Tarabai sat silently in her chamber, the scroll resting before her like a relic of untold power. Her hands, steady despite the weight of its revetions, unrolled the parchment once more. She read the script carefully, the symbols and words painting a story of betrayal, ambition, and stolen heritage.
Her voice, calm and deliberate, began narrating the words etched on the scroll, a quiet reflection of her thoughts:
“The then king of the Bhorjan Empire had two sons. The elder son, though noble in character, suffered from a condition the schors called eclipsia. His affliction rendered him unable to fulfill the rigorous demands of ruling. The king, wise and forward-thinking, decreed that the throne should pass to his eldest son’s child—his grandchild—ensuring that the eldest bloodline remained intact.”
Tarabai traced the royal seal of the Bhorjan king as she continued reading. “This decision, signed and sealed by the king himself and the renowned schor Shastra Gupta, was a statement of faith in the rightful lineage. The scroll was to secure justice for the family, even beyond the elder son’s abilities.”
Her voice turned cold as the narrative darkened. “But the king’s wisdom was not enough to quell greed. The second son, consumed by ambition, refused to accept the decree. After the king’s death, he committed mutiny, killing his elder brother and ying cim to the throne.”
Tarabai’s fingers clenched the edges of the scroll as the words brought to life a tale of treachery. “The mutiny didn’t end there. Dhruv’s great-grandfather, the orchestrator of this treachery, ensured his son—Dhruv’s grandfather—remained complicit in the crime. Together, they hunted down and executed every schor who had borne witness to the signing of this decree. It was a systematic erasure of justice.”
Her voice softened as the story turned to her lineage. “But Shastra Gupta, though poisoned and on the brink of death, escaped with the original scroll. He entrusted it to the rightful heir, my grandfather, the only surviving child of the elder son. Shastra Gupta’s final words to him were a command to flee—to preserve the document and, one day, return to recim what was lost.”
Tarabai paused, imagining the desperation of her grandfather as a boy. She could see him clutching the scroll as he fled the blood-soaked halls of Bhor, crossing into Bundel to begin anew. There, he had built a textile empire with the remnants of his family’s wealth, ying the foundation for the dynasty her father now ruled.
“This scroll,” Tarabai murmured, “is not just a document. It is justice. It is truth.”
She stood, carefully rolling the parchment and securing it in a hidden compartment in her chamber. Her thoughts raced. Her family’s history was not one of honor, but survival. Yet, with this truth in hand, she could change everything.
Tarabai’s spies had already informed her that the king responsible for the mutiny—Dhruv’s great-grandfather—was long dead. His son, Dhruv’s grandfather, had upheld the stolen legacy. Now, Dhruv ruled Bhor, innocent of his forefathers’ crimes.
To her, the path was clear. She would not punish an innocent king for his ancestors’ greed. Instead, she would leverage her lineage and the truth contained in the scroll.
The demands she would pce on her father were steep: three-fourths of the kingdom’s wealth, property, and navy. She would not take the Bundeli throne, nor would she accept a quiet life of marriage. She needed power—not to destroy, but to restore. Her spies had uncovered a final detail: Dhruv was childless.
A union between them would secure her pce in Bhor and fulfill her ultimate goal without bloodshed. It was a calcuted risk, but one worth taking.
Tarabai walked to the window, gazing at the stars that hung above the distant nds of Bhor. The weight of her family’s past pressed against her, but so too did the promise of the future. She would recim her heritage, not with swords, but with strategy.