PROLOGUE
Rewa Palace, Central India
The storm broke over Rewa Palace late in the evening.
Thunder rolled across the sandstone domes, shaking the glass panes in their frames. Rain lashed against the tall arched windows. Lightning flashed across the courtyard, lighting up carved pillars and ancestral statues for a moment before plunging everything back into darkness.
Rani Suchitra Devi had just finished nursing her infant son, but instead of taking rest, she walked along the corridor with purpose. Her silk saree whispered against the marble floor.
As she neared the grand staircase, she heard the whispers.
“That boy is not normal.”
“It must be the Jogra blood. The last maharaja was known to be mad too. Heard he took his own life.”
Suchitra stopped.
The two newly hired palace attendants froze when they saw her standing there.
“No one in this palace is allowed to speak of my children with disrespect,” she said, her tone calm yet firm. “Collect your wages for the rest of the month and leave before sunrise.”
“Rani Ma, we—”
“Leave.”
Suchitra did not raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
The attendants lowered their heads in shame and hurried away.
Another crack of thunder echoed through the palace.
Without hesitation, Suchitra turned toward the Eastern suite.
Her eyes moved swiftly across the room until they settled on the seven-year-old boy she had come looking for. Her second-born son was crouched beneath a carved wooden console table, knees drawn tightly to his chest, fingers pressed tightly over his ears.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” Bharat was counting softly.
Ram stood a few steps away. “The thunder is bothering him, Amma,” Ram said.
Nine years old, and already tall for his age, broad-shouldered, sun-tanned like his late father, Ram carried quiet authority in the way he stood. He was alert, but not afraid.
Suchitra nodded in acknowledgment before she slowly knelt on the marble floor.
“Bharat,” she said gently, not wanting to startle him. “It’smouj.”
“Six. Seven.”
Lightning flashed again.
Bharat flinched, his small shoulders trembling slightly. His fair skin caught the pale light, and his light-brown eyes were unfocused yet alert.
“It’s too loud, mouj,” his small voice whispered.
Suchitra’s chest tightened. She extended her hand carefully, knowing he disliked sudden touch or movement.
After a pause, he placed his small, trembling hand in hers and crawled out from under the table.
His hand stayed stiff in hers. She knew he tolerated her touch rather than draw comfort.
