Chapter 1

The Night the Stars Stood Still

The skies above Indrakalpa were not calm that night.

Thunder rolled like angry drums. Clouds thick and heavy covered every star in the sky. Lightning flashed again and again, turning night into silver for a second, then back into darkness.

People said the wind spoke that night. It howled like an old spirit wandering the palace walls, knocking gently on doors and windows. Servants whispered prayers under their breath. Palace guards stood tighter than usual, holding their spears close, though they didn’t know what they were afraid of.

But something was different. Everyone could feel it.

Inside the queen’s chamber, the air was hot and full of tension. The smell of burning sandalwood, sweat, and oil lamps mixed with the sharp cry of pain.

“Hold on, Maharani!” the midwife called out, wiping sweat from the queen’s forehead. “You must stay strong.”

Queen Vanshika lay on a bed of soft silk, her face pale, lips trembling as another wave of pain crushed her. Her fingernails dug into the wooden bedpost. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, but she made no sound.

The royal physician looked nervous. He turned to the midwife. “Too much blood,” he whispered. “The birth is not going well.”

Queen Vanshika heard them. Her heart sank. She looked up at the ceiling painted with golden lotuses and whispered, “Let her live… please, just let her live…”

Across the palace in a prayer hall lit with a thousand lamps, three young princes knelt with folded hands.

The eldest, Pradyumna, only thirteen but already showing signs of leadership, closed his eyes and prayed out loud.

“Devi Maa, please protect our mother… Please let our little sister come to this world safely…”

Beside him sat Vivaan, aged ten, biting his lip and holding tightly to his younger brother’s hand.

“I don’t care if she pulls my hair,” Vivaan muttered, trying to sound brave. “I just want her to be born.”

The youngest, Ishaan, barely seven, whispered, “I want to give her the necklace I made. Will she like pearls?”

Pradyumna nodded, though his throat felt tight. “She’ll love it. But only if she comes… if she lives.”

They were too young to understand the full fear of death. But tonight, they were old enough to feel the silence in the air.

Not far from them, in the private chamber of the king, Raghvendra, ruler of Indrakalpa, walked from wall to wall like a lion trapped in a cage.

His crown lay forgotten on the table. His thick hands were clenched into fists. He had fought many wars, defeated monsters, and stood before death many times — but never had he felt as helpless as he did now.

Every time a servant passed by without speaking, his heart jumped. Every minute of silence was heavier than a thousand armies.

Finally, the door opened.

A servant entered, his head low.

Raghvendra ran toward him. “Is she…?”

The servant fell to his knees. “Maharaj… the child is born.”

Raghvendra’s hands trembled. “And the queen?”

“She lives. Weak… but she lives.”

The king closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His voice cracked, “And… the child?”

“A girl, Maharaj.”

The room stood still for a moment. Then a smile broke across his face.

“My daughter…”

He rushed past the servant, down the long halls, his heavy footsteps echoing through the stone floors.

Inside the queen’s chamber, soft cries filled the air.

Wrapped in white cotton and scented with turmeric, the newborn rested in her mother’s arms. Her cheeks were pink, her lips a perfect bow, and her eyes, though barely open, glowed like twilight.

Queen Vanshika was crying again, but now with a smile on her lips.

“She’s so beautiful,” she whispered.

When Raghvendra entered the room, he stopped at the door. His breath caught in his throat.

He had seen many beautiful things in his life — sunrises over battlefields, temples made of gold, the birth of a nation — but nothing compared to this.

His wife, pale but alive, holding their daughter like she was made of starlight.

He stepped forward slowly, like he didn’t want to break the moment.

“She’s... she’s perfect,” he whispered.

Vanshika looked up. “Come, meet her.”

He sat beside her, hands trembling. When he looked at the child, something inside him melted. The king of Indrakalpa felt tears on his cheeks.

“She looks like the moon,” he said softly. “No... like she was born from it.”

Vanshika leaned her head on his shoulder. “What should we name her?”

He looked at the baby for a long time.

“She was born during the storm... and yet, she brought peace with her first cry,” he said. “She is light in darkness.”

His eyes locked with his wife’s.

“Let us call her... Devika.”

Vanshika smiled. “A goddess born of pain and love…”

“A protector of what is pure,” Raghvendra added. “A gift from the gods… and one day, a force the world will never forget.”

Word of the princess’s birth spread across Indrakalpa like fire on dry leaves. Bells rang in temples. Flowers were thrown into the river as offerings. The people lit lanterns and danced in the streets.

The royal family rejoiced.

Her three brothers were the first to run into the chamber, barefoot and smiling, tripping over each other in excitement.

“Where is she?!” Vivaan shouted.

“Let me see her!” Ishaan cried, jumping to peek over the bed.

Pradyumna walked forward slowly and touched the baby’s hand.

“She’s... tiny,” he whispered. “But... I can feel she’s going to be strong.”

Queen Vanshika laughed. “You’ll have to protect her.”

“We will,” Pradyumna said firmly. “Always.”

Vivaan handed over a small pouch. “I made this necklace for her. Pearls and mango seeds. I used the red thread from Dadi’s prayer box.”

The queen tied it gently around the newborn’s wrist.

“She already has her first blessing,” she said.

Later that night, the family gathered in the palace courtyard under the clear sky. The stars had returned — bright, clean, and shining as if celebrating the child’s arrival.

Queen Vanshika held Devika close, while Raghvendra stood with his arm around her. The three boys played nearby, lighting sparklers and singing songs.

None of them saw the shadow standing quietly behind a pillar far from the light.

An old man, dressed in white, watched the child from a distance. His face was unreadable. His lips moved in a whisper, but no one heard.

“She is here,” he murmured. “The storm has begun. But they don’t know... what waits on the other side of this light.”

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