The bells of Rajgarh Palace tolled at dusk, their deep, resonant chimes rolling through the city like the echoes of a long-forgotten prophecy. For centuries, those bells had only rung for two reasons—either to herald the birth of a king or to mourn his passing. Tonight, the air was thick with mourning.

In the heart of the ancient city, people froze mid-step. The shopkeepers in the bustling bazaar stopped haggling over silk and spices. The chai vendors abandoned their boiling kettles, their hands hovering over cups that would never be filled. Conversations dwindled into whispers, then into silence, as a single, terrifying truth settled over Rajgarh like a funeral shroud.

The Maharaja was dead.

Inside the Palace

The grandeur of Rajgarh Palace had never felt so hollow. Ornate chandeliers dripped with diamonds and gold, casting fractured light over the marbled floors. Towering portraits of past kings lined the long corridors, their oil-painted eyes following the living with silent judgment. And yet, for all its opulence, the palace felt… empty.

Prince Aryan Singh stood in the center of the grand hall, his fists clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms. He had returned from a business trip in Delhi just this morning, only to find his world unraveling by nightfall.

His father—Maharaja Vikram Singh, the man who had ruled Rajgarh with an iron will and unwavering authority—was dead.

A heart attack, they said. Sudden. Unexpected.

Aryan’s dark eyes burned with unshed rage as he turned toward Dr. Kulkarni, the family physician, who stood rigidly near the staircase. The old man’s white coat was wrinkled, his forehead damp with sweat. He looked uneasy, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he clutched a folder close to his chest.

"He was fine this morning," Aryan said, his voice like the crack of a whip. "I spoke to him before I left for my meeting. He was fine."

Dr. Kulkarni swallowed. "It—it was very sudden, Your Highness. His heart stopped before we could do anything."

Aryan exhaled sharply through his nose. He wanted to believe it. He really did. But something about the way Kulkarni hesitated—about the way he refused to meet Aryan’s gaze—unsettled him.

Across the hall, Maharani Sudha let out a strangled sob, gripping a silk handkerchief as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. She had always been the quiet, dutiful queen, standing in the shadow of her husband’s legacy. But tonight, she looked fragile—like a porcelain doll teetering on the edge of a shelf.

It was Rajmata Devyani who broke the silence.

"This is neither the time nor place for questions," she said, her voice sharp as the cut of a blade. Though she was past seventy, there was nothing weak about her presence. Draped in an immaculate white saree, her silver hair coiled in a bun, she carried herself with the authority of a queen who had never truly surrendered her throne.

Aryan turned to face her. "You expect me to just stand here and accept that my father—who had no prior heart issues—just dropped dead out of nowhere?" His voice was laced with fury, but Devyani remained unmoved.

"I expect you to behave like the crown prince of Rajgarh," she said coolly. "And that means keeping your emotions in check."

A muscle in Aryan’s jaw twitched. He wanted to argue. He wanted to demand answers, shake the truth out of Kulkarni, tear apart the palace if he had to. But Devyani’s gaze pinned him in place, a silent command echoing between them.

Not here.

Not now.

"Upstairs," she said, her tone leaving no room for discussion. "We will discuss this in private."

Without another word, she turned and glided toward the grand staircase, her ivory saree trailing behind her like a whisper of ghosts. The rest of the family followed—Sudha clutching the edge of her son’s sleeve, Kulkarni walking stiffly behind them, and Aryan striding up the stairs with his mind burning with questions.

The palace doors had been shut to the public, the gates guarded by armed men. But outside, beyond the high walls, the city of Rajgarh remained awake—waiting, watching, whispering.

A king had fallen.

And the battle for his throne was about to begin.

Upstairs - The Maharaja’s Private Chambers

The doors to Vikram Singh’s study had always been kept locked. It was the one place in the palace where no one—not even Aryan—was allowed without permission. Tonight, however, the doors stood open.

Inside, a large four-poster bed lay untouched, its silk sheets still crisp, as if the Maharaja had never returned to it. The bookshelves, lined with ancient texts and leather-bound ledgers, remained undisturbed. Nothing was out of place. Nothing except—

Aryan’s eyes landed on the glass of whiskey sitting on his father’s desk. The liquid was still in it, untouched.

"Where was he found?" Aryan asked, turning toward Dr. Kulkarni.

The doctor hesitated. "In the reading chair. He had been working late."

Aryan’s frown deepened. His father had been an insomniac for as long as he could remember, but he never—never—drank before midnight. The fact that the whiskey remained untouched… it didn’t sit right.

"What exactly did he say before he—"

A sudden voice cut through the room.

"He didn’t say anything," Devyani interrupted, walking toward the window. "Because he died alone."

Aryan stiffened. "What?"

The Rajmata clasped her hands behind her back. "Your father dismissed his attendants early tonight. No one was with him when he passed."

Aryan’s stomach twisted. Vikram Singh was a man of routine—one who never dismissed his attendants early. He worked late, yes, but there were always people around him. Someone to fetch his tea. Someone to take his notes. Someone to make sure he wasn’t alone.

So why had he sent them all away?

Before Aryan could voice the question, there was a sharp knock on the door.

A palace aide stepped inside, his forehead damp with sweat. He bowed quickly, but his voice trembled when he spoke.

"The lawyers have arrived, Your Highness," he said. "They’re ready to read the Maharaja’s will."

A hush fell over the room.

Sudha inhaled sharply. "So soon?"

"His Majesty had already prepared everything," the aide replied. "The will is… quite clear."

Aryan exchanged a glance with Devyani. Something about this felt too orchestrated—too swift. A father dies, and within hours, his final wishes are about to be revealed?

Devyani turned toward the aide. "Where will it be read?"

"In the main hall," he answered. "Before the entire royal council."

Aryan exhaled slowly, his mind racing. His father had ruled Rajgarh with an iron will—one that had never wavered, not even with his own family. Whatever was in that document, whatever final decree Vikram Singh had left behind…

It was about to change everything.

"Let’s go," Devyani said.

Without another word, the family left the study and descended the stairs.

Tomorrow, the kingdom would awaken to a new era.

But tonight?

Tonight, the battle for the throne would begin.

The Main Hall – Rajgarh Palace

The chandeliers burned bright, casting a golden glow over the towering columns of the grand hall. It was a room meant to display power, meant to remind anyone who entered that Rajgarh was not just a relic of the past—it was a dynasty.

Tonight, however, the air felt thick with something else. Expectation. Suspicion. The quiet hum of whispers from the gathered elite—nobles, ministers, and trusted advisors—filled the space like an electric charge waiting to snap.

At the center of it all sat Aryan Singh.

Dressed in a crisp black bandhgala, his posture was perfectly composed, but his knuckles were taut against the armrest of his chair. He scanned the room, his sharp gaze lingering on familiar faces—the aging ministers who had served his father for decades, the distant relatives who had arrived like vultures at the scent of death, the lawyers standing stiffly by the podium.

And then there was his grandmother.

Rajmata Devyani sat beside him, draped in an ivory silk saree, her silver bangles clinking as she adjusted the folds. She was unnervingly still, her expression unreadable as she watched the lead attorney—Arvind Kapoor—step forward with a thick, bound document in his hands.

"The final will and testament of His Majesty, Maharaja Vikram Singh," Kapoor announced, his voice carrying over the hushed silence.

A ripple of tension passed through the hall.

"Before we begin," Kapoor continued, adjusting his spectacles, "I must clarify that His Majesty updated this document six months ago. The details of this will supersede any prior legal declarations regarding succession."

Aryan’s brows furrowed. Six months ago?

His father never mentioned any new arrangements. The last time they discussed the future of Rajgarh, Vikram had been clear—Aryan was to inherit everything.

So why had that changed?

Kapoor cleared his throat and began reading:

"To my beloved wife, Sudha Singh, I leave the estate in Jaipur and the jewelry collection belonging to her lineage, along with an annual trust to support her personal endeavors."

A few scattered nods. No surprises there.

"To Rajmata Devyani Singh, I leave the ancestral palace, along with the governing rights over the royal trust. Her wisdom has guided this family for decades, and it is my wish that she continues to oversee matters of heritage and tradition."

Devyani remained impassive, her fingers lightly tapping against the silk of her saree.

"To my son, Aryan Singh—"

Aryan straightened, his pulse steady but expectant.

"—I leave the business empire of Rajgarh Holdings, including all shares, assets, and directorial control over its future operations."

There was a murmur of approval. It was expected. Rajgarh Holdings was vast—spanning real estate, luxury goods, and international investments. It was a fortune in itself.

But something felt off.

The crown. The title. Those words had not been spoken yet.

Kapoor turned the page, adjusting his glasses again before reading the next line. And that was when the air shifted.

"As for the throne of Rajgarh…"

A pause. A breath. The moment before the storm.

*"I name my rightful heir as—Meera Sharma."

The world stopped.

For a second, it felt as though the entire palace had been swallowed by silence. A silence so deep, so unnatural, that Aryan almost questioned whether he had heard correctly.

Then, all at once—

"WHAT?"

Aryan shot to his feet, his chair scraping against the marble floor. His voice rang through the hall, raw with disbelief. Meera Sharma? A name he had never even heard before?

His gaze snapped to Kapoor, who looked rattled but determined to continue.

"This is a mistake," Aryan said sharply, stepping forward. "Read that again."

Kapoor hesitated. "It is clearly stated, Your Highness." He lifted the document, steadying his voice. "Maharaja Vikram Singh has legally declared Meera Sharma as his chosen successor to the Rajgarh throne."

Murmurs exploded across the room.

"Who is she?" someone whispered.

"An illegitimate daughter?" another voice speculated.

"This is impossible," a minister muttered under his breath.

Aryan barely heard them. His pulse thundered in his ears, his fists tightening at his sides.

"This is wrong." His voice was low but dangerous. "My father wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave the throne to a stranger."

Devyani finally spoke. "Who is she?" Her voice, calm yet cutting, sliced through the chaos.

Kapoor exhaled. "Meera Sharma is a journalist based in Mumbai."

Aryan stilled.

A journalist?

Not a noble. Not a hidden royal bloodline. Not even someone remotely connected to their world.

This was madness.

"What is her relation to my father?" Aryan demanded.

Kapoor hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

"That information is sealed under His Majesty’s request," he said. "It is to be revealed only to Ms. Sharma herself."

Aryan’s breath caught. Sealed? A decision so monumental, so utterly insane—yet his father had left behind no explanation for the family?

He turned sharply to Devyani, expecting her to demand the same answers. But she didn’t move. Her face remained stone.

She knew.

The realization struck Aryan like a thunderclap. His grandmother—his father’s most trusted confidante—she already knew something.

And she had chosen to say nothing.

The murmurs in the room grew into full-blown arguments, ministers demanding clarity, distant cousins expressing outrage, the legal team looking as though they wanted to flee.

But Aryan heard none of it.

His father’s voice rang in his memory, words from a long-forgotten conversation.

"Sometimes, the greatest truths are the ones we are least prepared to face."

A bitter taste filled Aryan’s mouth.

He needed answers.

And there was only one person who could give them to him.

Mumbai – 800 Kilometers Away

Far from the grandeur of Rajgarh, Meera Sharma sat in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment, typing furiously on her laptop. The newsroom had been chaotic all day, and she was running on three cups of coffee and an unfinished article on corporate fraud.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

She ignored it.

Then, another buzz. This time, a text.

URGENT. You must come to Rajgarh immediately. The Maharaja’s will has named you his heir.

Meera frowned.

Then, laughed.

"This has to be a prank," she muttered, setting her phone down.

She had no connection to royalty. No claim to a throne.

And yet—far away, in a palace built on power and secrets—her name had just changed history.

Inside the Royal Palace – Moments After the Will’s Reading

The grand hall of Rajgarh Palace was no longer a place of quiet mourning. It had erupted into chaos.

Ministers whispered furiously among themselves. Distant relatives—some of whom Aryan hadn’t seen in years—were already debating legal loopholes. The trusted advisors who had served his father sat in stunned silence, their expressions carefully masked.

But Aryan?

Aryan was a storm waiting to explode.

"This is nonsense," he spat, pacing the length of the hall like a caged tiger. "You expect me to believe my father—the Maharaja of Rajgarh—left his throne to a woman he never even mentioned?"

His voice echoed through the room, bouncing off marble columns and intricate tapestries. Every eye in the palace was on him, waiting for his reaction, but he didn’t care.

Because this was wrong.

This was impossible.

His father had trained him for this role his entire life. His entire life.

And now? Now, everything was being handed to some unknown journalist?

"I refuse to accept this," Aryan said, his voice lower now, but no less deadly. He turned toward the family’s legal counsel. "Kapoor, is there a way to challenge this will?"

Kapoor hesitated. "Legally, the will was drafted and signed under proper procedure—"

"That wasn’t my question," Aryan cut in. "I asked if it can be challenged."

Kapoor exhaled, glancing nervously at Devyani before speaking. "It would be difficult, Your Highness. Your father’s wishes were clearly stated, and the succession clause is binding unless proven fraudulent."

"Then I will prove it," Aryan said without hesitation.

Another wave of murmurs rippled through the room. Aryan barely heard them. His mind was already racing, assembling the pieces of a puzzle that shouldn’t even exist.

There had to be an explanation.

A mistake. A forgery. Something.

Because his father wouldn’t do this to him.

He wouldn’t.

"You’re being emotional."

The voice was sharp, controlled. Aryan turned to see Devyani watching him, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"This is not emotion," Aryan shot back. "This is common sense. Do you honestly believe my father would leave his kingdom to a woman no one has ever heard of?"

Devyani’s expression did not change. "Your father always had his reasons."

Aryan let out a humorless laugh. "Right. And did he share those reasons with you?"

A flicker of something crossed Devyani’s face—something unreadable. Then, she looked away.

She knows something.

Aryan’s jaw tightened. His grandmother was the most formidable woman he had ever known. If she did know something, dragging it out of her would be like trying to move a mountain with his bare hands.

But he wasn’t going to stop.

He turned back to Kapoor. "Where is this Meera Sharma?"

Kapoor adjusted his glasses. "In Mumbai, Your Highness. She has not yet been informed."

"Then we inform her," Aryan said darkly. "I want her here in Rajgarh. Immediately."

Kapoor hesitated. "You wish to summon her?"

"No," Aryan said, his voice laced with ice. "I want to see her reaction when she learns she’s been given a crown she doesn’t deserve."

Mumbai – The Next Morning

Meera Sharma was running late.

She swore under her breath as she weaved through Mumbai’s crowded streets, dodging slow-moving rickshaws and impatient pedestrians. The heat was relentless, the traffic even worse, and she could already hear her editor’s voice ringing in her ears.

"Sharma, if you don’t get that corporate fraud piece in today, don’t bother coming in tomorrow!"

She clutched her laptop bag tighter.

Her life was a mess—a half-written article, three unpaid bills, and a refrigerator that contained nothing but a bottle of water and two slices of stale bread.

And yet, somehow, she was supposed to believe she was royalty?

She let out a laugh just thinking about it.

Because that message from last night? That had to be a joke.

She hadn’t even read the whole thing, but the words were ridiculous enough—You have been named heir to the Rajgarh throne.

Yeah, right. And she was also secretly the Queen of England.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

Annoyed, she pulled it out. Unknown Number.

She rolled her eyes but answered anyway. "Whoever you are, if this is about a scam, I swear—"

"Meera Sharma?"

The voice on the other end was sharp, clipped, and dangerously precise.

Meera hesitated. "Who’s asking?"

"This is Aryan Singh of Rajgarh," the man said. "You and I need to talk."

Meera frowned. Aryan Singh? The name sounded familiar. And then—

Wait.

The Prince of Rajgarh?

She nearly tripped over her own feet. "Is this a joke?"

"It’s not," Aryan said coldly. "And I suggest you take this seriously, because whether you like it or not, you’ve been named my father’s heir."

Meera blinked. "Your what?"

"The Maharaja’s will has declared you his successor," Aryan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "I don’t know who you are or why my father named you, but I intend to find out."

Meera stopped walking. The street noise around her seemed to fade into the background.

This… this wasn’t a prank?

Her stomach twisted. "There must be some mistake," she said.

"I agree," Aryan said flatly. "Which is why you need to come to Rajgarh—now."

Meera exhaled. "Look, I don’t know what kind of mess this is, but I have a job, I have responsibilities, and—"

"Leave them," Aryan interrupted.

Meera scowled. "Excuse me?"

"You’re part of this now," Aryan said. "Whether you accept it or not."

Meera could feel her pulse quicken. "And what if I don’t come?"

There was a pause. Then, Aryan spoke, his voice soft but dangerous.

"Then I’ll come to you," he said. "And I promise, you won’t like that."

Meera’s grip tightened around her phone.

Who the hell did this prince think he was?

But before she could respond, the line went dead.

She stared at her phone.

She should ignore this. She should.

But deep down, buried beneath the disbelief, a small voice whispered: What if it’s true?

And that was the most dangerous thought of all.