Page 27 of The Promised Queen

“Same,” I admit, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Without thinking, I extend my hand toward her. An invitation. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll refuse. But then, slowly, carefully, she places her hand in mine. Her skin is cool, her grip light, yet I feel the weight of trust in that touch.

I guide her toward the jharokha. We stand side by side, leaning against the stone railing, looking up at the same sky.

“They used to be brighter,” I murmur, almost to myself.

“The stars?” she asks.

I nod. “There used to be so many when I was younger. I would come up here with Baapu-sa. He always knew the names, the stories. He believed the sky was a map of all we needed to know.”

Her face softens, eyes flickering with curiosity. “And do you believe that too?”

I smile faintly, looking up. “I want to. But it’s harder now. Everything has changed. The stars feel… farther away.”

The wind shifts, tugging at her dupatta, making her shiver slightly. I notice the way her arms fold across her chest, a small involuntary movement. Without thinking, I slip out of my coat and drape it gently over her shoulders.

She glances at me, surprised. I don’t explain, and she doesn’t protest.

For a while, we just stand there. The night stretches on, endless. The silence between us isn’t heavy. It’s… easy.

And maybe that’s why I say it.

“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t born a king.”

The words leave me quietly, almost like a confession to the sky. I don’t dare look at her, afraid of what her eyes might reflect back at me. Instead, I keep my gaze fixed upward, where a single stubborn star glimmers faintly.

“People think I’m free,” I continue, my voice steady but softer now. “They look at me and imagine I have everything—that I can do anything, be anything. But the truth is, freedom is the one thing I don’t have. I give it to others, Meher, but I have none for myself.”

The thought should make me bitter. It usually does. But tonight, saying it aloud feels less like a wound and more like a release.

Then, I feel warmth. Her hand. Sliding gently into mine.

I glance down. She isn’t looking at me; her eyes are fixed firmly ahead, on the horizon. As though her touch is enough to tell me everything she cannot bring herself to say.

And strangely, it is.

Her palm is small, her fingers curling lightly against mine, but the comfort it brings is disproportionate. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not carrying all of this alone.

“My Baapu-sa…” I begin, voice faltering. “I miss him. Every day. He made things feel… lighter. Even when they weren’t.” I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “Now, even with a family around me, I don’t feel that warmth. Not really. Maa-sa… I don’t even remember the last time I called her that. I don’t feel like her son, Meher. I feel like a pawn. A way for her to extend her reach. I still try, like a fool, to win something from her—approval, love, whatever it is. But I fail miserably. Every time.”

“You don’t.”

Her voice is soft but steady. I look down at her, surprised. She’s staring straight ahead, lips pressed in a faint smile.

“You don’t fail, Raja-sa,” she repeats. “You’ve started earning something far more important. The people’s love.”

I frown, skeptical. But she goes on, squeezing my palm gently.

“The other day, I heard children whispering about how their parents felt… relieved. That at least the Maharaj seemed to be on their side. That they finally trusted you. You are gaining their trust, slowly. That is worth more than your mother’s approval.”

Her words wash over me, and for the first time in days, I smile without forcing it. “Thanks to you,” I murmur.

She quickly looks away, her cheeks faintly flushed.

The wind picks up again, rustling the leaves below, carrying with it a silence that feels… loaded. Then she whispers something so quietly I almost miss it.

“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t born at all.”