Authors POV :-
The sun came up slowly over the golden fields of the kingdom, its rays kissing the earth with tender affection. The songs of birds were in harmony with the soft groaning of the royal boat as it moved silently through the river, bearing none other than Queen Padmini Aditya Pratab Varman —a woman as gentle as the breeze and as sacred as the sun itself.
Wrapped in a delicate silk saree of royal blue with silver thread embroidery that caught the morning sun, Padmini sat demurely on the intricately carved wooden bench of the boat. Her eyes, rimmed with age and experience, swept over the lands around her with purpose.
The queen was not out for a pleasure cruise—this was a discreet tour. She preferred to see her people with her own eyes, not through ministers' reports or gossip in court. She believed in presence, in compassion, in being seen.
"Slow down," she commanded softly, her voice a soothing melody that could quiet even the river.
She had noticed something—something unnatural bobbing on the bank.
She got up slowly, leaning forward. Her guards leapt into readiness at once, but she held up a hand, soothing them. There, caught in reeds, was a body.
A girl.
Not moving. Soaked. Barely breathing.
"By the gods…" she breathed, eyes going wide as she waved for the boat to turn in the direction of the figure. "Quick! Pull her in!"
The guards complied immediately, picking up the lifeless form of a young woman from the water and placing her in the queen's arms.
Her attire was unusual, foreign—nothing like what the inhabitants of this time period wore.
Her skin was cold, lips colorless, and long locks of wet hair stuck to her cheeks.
But it was the atmosphere that hit Queen Padmini hardest. There was something different about this child—something unnerving yet captivating. She hugged her closer.
"She's still alive," the royal doctor whispered after taking a hasty glance. "But weak."
Padmini did not dither.
"Make the palanquin ready ," she instructed, eyes unflinching. "We're taking her to the palace. Alert the maids. I wish her to be treated as our own."
One of the guards hesitated, looking at her warily. "But… Your Grace… what if the king protests? You know how His Majesty is regarding. strangers. He's strict about who enters the palace. Particularly around the royal family."
Padmini turned her head slowly, her eyes now piercing as a sword.
"Your king," she said, a wry smile playing around the corner of her mouth, "will listen to his queen. Just do what I'm saying".
The guard immediately dropped his eyes.
"She is somebody's daughter," the queen said, her voice hardening once more. "And as long as she is within my protection, she will be treated like my own."
With this, the royal entourage marched towards the palace again, the guards following closely behind, the queen carrying the unconscious girl within her, not realizing that she had just held the seed of something that would change the fabric of time itself.
After some times :-
The palace gates opened with thunderous grace, and the royal carriage rolled in—its wheels caked in river mud, its aura thick with curiosity. Courtiers paused mid-step, maids froze with linen and trays in hand, and the guards exchanged glances. It wasn’t every day the Maharani returned with an unconscious girl cradled against her silk-draped lap.
“Bring her inside—gently!” Padmini’s voice rang like temple bells wrapped in steel. “Call the royal physician. Now!”
Maids rushed to obey. The girl—clad in strange garments and soaked to the bone—was carefully lifted from the carriage and carried into the queen’s private quarters. The marble halls echoed with the urgency of slippered feet, murmured prayers, and the metallic clink of bangles as Padmini paced beside the grand bed now holding Samriddhi’s pale form.
“She’s burning,” one maid whispered, placing a wet cloth on Samriddhi’s forehead.
“Her clothes… they’re like nothing I’ve ever seen,” another muttered.
“Focus!” Padmini snapped gently. “Undress her and get her into dry linens. Heat sandalwood oil. Keep her warm. Where is the vaidya?”
The physician, an old man with silver hair and wisdom in his gaze, arrived breathless.
“She has taken in too much river water, Maharani,” he said after examining her. “Her pulse is steady, but she may not awaken for a while. The shock to her body and mind… it is deep. Days, perhaps.”
Padmini exhaled and brushed Samriddhi’s damp hair from her brow. “Then days she shall have. I do not care who she is and where she came from but she should be taken care properly".
By the time Padmini had the girl laid gently on the silken mattress in one of the royal chambers, both Raahi Varman and Abhimaan Varman had barged in—like a storm and its shadow.
“Who is she?” Raahi gasped, eyes widening as she hovered over the mysterious girl. “By the gods, she’s so beautiful! Did she fall from the skies?”
Abhimaan raised an eyebrow dramatically. “Or maybe she’s a spy pretending to be unconscious? It happens in the tales, you know.”
Raahi glared at him. “Not everything you read in your warrior scrolls is true, Abhi.”
“Oh? And your fantasy novels are fact?”
“Enough, both of you!” Padmini raised a hand, though her smile betrayed her fondness for their usual theatrics. “She is not a threat. She needs care.”
Just then, Maharaj Aditya Pratap Varman entered. The King’s presence silenced the air like thunder before rain. He took in the scene—his wife standing protectively beside a stranger, his daughter’s glittering eyes, his son’s exaggerated suspicion.
“And what exactly is happening here?” he asked, arms folded.
“She was found by the river. Unconscious. I brought her,” Padmini replied steadily.
Aditya’s eyes narrowed. “You know we cannot allow just anyone inside these walls.”
“She is not just anyone, Aditya,” Padmini said gently. “I know not who she is, but I know she is meant to be here.”
That was all it took. Despite being a stern ruler, Aditya Pratap Varman trusted his queen’s instincts more than his own sword.
Still, as a king, he had his doubts.
“Send a messenger to the local regions. Ask the monks, the traders, the villagers—find out if anyone has seen this girl before or knows where she comes from.”
In the next few days that followed, the Grand Palace remained abuzz with hushed curiosity. Samriddhi, still unconscious, lay wrapped in soft silks within a guest chamber overlooking the lotus pond.
Skilled physicians attended to her day and night, murmuring theories about her prolonged time in water, the strange pulse they felt, and her garments—unlike any fabric known to the land. Maharani Padmini, serene yet protective, oversaw every detail of her care as though she were born of her own blood.
Abhimaan and Raahi visited often—though with dramatically different energies.
“She still hasn’t opened her eyes?” Raahi would breathe, her palms resting over her heart. “She looks like poetry... a story caught between dreams.”
Abhimaan, arms crossed, would scoff. “Or an actress putting on the performance of her life. What if she wakes up and doesn’t even know her own name?”
“You’re impossible,” Raahi would groan. “Not everyone is a suspicious outlaw!”
“Until they start speaking nonsense,” Abhimaan replied dryly, “I reserve my judgment.”
Meanwhile, in the quieter corners of the palace, Maharaja Aditya had already set things in motion. The moment he laid eyes on the unconscious girl his queen had brought in, he knew he had to be sure. Letters were discreetly sent to surrounding provinces. Riders were dispatched with her description. Samples of her unique attire were studied, compared, examined.
Day by day, report after report arrived. But each one said the same thing—no one knew of a girl who matched her appearance. No missing persons, no sightings, no clues.
One morning, after reading the final set of scrolls, Maharaja Aditya leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful yet calm.
“She’s not from any place we know,” he said softly to Padmini, who stood nearby. “But there is no threat in her presence. Whatever her story is... she is not here to harm us.”
Padmini simply nodded, the corners of her mouth rising with a quiet knowing. “That is all I wanted you to see.”
And through it all, no word of her presence reached Rudra Raj Verman
Because Rudra—occupied with matters of state, military inspections, and land disputes—was in and out of the palace like the wind. Each time he returned, he carried the scent of the battlefield, and his eyes blazed with the fire of authority. The servants, fearful of his wrath or simply respecting the queen’s silence, did not speak of the unconscious girl tucked away in the royal wing.
Until one morning, as Rudra stood in the royal council chamber beside his father, King Aditya Pratap Singh Varman, reviewing a report on border fortifications.
Till now he was not I formed Not because they feared him—but because they knew he was not a man who entertained mysteries without cause. And to the palace staff, Samriddhi was still an unanswered riddle.
But fate, as it always does, had other plans.
A guard hesitantly stepped forward, his steps quick but respectful. He knelt before Maharaj Aditya, who was deep in discussion with his son.
“Speak,” Aditya commanded, lifting his gaze.
The guard bowed lower. “Forgive the intrusion, Maharaj, but… the girl—she has gained consciousness.”
A quiet pause followed.
Rudra turned slightly. A single brow lifted, barely visible, but the sharpness in his eyes said enough. “Which girl?” he asked, voice clipped, low, cold.
The guard’s throat moved in a nervous swallow.
“I—I beg your pardon, Your Highness … I assumed you were informed. A few days ago, Maharani placed a girl under the palace’s care. She was found unconscious by the river during her visit to the northern banks.”
The moment stilled.
Aditya leaned back, not surprised—but fully aware that his son was. He glanced sideways at Rudra. “We didn’t inform you cause you were already in so much busy in the kingdoms affairs.”
Rudra’s gaze lingered on his father, then flicked to the guard.
The air in the chamber shifted.
“I see,” he muttered under his breath.
Without waiting for an explanation, Rudra turned on his heel and walked out—silent but seething. The court didn’t dare stop him.
He knew exactly where his mother would be. And she was there, in the inner chamber overlooking the lotus courtyard, sipping her morning tea with the calm grace of someone who had nothing to hide.
“I suppose I wasn’t important enough to be informed,” Rudra’s voice sliced through the quiet like a blade.
Padmini didn’t even flinch. She looked up and smiled faintly, serene. “You were busy. You didn’t come home for five days, Rudra. Your father and I thought it best not to burden you.”
“That girl is a stranger.”
“She is a life,” Padmini replied simply. “Found barely breathing by the river, unconscious. What should I have done? Left her there?”
He stared at her, jaw clenched.
“She’s not from any known kingdom, nor any record,” Padmini added. “Your father checked everything. There’s no past. No trace.”
Silence.
Rudra turned away, refusing to hear more. His fists were tight at his side.
“You should’ve told me,” he said, more to the stone walls than to her.
And then he left.
No more words. No more confrontation. Just vanished through the sandstone corridors, his cloak trailing behind him like a passing storm.
Later that night, when the stars were high and the palace had begun to sleep, he returned. Quiet. Unannounced. Unseen.
But his mind hadn’t rested.
Not yet.
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