Chapter 1 ~The Reincarnated Bride
Chapter 1
The Reincarnated Bride
The first thing I noticed was that my earrings were far too heavy.
The second was that I was travelling in a palanquin.
I sat quite motionless upon a cushioned seat, surrounded by embroidered curtains that swayed with every movement of the bearers. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and roses, and the maroon silk covering my lap was so richly adorned with gold that I scarcely dared touch it. A veil rested over my head; bangles crowded my wrists; and a necklace lay against my collarbones with the solemn weight of a royal treasure.
I lifted the edge of the veil and caught sight of my hands. They were slender, pale, and unfamiliar, their fingers decorated with delicate rings. A small gasp escaped me. I turned towards the polished brass mirror fixed to the side of the palanquin.
A young woman stared back.
She had large, dark eyes, a little nose, soft cheeks, and a mouth that seemed made for smiling. A tiny dimple appeared beside her lips when she pressed them together. Her beauty was not severe or distant; there was something gentle and almost cheerful about her face, as though she might laugh readily if the world gave her a reason. Yet her eyes, framed by kohl and long lashes, were frightened.
I touched my cheek.
The girl in the mirror did the same.
I was not looking at myself.
A voice from ouside came,''Princess Adhya we are about to reach.''
Until a very unfortunate accident, I had been Asha, a university student who preferred libraries to parties. I loved forgotten kingdoms and discovering what official accounts had chosen to omit. I had no friends, but solitude had never troubled me; books were patient companions.
One particular history, however, had troubled me more than all the others.
Princess Adhya of Baldeev had been one of six sisters and the younger sister of Arjun, the prince who later became king. When their kingdom was defeated by the neighbouring empire of Marsha, Adhya was sent to the victorious emperor as a political consort. Her arrival was described in the chronicles as an act of peace. I had always thought it a rather elegant phrase for sending a young woman away from everything she knew.
Her husband, Emperor Aditya, had received her with the courtesy owed to a princess, but little else. He already had three concubines, and he had no intention of making Adhya an special. She was given a separate residence, distant from the heart of the palace, and left to pass her days with servants who obeyed her title but offered her little warmth.
For six months, she lived almost entirely alone.
Then, in the seventh month, Arjun rebelled against the emperor. Aditya killed him in battle, and suspicion soon fell upon his sister. Adhya was accused of sending information to her homeland, although the evidence recorded against her was uncertain. The emperor ordered her execution. She died at twenty, and history remembered her as a traitor.
I had studied her life for a university project and watched a documentary based on another student’s research. When I reached the account of her final days, I had closed my laptop and cried. She had been so young, so obedient, and so alone. What had she done to deserve such an ending?
I had never imagined that I would become her.
My last memory of my own life was the staircase at university. I had been hurrying down from the second floor, thinking about an unfinished research note. My foot slipped. I reached for the railing, missed it, and felt the world tilt beneath me. There had been a flash of light, a sharp rush of fear, and then darkness.
When I opened my eyes, I was here.
The palanquin slowed. Outside, voices announced our arrival, and I heard the heavy gates of a palace being opened. A moment later, the curtains were drawn aside. A woman in a fine silk sari bowed before me.
“Your Highness, welcome.”
Your Highness.
I wanted to ask what year it was and summon a doctor. Instead, I stared at her.
“Princess Adhya,” she added gently, “His Majesty awaits you.”
The name struck me with such force that I forgot to breathe.
I had read it countless times. I had written it in my notes, spoken it during my presentation, and mourned the girl behind it. Now it belonged to me.
I stepped down from the palanquin and looked up at the palace. Its towers rose against the afternoon sky, their carved balconies declaring the wealth of an empire that had conquered my homeland. Guards stood in orderly rows; servants hurried across the courtyard. Everyone seemed to know where they belonged. I was the only person who did not.
The woman led me through a series of corridors and into a grand audience chamber. At its far end, upon a raised seat, sat a man dressed in dark robes embroidered with gold. He was handsome in the severe manner of a statue: straight-backed, composed, and difficult to approach. His expression revealed neither curiosity nor welcome.
I knew him.
Emperor Aditya.
I lowered my gaze as the woman announced my arrival.
“Princess Adhya of Baldeev, Your Majesty.”
He regarded me for a moment. I could feel his attention, though I could not bring myself to look directly at him.
“So,” he said at last, “you have arrived.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Your brother has agreed to the terms of peace. Your presence here is part of that agreement. You will be treated according to your station, and your household will be provided for. In return, I expect no interference in matters of the empire and no correspondence that threatens its security.”
I tried to keep my expression composed. “I understand.”
“You are not being brought here as my wife, Princess. I have no intention of changing the arrangements of my household. You shall have your own residence, and you will be expected to conduct yourself with discretion. Do not mistake this political union for affection.”
I felt something tighten beneath my ribs.
I knew those words. Not their exact phrasing, perhaps, but their meaning was written throughout Adhya’s history. She had entered this palace with a title that sounded grand and a place that was anything but.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I replied.
He turned to an attendant. “Show the princess to the residence prepared for her.”
That was all.
No welcome, no question about the journey, not even the smallest attempt to discover whether I was tired. I was dismissed as neatly as a document once its contents had been acknowledged.
I followed the attendant from the chamber, keeping my eyes lowered. Sunlight fell through carved stone screens, scattering patterns across marble floors. Courtyards held flowering trees and fountains. Yet the beauty only sharpened my unease. A golden cage remained a cage, however carefully its bars were decorated.
We crossed a quieter courtyard and stopped before a smaller palace set apart from the principal buildings.
“This is the residence assigned to Your Highness,” the attendant explained.
I looked at its entrance. The building was handsome enough, but its courtyard was almost bare. A few dry leaves had gathered beside the steps, and the curtains visible through the open windows looked faded. Two servants stood waiting, their bows respectful but their faces unreadable.
I crossed the threshold.
The rooms were spacious, yet the furniture appeared old, and the flowers arranged in a silver vase had begun to droop. There was no gathering of ladies to welcome me, no cheerful bustle, no sign that anyone had been eager for my arrival.
I knew this place.
It was the residence described in the documentary, where Adhya had spent those lonely first months. I had once imagined it from a distance; now I stood inside it, surrounded by the very silence that had swallowed her days.
An attendant asked whether I required anything.
I looked at her. She was young, and I wanted to know whether I might find a friend in this unfamiliar world.
“May I know your name?” I asked.
The girl seemed surprised. “Tara, Your Highness.”
“Tara,” I repeated, trying to smile. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
A little colour rose in her cheeks. She bowed and withdrew with the others.
When the doors closed, I approached the mirror and lifted my veil. The young woman looking back at me had soft cheeks, bright eyes, and a small dimple that appeared even through my anxious attempt at a smile. She looked too gentle to have endured the life I remembered.
“Adhya,” I whispered.
My eyes filled. I had once wept for her from the safety of a library. Now I wore her face and stood in the place where her loneliness had begun. I was frightened and homesick for a life that might no longer be mine. Yet I could not accept that this young face must end beneath an executioner’s blade.
I did not know why I had been brought here, or whether history would unfold exactly as I had studied it. I knew only that Arjun’s rebellion would come, that he would die, and that suspicion would fall upon his sister. I also knew that the official account had never answered every question.
I drew a careful breath and met my reflection.
“I know what they wrote about you,” I whispered. “But I do not believe that is all there is to your story.”
I had no allies, no influence, and no understanding of the rules governing this palace. I possessed only the knowledge of a history student and the determination of a girl who had once cried over another girl’s fate.
Perhaps that would not be enough.
But I could not allow Adhya’s life to be reduced to the final line in a chronicle.
This time, I would try to give her a different ending.
To be continued...
