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The pandemonium of the Durbar Hall hit his eardrums after three days of nothing but the silence of his bedchambers.

Rajmata had been a constant chatter in that silence, with Papa’s silent chuckles and Sharan’s occasional bursts before she shooed him away.

Night four, his fever cycle had broken. And he had fought his way through Rajmata’s decree and convinced her to let him out for four hours of court.

Papa would still helm their office in the afternoon.

She had agreed. but with some conditions.

Samarth sat on the throne now, doing what he had been doing for almost a decade singlehandedly. Bade Rawal rarely appeared unless summoned by tradition or a particularly knotty dispute. Power had transitioned — quietly, gracefully, and completely.

He adjusted the cuff of his pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled once to keep the fabric from tugging at his suddenly thin wrists.

The Apple Watch on his wrist was one of the non-negotiable conditions from Rajmata to track his pulse more often than it should.

Dengue wasn’t completely gone. And he had a feeling it wouldn’t leave him unmarked.

There was a faint shadow under his eyes, a stillness in his limbs, and sometimes, when he thought no one noticed, a fleeting tremor in his hand.

But his voice? That was intact. Cold. Crisp. Commanding.

“ Proceed,” he said, nodding to the clerk who shuffled a paper from the stack.

Seated just behind him, on a smaller chair was Sharan.

He had sat on that chair and shadowed Papa as a teenager.

Sharan, even at 18, did little of shadowing and more of experimenting.

He was dressed in a decent shirt and pants but his mussed wavy-haired head was bent over the digital thermometer that he had popped discreetly under his armpit, his black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose.

After a few seconds, he checked the reading, frowned, then scribbled something into his leather-bound notebook titled Aedes Aegypti Mosquito Research: Private .

Samarth gave him a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “ Are you checking for symptoms again?”

He didn ’ t even look up. “ Just monitoring. Dr. Haren said relapse is possible. I have crossed the critical phase and am into recovery…”

“ It ’ s court, not a clinic. Put it away.”

“ Yes, Rawal,” he muttered, stuffing it into his bag, which already carried two Petri dishes, a hand lens, and one lone — possibly dead— Aedes aegypti mosquito trapped in a matchbox, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Sharan then flipped to another page in his notebook and began doodling the mosquito reproductive cycle with little cartoon eggs and larvae in speech bubbles. Samarth narrowed his eyes. The larvae were saying things like "Yay, stagnant water!" and "Let ’ s multiply in tables of 10!”

“Kunwar,” he clipped. He shut his book.

Vishwajeet leaned forward slightly, “ Rawal, the municipal commissioner from Ward 7 is here. Regarding the dengue fogging delay.”

Samarth gave a nod.

A man stepped forward, folding his hands. “ Rawal, the machines we ordered from Rajkot have not yet been dispatched. We ’ re relying on manual fumigation, and anyway the cases —”

“ Are on the decline,” Samarth finished for him. “ But that doesn’t mean we stop fumigating. I don’t want to leave any gaps for a relapse.”

“ Yes, Rawal.”

Samarth rested a hand on the armrest of the throne as a brief wave of weakness passed through him. It lasted a moment. He masked it with a slow exhale.

“ Cancel the order on grounds of late delivery. Procure refunds first, then blacklist them. Divert funds from the emergency contingency to acquire alternate fogging units from Ahmedabad suppliers. You have until this evening.”

The officer blinked. “ Yes, Rawal.”

“ And send the new outreach vans to the southern clusters. People aren ’ t coming to health camps. We ’ ll take the camps to them. What happened to covering all home wells?”

“70% wells are covered. Some people are not letting us into their homes.”

“Non-negotiable. Take a decree from court,” he nodded to the scribe.

“Draft one — explaining in Kathiwadi why we need to cover the wells. Assure them that the minute this outbreak is over, their wells will again be uncovered. Also assure them that they will be able to use the well, only — they will need to open it every day to draw water and then close it.”

“ Yes, Rawal.”

As the officer retreated, Vishwajeet handed him a file discreetly. Samarth didn ’ t look. Just said, “ Summarise it.”

“ Dr. Renu of the Infectious Diseases Society of India has a preemptive strategy for next year. She proposes a plan to mitigate this yearly hit of dengue in Nawanagar.”

“ She can meet me this afternoon. Send her a window between three and three-thirty.” He hoped the blocking of a meeting would make Rajmata relent him for half an hour.

Just then, a junior clerk entered hesitantly with a silver tray.

A tall glass of orange-red coloured juice.

Bael, papaya and only god knew what else.

Samarth gave a half-smile. “ On whose instructions?”

“ Rajmata,” the boy mumbled.

Vishwajeet chuckled. “ Drink it, Rawal. We want our heads on our shoulders.”

He took the glass, eyeing the pulp with distaste. “ If I ’ m still alive, tell her it worked.”

Sharan chuckled silently. He had served his time in her home remedies camp.

“ Next petition.”

The court turned solemn again. A man at the far edge of the hall fidgeted nervously. Samarth's eyes zeroed in. “ Is that the manager from the riding school?”

Vishwajeet nodded. “ Yes, Rawal.”

“ Bring him forward.”

The man approached with the energy of someone heading to their own funeral.

“Introduce yourself.”

“I am Ashwaraj Sheth, Rawal. I am the manager at Solanki Riding School.”

“You've been running the finances at the riding school?”

“Yes, Rawal.”

“Were students pressured for late fees.”

“They were very late, Rawal…”

“How many boys?”

“Just a few.”

“Give me the number.”

“…Nine.”

Samarth looked at Vishwajeet.

“Confirmed, Rawal.”

Samarth ’ s gaze didn ’ t flinch. “ Tell me, Sheth saheb. Do you recall what I said when we opened that school?”

“...That it was a royal initiative to make equestrian sport accessible.”

“ For?” Samarth pressed.

“ For all. Not just those who could afford it.”

“ And who funds that school?”

“ The palace.”

“ So if a boy cannot pay a nominal fee on time, whose problem is it?”

“The… palace ’ s.”

Sharan scribbled something fast, then leaned over and whispered, “ Technically the government's, but palace sounds better.”

Samarth didn ’ t react. But his jaw shifted just enough to warn his brother. Sharan retreated back to his notepad.

“You’ve charged them a penalty of thousand rupees each, I heard?”

The man paled. “ No, Rawal! It was only…” he fumbled. The late fee penalty on paper was 150. He had charged 450.

“ Hmm,” Samarth leaned forward. “ It was 1000. Return it to each one.”

The manager’s face soured. “ 1000?”

“ And since the school is run by the palace, from now on, any dues pending are to be reported to Vishwajeet. Is that clear?”

“ Yes, Rawal.”

“ 1000 rupees each before this evening, Ashwaraj. Refund every rupee that was collected from these nine students. Quietly. No show. No receipt trail. Second, bring me the name of anyone on staff who verbally pressured them. Today.”

“ Yes, Rawal.”

“ Third — and this is the part I want you to remember most — if I so much as hear a whisper of financial harassment again, I ’ ll have you re-assigned to clean the stables. Barehanded. For a month. At my stud farm in Verawal.”

He paled.

“You may leave now.”

The man folded his hands and stumbled back and out of the hall. Samarth ’ s gaze swept to the clock, then back to the ministers and clerks seated in court.

“Are there more?”

“No, Rawal.”

“ We ’ ll resume tomorrow. Bade Rawal has commanded to take over this afternoon for any business-related meetings.”

Samarth stood to his feet, taking a moment to fully feel his feet. Once he did, he broke into a brisk walk down the hall, Sharan beside him, holding a dropper and matchbox like sacred relics.

“ I think if I simulate stagnant drain water next time, we might actually see larvae hatch.”

Samarth sighed. “ You ’ re not hatching anything in Durbar Hall.”

“ Of course not, Bhai! I’ll do it in my garden tomorrow.”

“ You ’ ll sit here tomorrow again.”

“ I have to start studying for my prelims,” he protested.

“We all know what you do in that time. Four hours in the morning will not hurt,” Samarth kept striding.

“Why, Bhai, why?!”

As they stepped out into the courtyard, Samarth slowed down, feeling mildly breathless. He looked at his younger brother, having recovered his illness better due to age.

“ One day this throne will be yours. You have to start learning, and start liking it.”

Sharan’s brows furrowed. “ Even if I want to build greenhouses and study mosquito evolution?”

“ Yes,” Samarth replied.

“Eeh!” Harsh strode towards them, in his favourite black kurta over jeans. He had grown old but his kurta and jeans hadn’t.

“Harsh Bhai?” Sharan asked. “What am I good for — court or lab?”

Harsh’s eyebrows went up. He began to gesture lab and Samarth glared. His hands went down.

“Don’t listen to Rawal!”

“Where have you been all day?” Samarth changed the topic, pushing his hands behind his back and walking towards the family living room.

Bike. It got delayed thanks to your dengue.

“Who asked you to sleep in the palace day and night?”

Queen of Hearts

Samarth stopped walking. He glanced at Sharan who had split from them and already walked halfway towards his garden — the one where he conducted his experiments.

“She has still been sleeping on my couch.”

Harsh nodded, his face just as impassive as ever.

“I don’t like it but also… I like it. These four days it’s been like I have started craving things that I never knew I would.”