Chapter One: Before the Darkness

Once, my life was nothing short of a beautiful dream—full of laughter, warmth, and love.

I was blessed with a family that ruled not only a kingdom, but also the hearts of its people. My father, Raghav Singh, was the revered King of Udaipur, Rajasthan—a brave warrior and a wise ruler who led our kingdom with strength and compassion.

My mother, Queen Hemanshi Raghav Singh, was the very soul of the palace—graceful, intelligent, and kind. My elder brother, Prince Virendra, carried the weight of future responsibilities with pride—though not without the occasional eye-roll at our father's strict training sessions .

......And then, there was me—Princess Tara Raghav Singh. The youngest in the royal family, yet never treated as lesser.

Though tradition whispered that a girl must stay sheltered, my father’s heart beat louder than old customs. He trained me alongside my brother, teaching me the art of archery, horse riding, the complexities of rajniti (statecraft), and even ancient languages.......

At just eight years old, I devoured books like sweets, eager to learn everything—from meditation and history to old dialects and tales of warriors long forgotten.

My mother would often sigh as she watched me climb trees with my bow slung behind me, whispering to herself, “This girl is made of stars and stubbornness.”

Our palace echoed with laughter. I remember one evening, sitting beneath the grand peepal tree as the sun dipped behind sandstone towers. Father told us a story about a magical deer that led lost warriors home. My brother tried to scare me with a made-up ghost story afterward, but ended up shrieking when I placed a lizard on his shoulder. Even the guards laughed.

We had festivals where the whole kingdom danced beneath lantern-lit skies. Mother would braid jasmine into my hair, and Father would lift me high onto his shoulders during the celebrations, calling me his “little tiger.”

Everything was perfect. Our people were happy. Our family was united. The air in the palace always carried the scent of sandalwood and fresh marigolds, the sound of veena strings often drifting from the music hall.

It felt like nothing could go wrong.

But you know how life is. Even the brightest sun must someday set. And in stories like mine… happiness never lasts forever.

The morning sun bathed the Rajmahal in gold, casting intricate patterns through the jharokhas onto marble floors. The palace buzzed with excitement as preparations for my brother Virendra’s sixteenth birthday were underway.

I was so thrilled, I’d barely slept the night before.

Suddenly, a playful roar behind me made me jump—Virendra had been hiding, waiting to surprise me. We burst into laughter, our joy echoing through the halls.

After a breakfast of sweet jalebis and creamy kheer, we went to seek our parents’ blessings.

The palace priests had arranged a grand havan in honor of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati.

As the day progressed, the palace transformed into a spectacle of festivity.

Among the arriving royals was King Rajvendra of Ramgadh—a formidable ruler, known for his conquests and strength.

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Rajvendra – King of Ramgadh

King Rajvendra of Ramgadh wasn’t just a ruler—he was a force of nature. The strongest king in the known world, his name alone stirred fear in battlefields and awe in royal courts. With countless wars won and nearly half the kingdoms under his rule, his power was unmatched. But behind his victories were whispers—rumors of ancient secrets buried deep within the Thakur family bloodline. Some said he had access to knowledge no man should possess. Others claimed darker forces guided his path. No one knew the full truth… but no one dared to question him either.

So when my father, King Raghav Singh, sent out invitations for my brother Virendra’s sixteenth birthday, he never truly expected Rajvendra to come. Our kingdom—Udaipur—was respected, yes. Our people were content, our palace full of history and heart. But politically, we were only the twentieth in power. Not weak, but nowhere near the towering shadow cast by Ramgadh.

Yet to our surprise, the mighty King Rajvendra accepted.

The palace shifted overnight. Servants scurried faster, guards stood taller, and even the air seemed heavier. Everyone whispered his name with a strange mix of reverence and fear. But as Hindus, we believe that guests are a reflection of God—Atithi Devo Bhava—and we welcomed him with all the grace our kingdom could offer.

The day began with warmth and devotion. The sun rose gently over the sandstone towers, bathing the Rajmahal in a soft golden glow. Floral garlands draped every archway. The scent of rosewater and sandalwood floated in the air as bells chimed from the temple.

We hosted a great daan—a donation ceremony. Clothes, books, food, gold coins, grains… all offered to the poor and the holy. My mother oversaw the arrangements, her smile both proud and nervous. My father was calm but alert, his warrior instincts sharp despite the celebratory mood. This wasn’t just a birthday—it was a gathering of powerful eyes, each measuring the other behind layers of silk and smiles.

Then came the yug-puja, a sacred ritual invoking Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati, followed by an intense havan. Flames danced in rhythm with the chants, and the scent of ghee and herbs filled the hall. The priests spoke of blessings, protection, and destiny.

And all the while, I watched from the shadows.

This day was important for me too.

From birth, I had a frail body. My limbs were delicate, and illness clung to me like a second skin. For years, I was kept away from public eyes—not out of shame, but love. My father said the world could be cruel to what it does not understand. So while others danced in the courtyards, I trained in silence. I studied politics, languages, and swordsmanship behind hidden doors. I learned to read the stars and the faces of men. My body may have been weak, but my spirit was not.

And today, April 7th, 1666, I would step out of the shadows.

Tonight, I would be seen—by kings, queens, warriors, strangers. For the first time, I would wear my name on my face, not just in whispers behind palace walls.

As the palace buzzed with preparations for the evening celebration, my heart beat with both fear and excitement. My brother, Virendra—joyful and teasing as ever—came to me with a grin.

“So, Tara… where’s my gift?” he asked, nudging me playfully.

I smiled, a secret dancing in my eyes. “You’ll see,” I whispered, and slipped away.

What I had planned for him wasn’t just a gift—it was a moment. A memory. Something he’d never forget. And neither would I.

---

I was so happy that day—so full of warmth and excitement as I prepared my brother’s birthday gift.

Wanting it to be perfect, I quietly slipped away from the glittering Rajmahal, leaving behind the music, laughter, and flickering lanterns. I was accompanied by one of our most trusted guards. We rode toward the edge of the forest, a place few dared to wander at dusk. But I knew where I was going—deep into the trees, to a hidden corner where something rare and magical bloomed.

There, in the clearing bathed in twilight, grew a flower I had nurtured in secret for months.

A Black Tulip—or as the old legends called it, the Black Magic Rose.

It wasn’t just a flower. It was a symbol. Of rebirth. Of strength in darkness. Of health, hope, and a new beginning.

I had grown it for Virendra, the future king of Udaipur. I wanted him to have something no one else could give—a token that said, I believe in you. I see the king in you already.

As I gently wrapped the flower’s pot with silk, hundreds of fireflies rose from the grass around me, glowing like scattered stars. I smiled, my heart full. The world felt kind. The forest was quiet. Everything seemed perfect.

But perfect things never last.

As we returned toward the palace—toward my Slaj Mahal—I felt it first. The air. It had changed. Heavier. Smoky.

Then I saw it.

Fire.

Flames flickered wildly from the rooftops. Smoke billowed into the night sky. Screams echoed from within the palace walls. Shouting. Crying. The sounds of chaos, of pain. Panic surged through the air like poison.

My heart dropped.

Unfamiliar guards were stationed outside my mahal—men I did not recognize, dressed in armor that did not belong to our kingdom.

I felt a cold, sick fear claw its way into my chest.

Something was terribly wrong.

I didn’t wait. I signaled my guard, and together, we crept around the back, through the hidden passage known only to royal blood.

We entered the palace from the secret door—but what greeted us wasn’t home.

It was a nightmare.

Blood. Everywhere.

Bodies lay scattered across the polished floors. Loyal guards. Servants. Friends. Lifeless. Cold. Their eyes wide with shock, their mouths still frozen in silent screams. The scent of burning oil and iron filled my nose.

Tears blurred my vision, but I ran. I didn’t even know where—just deeper into the palace. I had to find my family.

I reached the great hall—where the birthday celebration was supposed to begin.

And then...

I stopped.

My knees buckled.

There, lying in the center of the marble floor, was my mother.

Queen Hemanshi Raghav Singh.

Her body was soaked in blood. A knife was still buried in her stomach. Her eyes were open—wide, glassy, lifeless. As if she had been searching for me even in her last breath.

The silk of her sari was torn. Her golden bangles lay shattered beside her. Her hair still smelled of jasmine.

I fell beside her, my hands trembling uncontrollably.

“M-Maa…” I whispered, but no sound came out. My voice was caught behind the tears.

My fingertips reached out, gently brushing her cold cheek.

My soul cracked.

My body shook with silent sobs as my mind screamed.

And somewhere, behind the fire and death, I could still hear the party music playing faintly in the distance.

As if the world hadn’t yet realized… that mine had just ended.