The Rang Mahal was an opulent painting brought to life — cascading silk drapes of crimson and gold shimmered like flames licking the ceiling, and thousands of diyas sparkled like stars caught between incense smoke and fate. The shehnai played gently in the background, like a prayer meant to veil politics in poetry.
But at the center of all this grandeur sat Princess Raveera Singh Rathore, unmoving, untouched, and unconvinced.
Her crimson lehenga was stitched with real gold threads — it didn't shimmer, it glared. Her jewellery sparkled, but nothing sparkled like the fire hidden in her kohl-lined eyes. Her lips were painted the color of spilled wine, and her posture screamed royalty, but her silence… that screamed rebellion.
> "They call it swayamvar — a choice. But this feels like a sentence wrapped in silk." "I am not here to choose a husband. I am here to obey a script written long before I took my first breath."
The murmurs of the court swelled as the next suitor was announced.
"Yuvraj Aditya Pratap of Mewar approaches!"
The young prince entered, dressed in ivory and sapphire, the colors of pride and purity. His walk was measured, his chin raised, his smile curated for politics.
He bowed before her, then raised his eyes with a lover's ease. "Maharani Raveera... main apne dil ki raakh lekar aapke kadmon mein aaya hoon."
There were sighs. Some claps. A pleased nod from the Rajmata. Even the musicians picked up pace, sensing royal approval.
Raveera smiled politely. A smile that didn't reach her eyes.
> "All these men speak in poetry — but none of them write me into their verses. They want me on their arm, not in their soul."
From her elevated seat, Rajmata Devyani watched like a hawk, her fingers tightly gripping the fan resting in her lap.
> "She must choose. Or we shall choose for her."
"A princess who thinks too much is dangerous. A queen who feels too much — fatal."
And then it happened.
The diya flames flickered — not from wind, but from presence. The musicians lost their rhythm. The air thinned.
A low hum of unease crept through the room.
The palace doors groaned open — no announcement, no trumpet.
He entered.
Aaryanveer.
Dressed in pure black. No ornaments. No royal sash. No fear.
His eyes locked with Raveera's the moment he stepped in.
She forgot to breathe.
> "Who is he?"
"He didn't walk in like a man. He walked in like a prophecy."
The court murmured in ripples:
> "Raavan..."
"Woh Thakur ka beta. The exile. The illegitimate. The storm."
He didn't pause. Didn't look left or right. His eyes burned through silk and tradition — straight toward the throne.
Guards flinched. The King's jaw clenched. The Rajmata stood.
"Raveera, look away," she ordered. "That man is no prince. He is destruction."
But Raveera didn't look away. She couldn't.
> "He was danger. He was defiance. And yet… he looked at me like I was the answer to a vow he made to no one but himself."
He reached her steps. No bow. No greeting. Just words that cracked through the noise.
"Naam kya hai tumhara?"
Gasps erupted. The King roared, "How dare you! Guards—arrest him!"
Raveera lifted one finger. Everything stilled.
"Princess Raveera Singh Rathore." Her voice was calm. Royal. Electric.
A slow smirk spread across the stranger's face.
"Aaryanveer," he replied. "Lekin duniya mujhe 'Raavan' kehti hai."
> "He called himself a curse. But in that moment, he felt like fate."
He stepped up — not as a suitor, not as a warrior. As something else entirely.
From the folds of his robe, he pulled out a thread. Blood-red. Knotted. Ancient-looking.
He didn't ask permission. Didn't wait for approval. He stepped onto the platform.
The guards flinched. The courtiers held their breath.
He extended the thread.
"Ek saal."
She stared at him.
"365 din," he said, voice like thunder whispered through silk. "Sirf meri banegi tu."
The entire court was frozen. The King's knuckles were white. The Rajmata's lips parted in fury.
But neither of them mattered.
Because in that moment— Raveera's heartbeat wasn't hers. It was his.
He leaned close. So close she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek.
"Ikraar se… ya majboori se."
He placed the thread in her palm. Closed her fingers around it. And whispered—so quietly only she would hear:
"Yeh swayamvar nahi hai, Raveera.
Yeh sirf waqt hai... mere liye tujhe chhoone se pehle ka."
And just like that—he turned.
No war. No fight. No farewell.
Just a shadow leaving behind a storm.
The palace didn't breathe until he was gone.
And Raveera? She sat frozen. In her palm, the thread pulsed.
> "All came to win me. But he...
He came like I was already his."
And that night— the madness truly began.