The grand court of Padmavati was heavy with silence — not the respectful kind, but the kind that waited for blood.
Banners hung still. The marble floor shimmered beneath flickering torches. Ministers stood at attention. Soldiers lined the walls. And at the center stood Dattadevi, calm… but surrounded.
She was dressed in ivory and green — the colors of peace and heritage — but today, even her veil could not soften the accusation carved into the air.
Veerkund stepped forward, his tone sharp and righteous.
Veerkund: "She has left the palace without royal sanction. She has met with enemies of the crown. Villages she visits soon burn. Coincidences… perhaps.
Or perhaps not."
He unfurled the forged scrolls. Whispers filled the hall like rising smoke.
Veerkund: "The Princess has forgotten the difference between concern… and treason."
Dattadevi did not speak.
She didn't need to.
Her eyes searched the throne — her father, King Ganapati Naga, seated high in carved stone. His brows were furrowed. His fingers clenched the lion arms of his seat. But it was not rage in his gaze — it was weariness… and doubt.
He looked at her.
But he did not rise.
King Ganapati Naga (low, pained): "You say nothing, Dattadevi."
She held his gaze, her voice quiet:
Dattadevi: "Because if you knew me, Father… I wouldn't need to."
King: "The kingdom bleeds. My court breaks. And now I must doubt my own blood."
Dattadevi (eyes firm, voice steady): "Then doubt me.
But ask yourself… who profits from the silence of your daughter?"
The king stood slowly. The hall hushed. Even Veerkund's breath stilled.
King Ganapati Naga: "Until the truth is known… you are to remain under house arrest. You will not leave your chambers.
And you will not speak in court again."
The air dropped like a blade.
Dattadevi's jaw tensed. Her fists curled at her sides. But her voice never cracked.
Dattadevi (softly): "Then I shall sit behind walls…
As your enemies walk free through your doors."
She turned — not defeated, but radiant with stillness — and walked out of the court.
That night, behind the carved lattice of her locked chamber, she stood by the window, gazing at the horizon. Fires burned in the distance. Her people still needed her.
Rajima (whispering): "They think they've caged you."
Dattadevi: "No.
They've given me time."
_______________________
They called it house arrest.
But it felt like exile — in silk.
Dattadevi's chambers, once a haven of poetry and morning sunlight, now echoed like stone tombs. Two armed guards stood at her door day and night, their expressions cold, their hands always near their swords.
Outside, four more guards roamed the corridors, their boots thudding in rhythm — not protection, but surveillance.
Even Rajima, her most trusted maid, had been searched twice that morning.
"Forgive me, my lady," she whispered, eyes low. "They said I cannot bring you scrolls anymore… or ink."
Dattadevi (quietly): "They fear words now. That means words still have power."
They had taken her messengers. Her freedom. Her name was no longer spoken in the throne room.
But she still had memory. And fire.
From her balcony, she watched the courtyards below.
Once, children played there.
Now only guards walked. Even the birds seemed wary.
She looked west — toward the villages where her shadow had once brought peace.
Far beyond Padmavati's gates, the village of Mandira trembled under the weight of fear.
Its people whispered her name, still believing she would return — even if she was no longer free.
"She'll come back," said a girl with braids too thin for her age. "She promised."
But the soldiers had returned — Veerkund's men, crueler now.
They dragged a man from his home for speaking her name.
They looted grain from the storehouses.
They laughed when an old woman begged for her son to be spared.
"Your Devi wears gold and silk," they said.
"She doesn't bleed for you anymore."
But in one home, beneath a floorboard, a child kept a tiny carved figurine — the one Dattadevi had once given him.
"She watches," the boy whispered. "She knows."
Back in the palace, Dattadevi pressed her hand against the cool stone of the window, her thoughts far away.
Dattadevi (to herself): "You think the cage weakens me.
But I am a storm learning patience."
Even in silence, her mind moved like a blade being sharpened.
Even surrounded by spies, her spirit began to rise — quietly… but surely.
They had trapped her body.
But her resolve now filled the palace like breathless thunder —
the kind that comes just before the sky breaks open.