Chapter One
The Betrothal
Princess Amara Poorna was eight years old when she learned that somewhere beyond the eastern hills lived a boy who had already been chosen to become her husband.
She was sitting beneath a neem tree in the palace gardens, trying very hard not to listen to her tutor.
“Princess Amara.”
Amara continued watching an ant struggle beneath the weight of a grain of rice.
“Princess.”
The ant was far more interesting than conjugations.
“Amara.”
She sighed and looked up.
Acharya Somdev stood over her with the expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this moment.
“Yes, Acharya?”
“Would you care to tell me what I have been explaining?”
Amara considered lying.
“No.”
Her tutor closed his eyes.
From somewhere behind them came a poorly disguised laugh.
Amara turned.
Her mother, Queen Devika, stood beneath the carved archway leading into the garden.
Beside her was Amara’s father, King Rudradev.
Neither usually attended her lessons.
That meant something was happening.
Amara immediately abandoned the ant.
“Have I done something?”
Her father smiled.
“Why must you always assume that?”
“Because you both came together.”
Her mother exchanged a glance with the king.
“Come with us.”
They took her to a shaded pavilion overlooking the lotus pond.
A tray of sweets waited there.
Amara became suspicious.
Adults only provided sweets before unpleasant conversations.
Her father sat opposite her.
“You know that our kingdom shares its eastern border with Suryagarh.”
“Yes.”
“And you know King Aditya.”
“I met him during the spring festival.”
“Do you remember his eldest son?”
Amara frowned.
There had been many people at the festival.
Then she remembered a boy standing beside the king wearing far too much gold and looking desperately bored.
“The prince?”
“Prince Veerendra.”
Amara shrugged.
“What about him?”
Her parents looked at each other again.
Her mother took Amara’s hand.
“When you are older, you will marry him.”
Amara stared at her.
The garden suddenly became very quiet.
“Why?”
Her father coughed.
Her mother appeared to be fighting a smile.
“Because our families have agreed that the marriage would strengthen both kingdoms.”
“But I don’t know him.”
“You will.”
“What if I don’t like him?”
Her father leaned back.
“You are eight.”
“I will still have opinions when I am older.”
That time her mother definitely smiled.
Amara folded her arms.
“Does he know?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
Her father hesitated.
“He asked whether marriage would interfere with his horse training.”
Amara’s mouth fell open.
Her future husband was clearly an idiot.
“I don’t want to marry him.”
“You haven’t even spoken to him.”
“He cares more about horses than marriage.”
“At ten years old,” her mother said gently, “that is probably sensible.”
Amara remained unconvinced.
That evening she stood on her balcony looking toward the distant eastern hills.
Somewhere beyond them was Suryagarh.
And somewhere inside its palace was Prince Veerendra.
The boy everyone had decided would one day become her husband.
Amara narrowed her eyes at the horizon.
She already disliked him.
