RANVIJAY VARDHANA POV

The palace does not wake with the sun; it wakes when I do.

At 3:00 AM, the Aravati Palace stretches across acres, its carved arches and sandstone corridors glowing faintly under the moonlight.

I don't need an alarm. My body is a clock set by years of discipline. It was just the habit of a man who knows that if he sleeps too long, the world moves without him.

I sit up on the wide teakwood bed and swing my feet towards the cold marble floor, but I stop.

I let them hover. I close my eyes. I bow my head, not to a king, but to the Earth itself.

"Samudra vasane devi,

Parvatastana mandale,

Vishnupatni namastubhyam,

Paada sparsham kshamasva me."

Only after the prayer is finished do I lower my feet.

The cold of the marble hits my soles—a sharp, grounding bite that travels up my spine but it is a reminder; Before you rule the land, you must belong to it.

I bend forward. My right hand touches the floor, the stone smooth and indifferent. I bring those same fingers to my forehead, then to my heart.

A man who does not honor the ground he walks on will eventually be swallowed by it. And I will not be that man.

I rise slowly, my muscles tensing as I shed the last of sleep. Under my breath, a low vibration starts in my chest, a sound that has echoed in this room for generations.

"Om Namah Shivaya."

The mantra acts like a filter. It settles my pulse. It irons out the chaos of the coming day. it reminds me that above the Crown Prince, there is only Mahadev.

I stand fully. The world is waiting to bow to me. But first, I have bowed to the truth.

I head toward the Eastern chamber. This is where the private family shrine stands. It is positioned so that the first ray of dawn will eventually hit the deity's feet, but for now, it is draped in a thick, holy darkness.

The silver-plated doors are ten feet tall, carved with the ancient symbols of my ancestors—serpents and tridents. I push them open. The hinges don't creak; they breathe.

Immediately, the scent hits me. It is a heavy, intoxicating cloud of sandalwood, burnt camphor, and the damp, earthy smell of hibiscus flowers. This is the smell of my heritage.

My grandfather built this shrine after surviving an assassination attempt. He used to say, "Raj karna hai toh pehle jhukna seekho." (If you wish to rule, learn to bow first.)

I remove my heavy gold watch. I set aside my phone. I discard the layers of silk and status.

Barefoot, I stepped onto the stone floor. The chill of the marble travels up my spine like a current of electricity. Here, I am no longer Kunwar Ranvijay Vardhana. I am just a man.

"Om Namah Shivaya."

My voice is low, a vibrating hum that echoes off the stone walls. I pick up a heavy silver pot. It is filled with a mixture of cold Ganga water, raw milk, and honey. I lift it high, my muscles tensing as I begin the Abhishek. I watch the liquid stream down the dark curve of stone in a rhythmic flow.

"Shakti dena Mahadev," I murmur. (Give me strength, Mahadev.)"

I don't pray for more wealth; I have enough. I don't pray for my enemies to fall; I ensure they do. I pray for the one thing power usually destroys: The clarity to know the right path.

I take a bowl of fresh sandalwood paste. Using my thumb, I apply it to the stone in three horizontal lines. Then, using the same thumb, I press the cooling paste onto my own forehead. The cooling sensation clears my mind. I then offer the Bel Patra.

I close my eyes, and the image of the dam failure flashes behind my lids. The footage of water swallowing homes. My signature on that clearance file.

I lean my forehead against the cold granite of the shrine. The silence here is heavy and thick. For a moment, I feel the weight of the crown lift.

"Bas itna hi, Mahadev.... Jo sahi ho, wahi rasta dikhana." (Just this much, Mahadev.... show me the path that is right.)

"If this is my karma," I murmur quietly, "give me the strength to carry it."

I don't ask for forgiveness; Mahadev rewards accountability, not weakness. People think devotion makes a man soft. They don't understand. Mahadev is destruction restrained. He is the calm before annihilation.

The aarti flame flickers violently. Outside, thunder rolls. I stand up. The worship is over. The King is back.

By sunrise, the palace is fully alive. Security briefings. Political calls. Flood warnings. The Aravati district has been submerged since last night. Three villages are underwater.

Bridges are gone. The advisors suggest sending relief teams and a televised message of sympathy.

The boardroom of the Aravati Secretariat smells of expensive mahogany, old paper, and the cold, metallic scent of fear.

Twenty men sit around the long obsidian table. These are the ministers of the state, the directors of the dam project, and the grey-haired advisors who have spent decades lining their pockets. They are talking loudly, their voices overlapping in a frantic attempt to find a scapegoat for the disaster.

Then, the double doors swing open.

The room goes instantly silent. It isn't a gradual quiet; it is as if someone reached out and cut the oxygen from the air.

I walk in.

I am not wearing the traditional royal robes anymore. I am in a tailored charcoal suit, my white shirt crisp against my tanned skin. My footsteps on the polished floor are steady—slow, heavy, and deliberate.

Every eye follows me. I don't look at them. I don't need to. I know exactly where every man is sitting and exactly how fast his heart is beating.

I pull out the heavy chair at the head of the table. The screech of the wood against the floor is the only sound in the room. I sit. I don't lean back. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, my fingers interlaced.

On my wrist, the dark rudraksha beads peek out from under my French cuffs—a silent reminder that while I wear their suits, I answer to a higher power.

I let the silence stretch. Five seconds. Ten. Thirty.

One of the senior ministers, a man named Verma who has served three generations of my family, clears his throat. His forehead is slick with sweat.

"Hukum.... the situation is.... regrettable," he stammers, pushing a file toward me. "The heavy rainfall was unusual. The dam's structural integrity was within the 10% margin of error. It was an act of God."

I don't touch the file. I don't even look at it. I keep my gaze fixed on Verma until he looks down at his own shaking hands.

"An act of God?" My voice is a low, silk-wrapped blade. It isn't loud, but it carries to every corner of the room. "Since when does God sign off on sub-standard cement, Minister?"

"Hukum Sa, we followed the budget—" another director tries to interject.

I turn my head slowly toward him. He stops mid-sentence.

"The budget was cut by thirty percent three months ago," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "The safety sensors were never installed. The spillways were blocked by illegal construction. And yet," I pause, my eyes turning into shards of black flint, "the clearance file arrived on my desk with a 'Perfect' rating. Who checked the site?"

No one speaks. A fly buzzes against the window.

I flip open the leather-bound folder in front of me. I slide a single photograph across the table. It's a grainy image of a grandmother clinging to a rooftop while the water rises.

"This is not a budget meeting," I say, my tone vibrating with a dark, controlled fury. "This is an accounting of souls. Forty-three families are gone because you chose profit over people."

I stand up. The movement is so sudden that two ministers jump.

"Release the entire Emergency Fund," I command. "Immediately."

"Hukum, that is eight percent of the annual state profit!" the Finance Minister gasps, standing up in protest. "The investors.... the markets.... they will crash!"

I walk around the table until I am standing directly behind him. I lean down, my shadow swallowing him whole.

"If the people of Aravati are underwater," I whisper into his ear, "I don't care if the markets are in the sky. If we build on land, we answer to the land. You have one hour to transfer the funds. If a single rupee is missing, I will not send the police. I will come to your homes myself."

I straighten my suit jacket. I don't wait for their agreement. In this room, there is no democracy. There is only the word of the Vardhana.

"This meeting is over," I announce.

I walk out the same way I came in. The doors thud shut behind me. Jorah is waiting in the hall, holding my keys and a dark raincoat.

"The funds, Hukum?" Jorah asks.

"They will pay," I reply, my jaw tight.

Later that night the palace was quiet. Too quiet.

I stood before the mirror, my fingers moving to my wrists. I removed the silver cufflinks, the metal clicking softly against the marble vanity.

I stared at my reflection. Tailored suit. Perfect hair. Impeccable posture. A king built by expectation.

I remember my father's voice: "Power means never apologizing." But the images from the flood videos—the houses swallowed by water, the terrified faces would not leave me. That water was my responsibility. My signature was on the clearance files.

I stood on the balcony, adjusting the rudraksha bracelet around my wrist. It was the only symbol of who I was beneath the crown. Rain clouds gathered on the horizon, turning the sky an angry, bruised purple.

"Mahadev drank poison to save the world," I said calmly to the darkness. "If my empire caused harm, I will stand in it."

Jorah approached carefully. "The media is contained, Hukum."

I nodded, but I didn't look at him. "Arrange transport."

"To the village, Hukum?"

"Yes. No security. Incognito."

Silence stretched between us. Jorah, my shadow since our military days, turned pale. "You're going alone? Hukum, it's not safe. The roads are rivers of mud."

"That's why I'm going," I replied. "A king does not send sympathy. He shows up. If my empire caused damage, I will stand in the mud myself. Tonight, I am not Ranvijay Vardhana. I am just a man."

I walked to my wardrobe and began to strip away the prince. Off went the tailored charcoal suit that cost more than a village home. Off went the silk shirt.

I pulled on a simple, dark-grey cotton kurta and heavy tactical boots. I wrapped a dark scarf around my neck to hide my face. In the mirror, I finally saw a man who looked like the storm itself.

We slipped out through the service gate. No trumpets. No saluting guards. Just the low, deep growl of the Jeep's engine. As the heavy iron gates groaned open, the wind rushed in, bringing the scent of wet pine and danger.

"Hukum, last warning," Jorah said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "The bus stand area is crawling with local gangs taking advantage of the blackout. It's not safe."

I leaned back. "Good. I haven't felt 'safe' all day. Let's see what the dark has to offer."

The moment we left the palace grounds, the luxury vanished. The paved roads were gone, replaced by treacherous tracks. The Jeep bounced violently, its headlights the only two needles of light in a world of absolute black.

The rain hammered the windshield like gravel. We drove for miles through flooded fields and abandoned carts.

Suddenly, a flash of red darts across the headlights.

"Watch out!" Jorah shouts, slamming on the brakes.

The jeep skids, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt. A figure leaps from the darkness, stumbling directly into our path. She falls, her hands hitting the road.

I look through the rain-streaked glass. She is sprawled on the road, looking small, fragile, and utterly broken against the hard concrete.

But before I can even breathe, movement from the treeline catches my eye. Three men emerge from the darkness. Their faces are slick with rain and twisted grins.

I thrust the door open and stepped out into the downpour. The cold hits me, but I don't feel it. I walk into the light of the headlamps, my shadow stretching long and menacing across the road like a dark omen.

The girl is soaked. Her hair clings to her face in dark, frantic strands, and her dupatta is torn, trailing behind her like a flag. She looks up into the blinding glare of the headlights, her eyes wide with a terrifying mix of hope and horror.

One of them reaches her first, his hand outstretched to grab her arm.

I don't think. I move.

"Chhod do use," I command. My voice isn't loud, but it carries the weight of the throne.

(Let her go.)

The men freeze. They see a tall stranger in the dark, but they don't see the crown. They only see an obstacle.

"Oye! Who are you?" the man shouted, his voice cracking. He shielded his eyes from the glare.

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

I reached him in three strides. He was mid-sentence when I grabbed his wrist.

"If you touch her again," I said, my voice a low, vibrating growl that cuts through the thunder, "you won't have hands to touch anything ever again."

"You don't know who we are, mister!" the second one snarls, pulling a rusted knife from his pocket.

I take one step forward, entering the space where the light hits my face clearly.

"I know exactly who you are," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "You are three men who are about to lose the ability to walk. Choose. Now."

"Beech mein mat pado, musafir," the leader sneers, his hand tightening painfully on the girl's shoulder. "Hamara parivarik mamla hai. Yeh ladki hamari hai."

(Stay out of this, traveler. This is a family matter. The girl belongs to us.)

The girl looks up at me, shivering so hard I can hear her teeth chattering over the roar of the storm.

"Mere ilaake mein," I say, stepping closer until I am inches from his face, "insaan kisi ki amanat nahi hote. Khaas kar tum jaise kutton ki toh bilkul nahi."

(In my district, no person belongs to anyone. Especially not to a pack of dogs like you.)

The man swings at me. It's a clumsy, desperate move. I catch his wrist—I feel the bone creak under my grip and with one fluid motion, I twist his arm and send him crashing into the mud.

Jorah is out of the jeep now, his hand resting on his holster. The other two cowards take one look at his military stance and the cold fury in my eyes and vanish into the dark fields.

The silence that followed was heavy. The only sound was the engine of the jeep idling and the girl's ragged, sobbing breath.

I turned toward her.

She was still on her knees, curled into herself. She was shaking so violently that I could hear her teeth chattering over the sound of the rain. Her red suit was torn at the shoulder, and her skin was deathly pale.

I stood over her. For a long moment, I didn't move. I didn't know how to comfort a stranger. In the palace, people bow; they don't cry at my feet.

"Dariye mat," I said. (Don't be afraid.)

My voice was softer now, but it still had that deep, commanding edge. She slowly lifted her head. Her hair was a matted, wet mess across her face. When she finally looked at me, my breath caught.

Her eyes were wide, filled with a terror so deep it felt like a punch to my chest. They were the color of honey, sparkling with unshed tears in the artificial light of the jeep.

I reached out my hand instinctively, but then I stopped.

The rain-slicked skin of her arm was inches away. My fingers hovered in the cold air. The memory of my grandfather's voice echoed in my mind: "A King who cannot control his own hands can never control an empire."

In the palace, the staff knew me as a man of stone. I had taken a vow years ago, in the same temple where I performed my Abhishek. I had decided that I would never marry—that no woman would ever hold a claim over the Crown Prince of Aravati. To ensure this path, I had sworn never to touch a woman who was not of my own blood.

It was my own cage, my own discipline. My hands were meant for the sword and the pen, not for a woman's touch.

My fingers hovered in the freezing air, inches from her soaked shoulder. I pulled my hand back, clenching it into a fist at my side.

Behind me, Jorah stepped forward, but I signaled him to stay back with a sharp movement of my head.

I could not touch her. But I could not leave her in the dirt.

I reached into the side of the Jeep's cabin and pulled out my Talwar—the ancestral curved sword that never left my side. Its scabbard was wrapped in dark leather, cold and unyielding.

I didn't unsheathe the blade. That would be a threat. Instead, I held the sword horizontally, offering the middle of the scabbard toward her.

"Dariye mat," I said again, my voice like low thunder. "Take hold of the sword. It will support you."

(Don't get scared,)

She looked up, her honey-colored eyes wide and wet with confusion. She saw the dark wood of the scabbard, the silver hilt glinting in the headlights.

Her trembling, scratched hands—red and raw from the road reached out. She hesitated, then gripped the leather casing of the blade. Her touch was light, but I felt the weight of her struggle through the metal and wood.

"Takat lagaiye," I commanded softly. (Apply strength.)

I braced my feet in the mud, my muscles locking like iron. As she pulled herself up, using my sword as a crutch, I felt the tremors in her body through the hilt. 

Slowly, painfully, she rose to her feet. She was so small that she barely reached my chest. Even standing, she swayed, her legs ready to buckle under the weight of her exhaustion.

I didn't reach out to steady her.

"Andar baithiye," I said, stepping aside to let her pass.

(Sit inside the car.)

She walks slowly, her movements mechanical, and stumbled into the backseat, her thin shawl trailing in the mud.

I closed the door with a firm thud, shutting out the roar of the storm.

I stood in the rain for a moment longer, looking at the sword in my hand. The leather was now wet with the mud from her touch. My heart was pounding against my ribs, a strange, restless heat rising in my chest that no ritual or prayer could cool.

"Hukum," Jorah whispered, approaching me. "Your vow.... you didn't...."

"I didn't touch her," I said, my voice tight. I wiped the mud off the scabbard with the edge of my kurta.

I turned to my shadow, my voice cutting through the wind like a blade.

"Jorah, tum wapas jao. Main yahan se akela jaunga,"

(Jorah, you go back. I'll go alone from here.)

Jorah froze. He looked at the girl shivering in the back suspiciously, then back at me. "Lekin Hukum, yeh sahi nahi hai. Yeh ladki khatra ho sakti hai," he protested.

(But Hukum, this isn't right. This girl could be a threat.)

I didn't blink. My gaze was fixed on the dark horizon ahead. "Main dekh lunga. Aur jo security pichhe aa rahi hai, unse kaho ki wapas laut jayein. Yeh mera aadesh hai."

(I'll handle it. And the security following us, tell them to turn back. It's my order.)

I know Jorah. He was born to protect me. Even with my direct command, he would likely keep the security team in the shadows, trailing us from a distance. But for now, I needed the silence. I needed to face the mud without a crown or a shield.

He stared at me for a full second, the silence between us heavy. Then, very quietly under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Mahadev bhi kabhi kabhi mushkil pariksha lete hain.… par aaj toh lagta hai Hukum khud hi lene nikle hain."

(Even Mahadev takes tough tests sometimes.… but today it seems Hukum himself has gone looking for one.)

I didn't react. My face was a mask of stone.

He exhaled sharply, the steam of his breath vanishing into the cold air. He added, even lower, almost to himself: "Ek tufaan kam tha shayad.… ab ek aur le ja rahe hain saath."

(Perhaps one storm wasn't enough.… now he’s taking another one along.)

My jaw tightened slightly as I foled my arms across my chest, listening to the nonsense he never seemed to run out of.

The wind howled, but the silence between us remained unbroken for a long moment. Finally, Jorah cleared his throat. He spoke very respectfully, very carefully, yet there was a glint in his eyes that I knew too well.

"Hukum…. ek baat poochun?" (Hukum.... Can I ask you something?)

I didn't answer. Anyone else would have taken my silence as a warning. Jorah took it as encouragement.

Bhagwan hi jaane kis shubh muhurat mein hamare fathers ne decide kiya tha ki humein saath train karna chahiye. Anyone else would have been trembling at my silence. But Jorah? Jorah saw my silence as an invitation to speak more.

"Itne saalon mein aapne kisi ladki ko apni gaadi mein akela baithne nahi diya.…" He paused, his eyes flicking toward the glass of the back window again. "Aaj tufaan bhi hai…. aur ladki bhi. Rajya ke liye zyada chinta karun.… ya aapke liye?"

The air shifted. Dangerously. I turned my head slowly toward him. I wasn't angry, and I wasn't loud. I was just…. still.

"Jorah."

That was all. The warning was clear. He immediately straightened, his military discipline snapping back into place. "Maafi, Hukum."

But as he began to step back into the rain, the soldier in him couldn't resist one last check. He leaned in closer to me, his voice a conspiratorial mutter.

"Thik hai, Hukum. Akela jaiye. Par agar us ladki ne aapka sar fod diya, toh mujhse mat kehna ki maine warn nahi kiya tha. Wahan mitti mein palace wala bhoot banke mat ghumna."

(Fine, Hukum. Go alone. But if that girl breaks your head, don't tell me I didn't warn you. Don't go wandering around in the mud like a palace ghost.)

He started to move away, but then he stopped again. He leaned his head back toward me, a small, mischievous glint in his eyes that only someone who had bled with me in training would dare to show.

"Sahi mein Akela jaoge? Bilkul akela?" he whispered. "Kya baat hai, Hukum? Das saal ka sanyas aaj baarish mein dhul raha hai kya? Sambhal ke.... kahin yeh ladki aapka dil na tod de, kyunki sar toh woh todne hi wali hai. Oh sorry.... dil toh aapke paas hai nahi."

I stared at him, wondering if the Aravati laws allowed for the execution of a childhood friend. Probably not. I couldn't even fire him; he'd just show up the next morning with breakfast and a joke about my bad mood. He wasn't a soldier; he was a walkable lifelong migraine.

I tightened my grip on the door handle, my knuckles turning white, my jaw locking. "Jorah. Jao."

I didn't reach for my sword. Instead, I looked down at the muddy ground and saw a perfectly round, palm-sized stone. I reached down and plucked it.

Jorah's eyes went wide. "Hukum.... nahi. Aap ab Crown Prince hain! Yeh garima ke khilaf hai! Yeh—"

I didn't let him finish. I flicked my wrist with lethal precision.

The mud-covered stone clipped the edge of his shoulder and exploded against his shoulder, spraying brown sludge across his face.

"HUKUM!" Jorah yelped dramatically, wiping mud from his eyebrow. "Yeh jacket Italy se mangwayi thi!"

"Jorah," I said, my voice as calm as a frozen lake. "Jao. Isse pehle ki dusra patthar tumhare moonh par lage."

"Aapka nishana ab bhi waisa hi hai, Majnu sa!" he shouted over the wind, wiping his cheek.

I looked at him flatly, already regretting not throwing a bigger stone.

"Security ko wapas bhejta hoon," he said quickly. He began to step away, but his voice drifted back one last time, even softer: A low, tuneless, and incredibly annoying hum that grew into a loud, deliberate croon.

He started singing an old, dramatic Bollywood melody, his voice echoing off the trees with mock passion.

"Tujhe dekha toh yeh jaana sanam.... Pyaar hota hai deewana sanam...."

I froze, my hand still gripping the door of the Jeep.

Main ise goli maar dunga. Pakka. Court-martial baad mein handle kar lunga, par pehle iska gala dabaunga.

Shanti, Ranvijay. Tum Crown Prince ho…. gunda nahi.

I should have exiled him to the border years ago, I thought, wiping a stray drop of mud from my own sleeve. But then who would I have to throw stones at?

As I turned to step into the driver's seat, a glint of light caught my eye near my boots. I bent down, my fingers brushing the wet earth.

A silver coin. It was small, old, and cold. It must have fallen from her when she tumbled. I closed my fist around it, feeling the metal bite into my palm, and climbed into the Jeep.

I shifted into gear, the engine groaning as we began to move. I didn't turn my head, but my eyes drifted to the rearview mirror.

Our eyes met.

Honey. Her eyes were the color of burnt honey, wide and panicked, blinking rapidly in the dark. She was huddled in the corner, but she wasn't just shivering. She is clutching something against her waist—a khanjar (dagger).

Her small hand was trembling, the knuckles white, but her grip on that blade was lethal. She was terrified, yes, but she was ready to strike the moment I became a threat.

A ghost of a smile touched my mind, though my face remained stone.

Good. A brave one.

I looked away, fixing my stare on the black road ahead. I didn't say a word. I didn't try to comfort her. I just drove.

To be continued....

Thank you for reading.