If she showed the slightest longing for the dead, she and I would meet an even worse end.

So she told me she could only do this—only wait until after death to seek Vikram's forgiveness.

The moonlight shone through the window that night, painting silver lines on her face. She whispered his name in her sleep.

She stroked my face, murmuring,

"Ananya, we must both live well."

Her thumb brushed away my tears, her voice soft and tired.

I lowered my eyes, fidgeting with my bangles.

But, Didi, a peaceful life is not what Ananya desires.

I want them all to pay the price they owe.

My anger was a living thing, coiling in my belly. I would wait. I would make them remember what they had done.