fire

I was so happy that day—so full of warmth and excitement as I prepared my brother’s birthday gift.

Wanting it to be perfect, I quietly slipped away from the glittering Rajmahal, leaving behind the music, laughter, and flickering lanterns. I was accompanied by one of our most trusted guards. We rode toward the edge of the forest, a place few dared to wander at dusk. But I knew where I was going—deep into the trees, to a hidden corner where something rare and magical bloomed.

There, in the clearing bathed in twilight, grew a flower I had nurtured in secret for months.

A Black Tulip—or as the old legends called it, the Black Magic Rose.

It wasn’t just a flower. It was a symbol. Of rebirth. Of strength in darkness. Of health, hope, and a new beginning.

I had grown it for Virendra, the future king of Udaipur. I wanted him to have something no one else could give—a token that said, I believe in you. I see the king in you already.

As I gently wrapped the flower’s pot with silk, hundreds of fireflies rose from the grass around me, glowing like scattered stars. I smiled, my heart full. The world felt kind. The forest was quiet. Everything seemed perfect.

But perfect things never last.

As we returned toward the palace—toward my Slaj Mahal—I felt it first. The air. It had changed. Heavier. Smoky.

Then I saw it.

Fire.

Flames flickered wildly from the rooftops. Smoke billowed into the night sky. Screams echoed from within the palace walls. Shouting. Crying. The sounds of chaos, of pain. Panic surged through the air like poison.

My heart dropped.

Unfamiliar guards were stationed outside my mahal—men I did not recognize, dressed in armor that did not belong to our kingdom.

I felt a cold, sick fear claw its way into my chest.

Something was terribly wrong.

I didn’t wait. I signaled my guard, and together, we crept around the back, through the hidden passage known only to royal blood.

We entered the palace from the secret door—but what greeted us wasn’t home.

It was a nightmare.

Blood. Everywhere.

Bodies lay scattered across the polished floors. Loyal guards. Servants. Friends. Lifeless. Cold. Their eyes wide with shock, their mouths still frozen in silent screams. The scent of burning oil and iron filled my nose.

Tears blurred my vision, but I ran. I didn’t even know where—just deeper into the palace. I had to find my family.

I reached the great hall—where the birthday celebration was supposed to begin.

And then...

I stopped.

My knees buckled.

There, lying in the center of the marble floor, was my mother.

Queen Hemanshi Raghav Singh.

Her body was soaked in blood. A knife was still buried in her stomach. Her eyes were open—wide, glassy, lifeless. As if she had been searching for me even in her last breath.

The silk of her sari was torn. Her golden bangles lay shattered beside her. Her hair still smelled of jasmine.

I fell beside her, my hands trembling uncontrollably.

“M-Maa…” I whispered, but no sound came out. My voice was caught behind the tears.

My fingertips reached out, gently brushing her cold cheek.

My soul cracked.

My body shook with silent sobs as my mind screamed.

And somewhere, behind the fire and death, I could still hear the party music playing faintly in the distance.

As if the world hadn’t yet realized… that mine had just ended.

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