The scent of burning sandalwood was the first thing that anchored me to the living. It was thick, cloying, and entirely wrong for a woman who had just collapsed in a sterile, bleach-scented hospital hallway in Mumbai.
I opened my eyes, expecting the flicker of fluorescent lights. Instead, I was met with the soft, amber glow of oil lamps. Above me, a ceiling of intricate teak wood carved with dancing peacocks stretched into the shadows. My body felt...heavy. Or rather, tiny. When I lifted my hand, it wasn't the scarred, caffeine-shaking hand of a tired intern. It was a dimpled, brown-sugar-colored fist.
"The little princess is awake," a whisper drifted from the corner.
A woman in a deep saffron saree rushed over. Her eyes were wide with a mix of pity and terror. This was the moment the memories surged- not mine, but hers. I was Amrita. The unwanted blossom of the Magadh-Varta Empire. The daughter of a man who had murdered his entire harem in a fit of cursed rage, sparing only me because I was too small to be a threat.
The atmosphere in the room was suffocating, thick with the humidity of the coming monsoon. Outside, the peacocks let out a mournful cry, echoing the dread pooling in my stomach. In the book I had read- The Emperor's Bloodied Petals- Amrita was a footnote, a girl executed on her eighteenth birthday because her very existence reminded the Emperor of the woman who betrayed him.
I looked at the silk canopy above me. I had seventeen years.
"Princess? Are you hungry?" the maid asked, her voice trembling.
I didn't cry. Crying was for children who had parents to comfort them. I needed a plan. If the Emperor, Vikramaditya, was a monster fueled by ice and shadow, I would have to be the sun that refused to be extinguished.
I forced my tiny, unfamiliar lips into a soft, gurgling smile. It felt like a mask, but in this palace of gold and blood, masks were the only things that stayed on straight.
"Dada," I chirped, the word tasting like ash.
The maid gasped, dropping the brass plate of fruit. The sound clattered through the silent room like a death knell. In this world, no one dared call the Emperor "Father." To do so was to invite the sword. But to survive, I had to be the one thing he couldn't bring himself to break.
The monsoon clouds broke outside, and the first heavy drops of rain began to pelt the stone balcony. The game had begun.
***
To be continued...