She Who Wears the Veil

The palace gates of Padmavati opened slowly as Dattadevi returned, the dust of travel clinging faintly to the hem of her pale cotton sari. Her hand, still bandaged beneath a longer uttariya, throbbed gently, but her steps did not falter.

Vaidya Vishnugupta had refused her at first — as proud and unbending as a mountain. But eventually, he had agreed. He would come in two days, after preparing the medicine and sacred mixtures in secret, without Veerkund's notice.

And Samudragupta — or Chandra, as he had introduced himself — had promised to stay with Vishnugupta in the village and ensure his safety.

Inside the palace, the torches burned low, casting golden shadows across the brick columns and wood-paneled corridor. The air was scented faintly with sandalwood and dusk.

Dattadevi walked in, robes slightly dusty from travel, her injured hand hidden beneath her uttariya.

King Ganapati Naga was pacing alone in the side hall, a scroll in his hand, brows furrowed in thought. When he saw her, he stopped.

"You're back," he said quietly. "Where had you gone?"

"I went to meet the healer," she replied, voice calm.

"Vishnugupta?"

She nodded.

"Alone?"

Dattadevi hesitated a heartbeat, then said, "Not entirely. A friend escorted me to the village's edge."

The King frowned. "Friend? Who?"

She looked down briefly, then met his eyes. "He's from the southern court. A guest. He calls himself Chandra."

Ganapati stepped closer, suspicious. "A court guest… and you trust him?"

"I do," she said plainly. "He asked for nothing. He offered help."

The King exhaled slowly. His eyes, once fierce and unreadable in battle, now held a thousand questions.

"You've grown bolder, Devi."

"I was raised to be," she said gently.

He studied her face — so familiar, yet lately, so unknown.

"Will this Vishnugupta come?"

"He said he would. In two days."

Ganapati stepped back, thoughtful. "Then let's pray your friend's trust is not misplaced."

He was quiet for a moment, then added, more softly, "When you speak like this… I hear your mother."

That startled her.

He gave a faint, dry smile. "Strong. Steady. Stubborn."

Dattadevi lowered her gaze in a gentle pranam. {joined hands}

"Next time," the King said as she turned to go, "leave a word behind. Even a bird leaves a feather when it flies."

"I'll remember," she said, and disappeared into the corridor.

Ganapati stood alone for a while, the scroll forgotten in his hand.

He didn't know this "Chandra."

He didn't understand his daughter.

But something in her voice — in the quiet certainty — made him wonder…

Had she already become more of a ruler than he ever realized?

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In a small, quiet room at the edge of the village, Samudragupta sat with Vishnugupta beneath a tiled roof supported by brick pillars. A modest courtyard stretched ahead, its earth swept clean, the scent of neem leaves in the air.

Vishnugupta sat cross-legged, grinding herbs into a thick paste over a bronze plate. His silence was habitual, but not cold. Samudragupta leaned back against a wooden beam, his sword resting near the wall, his cloak loosened at the throat.

"She truly believes she can make people change," he murmured.

Vishnugupta raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"She told me to protect you as if I had no armies, no crowns — just… duty."

Still no answer.

Samudragupta chuckled under his breath.

"It's the first time someone asked me to do something like that."

Vishnugupta finally looked up. "And yet… you didn't refuse."

Samudragupta smiled lightly.

"She trusts too easily."

"Or she sees truth before others do," Vishnugupta said, returning to his work.

Samudragupta leaned his head against the pillar, his eyes drifting toward the narrow path where Dattadevi had walked just hours ago. He remembered her gaze — unwavering. Her wound — hidden. Her voice — steady, even in pain.

She didn't know who he truly was.

And yet, something about her belief in him had stirred something quiet in his chest.

"She calls me Chandra," he said aloud, more to himself than the healer. "I wonder what she'd say if she knew."

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Back in Padmavati, in the lower halls of the palace, Veerkund stood before a table littered with scrolls and ink. The scent of burnt resin clung to the air.

One of his spies approached. "The girl returned alone. But Vishnugupta remains in the eastern village… guarded."

"By whom?"

"A man they call Chandra. But he moves like a soldier. And no one saw him enter with any southern badge."

Veerkund's jaw tightened.

Too many threads were slipping from his grip.

"If she brings that healer back, Ajay lives. If he lives…" Veerkund exhaled. "She wins."

He moved to the window, gazing toward the horizon.

"Then I must move first. The villagers will burn again. And this time — the healer dies with them."

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Later that night, Dattadevi sat with Rajima in her chamber, her arm finally at rest.

"You still trust him?" Rajima asked softly.

Dattadevi looked out toward the dark garden, the pendant from her mother resting against her throat.

"I don't know who he is," she said. "But I know what he did."

"And what did he do?"

"He stayed."

"and saved me..."

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 [this novel is based on imagination inspired by real life characters]