Chapter 12: The Golden Cage

Several attendants seized my hairpin, quickly removed all sharp objects from me, and stuffed a silk handkerchief in my mouth so I couldn’t bite my tongue.

They moved with silent efficiency—eyes averted, faces blank. I thrashed, helpless.

Then they restrained my limbs and carried me to a secret chamber.

The walls echoed with my muffled screams, my heart pounding in terror.

He finally made his move.

I knew this was the moment I had feared all my life.

A king who overturned the world, who had to possess everything he desired.

Even the gods trembled at his ambition. No law, no person, nothing could stop him.

Kaveripur was his.

The city, the people, even the very stones of the palace.

Shreya was, too.

I was nothing but another jewel in his collection—one he had long coveted.

He removed the handkerchief from my mouth.

My lips were bruised, my voice hoarse, but I glared at him with all the hatred I could muster.

I seized the chance and bit at the artery in his neck.

My teeth sank deep, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. He roared in pain, slapping me hard.

I just wanted to die with him, but was slapped unconscious.

The blow sent me spiralling into darkness. My last thought was of Kabir.

Somewhere far above, the city’s bells tolled midnight. My war had just begun.

After that, I entered the darkest time of my life.

Time lost meaning. The air was stale, the light dim. I forgot the sound of my own name.

The Maharaj locked me in a golden cage underground.

I could hear the drip of water, the scurrying of rats. My only company was silence and pain.

In a place with no one around, there was no need to hide his inner ugliness.

His mask fell away—only cruelty remained.

He tortured me in every way, trying to break me into a forbidden pet.

He tried every trick—bribing me with sweetmeats, threatening with a hunter’s whip, even promising freedom if I called him “Pitaji.”

But just looking at him made me want to vomit.

His face haunted my dreams; I woke retching, clutching my stomach.

Even his touch made me wish for immediate death.

I prayed to every god I knew for release.

But he made sure I could neither live nor die.

Every day was a new torment. He would not let me slip away.

“You are so much better than your mother. Now I finally understand why my son would give up the throne for you. If I were him, I’d do the same.”

His words were poison. I shut my eyes, wishing him dead.

I didn’t know how long I was imprisoned by him.

The seasons blurred. My body grew weak, my spirit thinner.

A month?

Or longer?

A year?

I lost count. Only the pain remained.

Or longer?

The walls felt like they were closing in. I remembered the palace gardens in spring, the smell of champa flowers, the laughter of my lost brothers. I forgot the sound of laughter.

I was so repulsed by him that I couldn’t help but vomit all over him.

His rage was terrible. He stormed out, leaving me in darkness.

After that, whatever food they forced on me, I threw it up.

Even water tasted foul. My body grew lighter, almost weightless.

Perhaps unwilling to let me die, the Maharaj called for the palace doctor.

He appeared, old and trembling, eyes darting nervously.

The doctor said I was pregnant.

A hush fell over the room. My hands flew to my stomach, disbelief flooding me.

The Maharaj was stunned.

His face twisted, shock and anger warring within him.

He had few heirs and always valued his bloodline.

His voice shook as he demanded answers. I stared at the wall, refusing to meet his gaze.

How could I be pregnant at this time?

His eyes narrowed. I knew what he suspected, but I kept silent.

The doctor said I was one month pregnant and needed careful care.

He spoke in soft, careful tones, glancing at me from beneath lowered lashes.

The Maharaj held me, mocking me.

His grip was iron, his words honeyed poison.

“Shreya, you’ve been with me here for two months. This child can only be mine. After the Crown Prince’s wedding in a few days, I’ll take you out.”

His smile was sly, triumphant. I shivered in disgust.

I stared at him in disbelief.

Was he so blind, so sure of his victory?

He smiled slyly, threatening, “Shreya, if anything happens to this child, the Crown Prince, the Prince of Fortune, and your mother will all be buried with it.”

His voice was low, deadly. I clenched my fists, refusing to let him see my fear.

Strange, he actually cared so much for this illegitimate child?

I wondered what twisted love could move such a man.

Stranger still was the look in the doctor’s eyes, as if he had something to say to me.

His gaze flicked to mine, full of secrets.

I nodded in agreement, then pointed at the doctor, then at my belly.

I mouthed, "Please stay," hoping the Maharaj would understand.

“Is Shreya still unwell?”

His voice was impatient, suspicious.

I nodded, then pointed again at the doctor.

I touched my stomach, then the doctor’s hand, repeating the gesture until he understood.

The Maharaj understood. “You’re worried about the child and want the doctor to stay with you?”

He grunted, then waved his hand. The doctor bowed, relief washing over his face.

I nodded.

My heart raced. Perhaps this was my only chance.

The Maharaj, in a good mood, left the doctor with me, while he himself hurried off on urgent business.

His footsteps faded. Only then did the doctor dare to speak.

Once certain the Maharaj had left, the doctor dared to speak.

His whisper was a lifeline. He bent close, voice trembling.

“The princess is three months pregnant. Please take care of yourself.”

My breath caught. Kabir. My child. Hope blossomed, fragile as a dew-laden lotus.

Three months?

I pressed my palm to my stomach, whispering a silent prayer to Maa Durga for strength.

This child was resilient, having survived in my womb for three months.

I vowed to protect it, no matter the cost.

Knowing I could not speak, the doctor lowered his voice and told me, “I am one of the Crown Prince’s people.”

Relief and gratitude surged through me. I gripped his hand in thanks.

I nodded, indicating I understood. Soon after, hurried footsteps approached.

I braced myself, praying for strength.

I thought the Maharaj had returned. Unexpectedly, it was Kabir.

His face was drawn, eyes rimmed red. He hesitated on the threshold, afraid to hope.

He had grown thin and haggard.

Every line of suffering was etched into his face.

I gestured for him not to approach, and he truly dared not come near.

I shook my head, tears blurring my vision.

“Kill him.”

The words scraped my throat, but I forced them out. "Kill the Maharaj. End this. For us. For Kaveripur."

This was the first thing I ever said to Kabir since we met.

His eyes widened in shock, but I saw resolve kindle there—a spark of the man I loved, ready at last to fight for me, for us.

For the first time, hope flickered in the darkness—a rebellion not just for a kingdom, but for our own battered hearts.