The kingdom of Padmavati lay nestled between thick forests and sacred rivers. It was the heart of the Naga Dynasty, ruled by King Ganapati Naga, a just and fearless leader known for his wisdom and strength. His people respected him. His enemies feared him.

But even kings have questions the gods never answer.

One rainy evening, as thunder rolled across the sky and the temple bells rang for evening prayers, the priests of the Shiva temple prepared for dusk prayers. The air was shattered by a sharp, echoing roar — not thunder, not wind, but a lioness's call from deep within the forest.

Startled, the priests rushed to the temple gates. And there, lying on the steps in red silk, was a newborn girl — her skin soft as rose petals, her fists closed, her eyes open and fierce. She didn't cry.She watched.Calm. Awake. Aware.

Beside her were no parents, no messengers — only deep paw prints in the wet stone and a faint warmth in the air, as if something sacred had just passed through.

King Ganapati Naga and his queen had no daughter. When the priests brought the child to the palace, the queen, who had long prayed for another child, held her close and said only one word:

"Dattadevi."

A gift from the divine.

From that moment, the palace began to change. Servants whispered about her calmness, how she rarely cried, how even as a baby she looked at everyone with focus, with thought. She learned to stand before she was one, and when she did, her back was straight and her gaze firm, like a tiny warrior queen.

By the time she was four, she spoke clearly, asked questions about war, dharma, and justice. She loved watching sword training but also enjoyed listening to poetry. Her beauty was undeniable — large, deep eyes, a strong jaw, thick dark hair, and a presence that made people turn their heads when she entered a room.

The queen would smile and say, "She does not walk — she arrives."

And the king, though not one for soft words, watched her often in silence. She was different. Stronger than her age, kinder than most, and sharper than many warriors in his court.

But he never asked who left her at the temple.

And no one ever came looking for her.

Some called her blessed. Others said she was dangerous.

But one thing was certain — Dattadevi was not born to be ordinary.

As the seasons passed, the people of Padmavati began to speak of her in hushed reverence. Farmers left flowers for her at the temple gates. The old women at the market swore she had the aura of a rishi and the fire of a lioness. And sometimes, late at night, when the forest wind blew strangely warm, the lioness's call was heard again — distant but unmistakable. As if it still watched from the shadows. Waiting. Guarding.

Whatever Dattadevi’s future held, it would not be written in ink or decided by men. Her story, it seemed, would be carved in stone.

this story is based purely on my imagination.

At nineteen, Dattadevi was not a girl waiting for her fate.She was a woman already shaping it — even if it meant standing alone in a palace thick with silence.

Padmavati, once the proud heart of the Naga Dynasty, had begun to bend under the weight of unseen hands. Markets grew tense. Soldiers became selective. Villagers whispered of disappearances, of cruelty dressed in royal colors.

Her brother — the heir — had fallen into a strange, lingering illness.And still, no answers.

But Dattadevi had one:Veerkund.

That evening, the court was heavy with the scent of sandalwood. King Ganapati Naga sat on the black stone throne, his shoulders broad, his arms resting heavily on the lion-carved handles.

He was a man in his middle years, skin weathered like old bronze, yet still strong. His eyes — sharp and dark — missed nothing, but they had begun to carry the heaviness of age, of war, and of quiet regrets. He wore deep maroon robes and a golden serpent-armlet coiled around his forearm — the mark of his clan.

He looked powerful. But he also looked tired.

The one thing he had not tired of… was trusting his nephew

One evening, as dusk spilled through the latticed windows, she stood in the royal court beside her father. The physicians had just left his chamber again — defeated, as always.

She turned toward her father, voice steady.

Dattadevi: "It's poison. And you know who planted it."

King Ganapati Naga (rubbing his temple): "Enough. I will not hear this again, Dattadevi."

Dattadevi: "Then perhaps you will listen when the kingdom starts to rot under your silence."

King (coldly): "Watch your tone. You are still a princess — not a judge, not a soldier."

She didn't flinch.

Dattadevi: "And what is the worth of a princess who watches her people suffer and does nothing?"

She stood tall — radiant in a deep indigo sari. Her hair long like flowing ink, soft as riverwater, braided with fresh jasmine. Her eyes were deep and calm — like those of a deer, wide with knowing, but never afraid. Her skin glowed in the torchlight, kissed with the soft blush of a cherry blossom at dawn — the kind of beauty that whispered, not shouted.

But more than her beauty, it was her presence that moved the room. She did not raise her voice. She did not beg.

The court fell still. Even the birds outside seemed to stop.

The king looked at her long and hard. But he said nothing.

She turned, her silken robes trailing like shadows, and left the hall — eyes forward, heart burning.

______________________________________________________

In her private chamber

 Her old maid Rajima entered with trembling hands.

Rajima: "My lady… the court turns colder toward you each day. And Veerkund… he watches."

Dattadevi (tightening the straps on her dagger belt): "Let him watch. I do not move in fear."

Rajima: "What if they brand you a traitor?"

Dattadevi looked up, eyes dark and still.

Dattadevi: "Then I shall wear the word like armor. For I would rather be a traitor to men than a traitor to justice."

She stepped toward the candlelight and unfolded a parchment — marked villages, dates, names of those who vanished, those beaten, those silenced.

Dattadevi: "Tell me, Rajima. When they hang the law by a thread, what does a true heir do?"

Rajima (softly): "She becomes the sword they never saw coming."

Dattadevi gave a faint smile.The kind of smile that could melt hearts or make traitors shiver

In the grand chambers of Padmavati, power no longer roared.

It whispered.

And it lied.

Behind carved ivory doors, Veerkund sat with Minister Abhiraj, cloaked in false loyalty.

Veerkund: "The people sing of her — like she's a savior.

But soon, they'll curse her name."

Abhiraj: "The king still holds her close."

Veerkund (smiling): "Not for long. Fear is quicker than love. And I've begun the work."

He laid forged reports on the table — letters "signed" by Dattadevi, naming her a rebel sympathizer. Stained robes from the palace laundry. A handful of paid witnesses ready to speak lies before the throne.

Veerkund: "Let her try to be a hero. I will crown her a traitor."

That same night, Dattadevi rode out in silence, her figure cloaked, her hair braided and hidden. She had received word that Sukhet, a village she once protected, had been attacked.

She arrived to find ashes, screams, and blood still wet on the ground.

The temple lay broken. Doors shattered. Women wept behind burned walls, their clothes torn, their voices shaking. Some still clutched their children. Others… simply stared, broken.

"They came like thunder," one woman whispered to her. "Veerkund's men… they said we were hiding rebels. Then they laughed. Burned our homes. Dragged the girls…"

Dattadevi's hands clenched.

She looked down and saw a small girl hiding behind a pot, her feet bleeding.

She knelt.

Dattadevi (gently): "Did they hurt you?"

The girl nodded once.

And Dattadevi's world narrowed into fire.

Rajima (arriving breathlessly): "My lady—he spreads lies in court. He calls you a traitor."

Dattadevi stood, her veil slipping back. Her hair spilled like black ink, her deer-like eyes no longer soft, but sharp — gleaming with fury.

Dattadevi: "Let him shout. I will answer in silence... and in steel."

She turned to the villagers, voice calm but firm.

Dattadevi: "You are not forgotten. And you are not weak.

You will rebuild. And I will burn down the ones who did this."

That night, back in the palace, King Ganapati Naga stared into a silver goblet, wine untouched.

He had heard the whispers —

That his daughter was consorting with outlaws.

That she defied royal law.

That she stirred the people behind his back.

Ganapati Naga (softly): "What are you becoming, Dattadevi?

Or what have I failed to see?"

But the time for questions had ended.

She would no longer wait for the court to listen.

While kings slept and snakes smiled in the throne room,

Dattadevi began preparing for war — not with armies,

but with truth, fire, and the fury of women wronged.

Far above the palace, the temple bells rang once again — not for prayer, but as if the gods themselves stirred in warning. The wind carried ash and jasmine, the scent of war and memory. And in the quiet of her chambers, Dattadevi removed her earrings, one by one, placing them on the stone ledge. No ornaments now. No softness. Only a sword, a vow, and the silence of a daughter who had stopped asking for permission.