AUTHOR POV

The morning sun rose over the Rajasthan horizon, casting a golden hue over the Rathor palace as it prepared for the most significant day in decades. The air was thick with the scent of burning sandalwood, fresh marigolds, and the heavy, sacred smoke of the *Havan* kund.

**Rudra** sat at the center, the picture of royal discipline. Clad only in a traditional silk dhoti, with the sacred **Janeu** thread crossing his muscular chest, his **ocean-blue eyes** remained fixed on the rising flames. Every time he offered the *ahuti* into the fire, the muscles in his back rippled, a stark contrast to the calm, meditative expression he wore.

Beside him sat **Ishita**, looking every bit the Yuvrani who was about to become a Queen.

**Siya Maa** looked regal in her traditional attire, overseeing the ritual with the grace of a woman who had held this family together for years. But all eyes were inevitably drawn to **Ishita**.

Siya look

She wore a **deep crimson and gold saree-style lehenga**, the fabric so rich it seemed to glow against her brown skin. The intricate **Bandhani work** on her dupatta paid homage to her new home, while the gold embroidery spoke of the Rathor legacy.

She was draped in a heavy **Kundan choker** with emerald droplets . The **Maang Tikka** rested perfectly on her forehead, framing her long curly hair which was tied in a sophisticated royal bun.

Her **mangalsutra** glinted in the firelight, and the **red chooda** on her wrists clinked softly every time she moved her hands to pray.

Her hands were covered in intricate **mahogany henna**, adorned with heavy **Hathphool** that sparkled with every gesture.

Ishita's look

Surrounding the *Havan* were the two pillars of their life:

Ram Singh Rathore sat with pride, watching his son take the first step toward the throne. **Akshat and Dhristi** sat close by, with little **Krish** watching the fire in awe. **Vardaan and Reet** shared a proud glance, Reet especially admiring how the outfit she helped design looked on Ishita.

Mohan and Gayatri Sharma** looked on with teary eyes, their daughter now the heartbeat of a royal clan. **Ravi and Riva** stood with young **Purav**, feeling the weight of the honor.

Jay**, looking sharp and serious for once, stood guard near the entrance alongside **Shiv , veer and Krishiv**. Their wives and girlfriend —**Aditi, tanya, and Chavvi**—were seated together, whispered prayers on their lips for their friend's big day.

As the Pandit ji chanted the final mantras of the Abhishek, Rudra reached out, his hand covering Ishita's as they made the final offering together. He squeezed her fingers gently—a silent check-in on her foot, and a promise that no matter how heavy the crown became, he would never let her carry the weight alone.

The smoke of the sacred fire curled toward the high ceilings of the temple hall as the final chants echoed into silence. The air was charged with a heavy, ancient energy, marking the end of the havan

"Hone wale Raja aur Rani," the Pandit ji spoke, his voice deep and resonant. "Aane wali zimedaariyo ke liye Bhagwan ka aashirwad aur apne bado ka aashirwad le." (May the future King and Queen take the blessings of the Almighty and their elders for the responsibilities to come.)

**Rudra** moved first, his bare feet steady on the cool marble. Despite the long hours of the ritual, he looked more powerful than ever, the **Janeu** stark against his tan skin. He reached down, his large, warm hand finding **Ishita's** to help her up. He was hyper-aware of her bandaged foot, his **ocean-blue eyes** scanning her face for any flicker of pain.

Ishita rose with grace, she was ready. Her payal gave a singular, clear chime as she found her balance. Together, they stepped toward the elders.

They moved in perfect unison, a blend of Rathor steel and Sharma warmth.

First, they bowed before the idol of Lord Shiva and parvti. Rudra, the man who once didn't believe in God, bowed his head low—not just out of tradition, but out of gratitude for the woman standing beside him.

They moved to bebe then Ram Singh and Siya Rathore. As Ishita leaned down to touch their feet, Siya Maa caught her by the shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace instead. "Khush raho, meri Rani," she whispered.

Then chacha and Chachi

When they reached **Mohan and Gayatri Sharma**, the atmosphere turned emotional. Rudra, the "Cold Prince," bowed deeply to Ishita's parents, a gesture of immense respect that brought tears to Gayatri's eyes. He wasn't just taking their daughter; he was promising to protect her until his last breath.

They shared a respectful nod and quick hugs with **Akshat, Dhristi, Vardaan, and Reet**. Even **Jay** stood at attention, his usual mischief replaced by a look of fierce loyalty for his 'Bhai' and 'Bhabhi'.

As they finished the circle of blessings, the heavy doors of the inner temple began to creak open. From the outer courtyard, the sound of traditional trumpets and the rhythmic beating of drums began to swell. Thousands of people were waiting to see the man who would lead them and the woman who had captured the ice-cold heart of the Rathor heir.

Ishita’s grip tightened on Rudra’s hand. The **Hathphool** on her hand pressed into his palm.

"Ready, Janna?" Rudra murmured, his voice only for her.

"With you? Always, Ru," she whispered back, her **brown eyes** shining with a mix of nerves and fire.

The air grew even more solemn as the Pandit ji gestured toward the large silver vessels filled with sacred Ganges water and pure saffron-infused milk.

"Ab hone wale Raja ka dhoodh aur paani se Abhishek hoga," he announced, his voice echoing through the temple's stone arches. "Lekin pehle, hone wali Rani is dhoodh aur paani ko chuyengi... unke sparsh ke baad hi Raja ka Abhishek purn maana jayega."

**Rudra** sat perfectly still, his back straight and eyes closed, prepared for the cooling ritual. **Ishita** stepped forward, her **red chooda** tinkling as she reached out. Her fingertips, decorated with intricate **mahogany henna**, dipped lightly into the cool milk and then the water. It was a symbolic gesture—the cooling, nurturing grace of the Queen blessing the power of the King before he officially took his throne.

As her cool fingers brushed the surface, she caught Rudra’s eye. A small, encouraging smile played on her lips, and for a brief second, the "Cold Prince" allowed a soft, private look of devotion to soften his features

Once she stepped back, the priests began the pour. The milk and water cascaded over Rudra’s **muscular shoulders**, drenching the **Janeu** and the **'ISHITA' tattoo** over his heart. It was a sight of ancient grandeur—the future King of the Rathors being purified for the heavy crown he was about to wear.

"Ab Raja taiyar hoke aaye," the Pandit ji declared as the final drop of water fell. "Aur aap sab bhi taiyar ho jaiye Raj Tilak ke liye!"

The courtyard erupted into a flurry of movement. **Siya and Ram Singh Rathore** began leading the elders toward the main palace wings to change into their formal court attire.

**Jay and Shiv** came over to help Rudra up, handing him a fresh silk wrap to dry off. "Hurry up, Bhai," Jay whispered with a grin. "The public is already chanting your name outside. You don't want to keep Rajasthan—or your Rani—waiting."

**Ishita** felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach. She looked at her bandaged foot and then at the massive trunk containing her saree The moment she would transition from a bride to the Sovereign Queen of the Rathors.

The palace was a hive of frantic energy as the final hour approached. The scent of expensive perfumes and fresh flowers drifted through the corridors, separating the two chambers where the future King and Queen were being transformed into legends.

In Ishita’s suite, the atmosphere was a mix of a high-end salon and a family reunion. **Ishita** sat before the grand vanity, her **long curly hair** already being pinned into a regal style. Even though she was the bride of the day, her perfectionist streak as a makeup artist couldn't rest.

"Aditi! If you smudge that eyeliner one more time, I'm doing it myself!" Ishita scolded playfully, reaching out to fix her childhood friend's wing.

**Aditi and Reet** were shamelessly using their "pregnancy cards" to get Ishita to do the heavy lifting for their looks. "Ishu, my back hurts, can you just blend this contour?" Reet pouted, while Aditi added, "And my feet are swollen, so you have to pick my lipstick shade!"

Only **Chavvi** remained the sweet, grounding presence, quietly holding the jewelry boxes, while **Kriti** was the only one genuinely helping Ishita lace up the heavy **15kg Ghoomar lehenga**. The outfit was a masterpiece of **magenta and gold**, embroidered with peacocks and palace motifs that seemed to tell the history of the Rathors with every stitch.

Across the hall, **Rudra** was being subjected to a different kind of "help." He stood tall, his  frame** draped in an ivory and gold sherwani that radiated power.

**Jay, Shiv, and Krishiv** weren't so much helping as they were providing a constant stream of commentary. Even **Ravi** joined in, watching his brother-in-law with a mix of pride and amusement.

"Bhai, are you sure you can breathe in that?" Jay teased, tugging at the heavy gold embroidery on Rudra’s shoulder. "Or is the 'Cold Prince' finally feeling the heat of the throne?"

"If you don't stop touching the fabric, Jay, the only thing you'll feel is the heat of my fist," Rudra rumbled, though his **ocean-blue eyes** held a rare glint of humor. He looked at his reflection—the ivory turban with the royal kalgi, the layers of pearls, and the sharp line of his jaw. He looked every bit the Greek god type he was known to be.

She was a vision in her **magenta lehenga**. The plunging neckline of her blouse was balanced by a massive neck piece Her **red chooda** was stacked with heavy gold kadas, and She looked like a painting brought to life, the weight of the tradition finally settling on her shoulders.

He was the epitome of Rajasthani royalty. His ivory ensemble made him look like a carved marble statue. The sword at his waist was a reminder of the "ruthless" side of the Rathor bloodline, but the way he kept checking the time proved his heart was only with the girl in the other room.

Neither was fully ready yet—the final touches were still being applied—but the tension in the palace was reaching a breaking point.

The atmosphere in the men's wing was a thick blend of nostalgia and royal anticipation. **Rudra** sat on the grand carved chair, finally fully draped in his ivory and gold **Raj Tilak sherwani**. The heavy emerald and pearl *mala* rested against his chest, catching the light of the chandeliers. He looked every bit the Greek god—muscular, sharp-jawed, and radiating a cold, regal power that only softened when his eyes drifted toward the door.

His outfit

While the adults were busy with final touches, the floor of the chamber belonged to the next generation. **Krish and Purav** were running around in their miniature sherwanis, their tiny **pagdis** (turbans) slipping off their heads every few seconds. They would giggle, pick them up, and try to shove them back on lopsidedly, only for them to tumble again.

Watching them, a rare, genuine smile broke through Rudra’s "cold" exterior. Beside him, **Akshat and Vardaan** leaned against the marble pillars, their expressions mirroring his.

"Look at them," Akshat murmured. "It’s like looking at a mirror of us twenty years ago."

"Yeah," Jay added, surprisingly quiet for once. "Every time we come back to the Raj Mahal**, the walls start telling stories."

Rudra’s **ocean-blue eyes** clouded with a bittersweet memory. He closed them for a second, and suddenly he wasn't the Top 5 businessman or the future King; he was five years old again, running through these same corridors.

He remembered the pack—himself, Akshat, Jay, and their brothers-in-arms **Veer, Shiv, and Krishiv**. They were a chaotic storm of energy, but they always had a captain.

**Tara di.** He could almost see her—his elder sister, three years older and infinitely wiser in the ways of palace mischief. She would be carrying a toddler-aged **Ahana** on her hip, pointing her finger and giving orders like the Queen she was born to be. She was the one who kept the boys in line, the one who led their "expeditions" to the royal kitchens.

A small, sharp pang hit his chest. If she were here today, she would have been the one fixing his turban, teasing him about how his "heartless" reputation was ruined the moment he met **Ishita**.

"Bhai?" Jay’s voice broke the trance.

Rudra opened his eyes, the cold steel returning to his gaze, though a hint of that childhood warmth remained. He stood up, his **6'3" frame** towering over everyone in the room.

"The Pandit is calling," **Ravi** said, entering the room with a look of immense pride for his brother-in-law. "The elders are already moving toward the Durbar Hall. It’s time."

Rudra adjusted the heavy sword at his waist. "Where is the Yuvrani?"

"She's just finishing," Jay teased, falling back into his usual self. "But be warned, Bhai. If you thought she was stunning yesterday, you might actually faint when you see her in that magenta lehenga. Don't worry, we'll catch you."

Rudra didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. He simply began to walk, his long strides echoing through the hall. He had a kingdom to lead

The atmosphere in the bridal suite shifted from chaotic preparation to a reverent silence as **Kriti** placed the final pin, securing the heavy magenta dupatta over **Ishita’s** head. It was done.

When the doors opened, **Siya Maa**, **Bebe**, **Urmila Chachi**, and **Gayatri Sharma** stepped inside. The collective gasp that left them was the only sound in the room.

Ishita stood there, a vision of royal splendor. The **magenta and gold lehenga** flowed around her like a sunset, and the **emerald and Kundan jewelry** caught the light with every breath she took. The heavy **Nath** (nose ring) and the **Sheeshphool** (headpiece) framing her face made her look like a goddess stepped straight out of a temple mural.

Feeling their intense gaze, Ishita’s **brown eyes** lowered, and a deep blush crept up her neck, clashing beautifully with the crimson of her **chooda**.

**Bebe** walked forward with trembling hands, tears of joy welling in her eyes. She circled her hand over Ishita's head and blew on her fingers. "Sadke java... kitni sundar lag rahi hai meri bachi," she whispered. "May the evil eye never touch you."

**Urmila Chachi** wiped a tear but couldn't help a mischievous grin. "Sach mein, Gayatri ji, aisa lag raha hai jaise phir se shadi ho rahi hai! (It feels like they’re getting married all over again!)" She then turned to Ishita with a wink. "**Rudra toh behosh hi ho jayega**—he’s going to faint the moment he sees you."

**Ahana**, fixing her own jewelry that Ishita had helped with earlier, let out a loud laugh. "Faint? Chachi, **Bhai ka bas chale toh woh har saal Shadi kar le Ishu bhabhi se!** (If it were up to Bhai, he’d marry Bhabhi every single year just to see her like this!)"

The room erupted into laughter, even as **Aditi and Reet**—glowing in their own right despite their pregnancy complaints—nodded in total agreement.

**Gayatri** stepped forward, adjusting the **Mangalsutra** around her daughter's neck. "You look perfect, Ishu. Not just because of the clothes, but because of the happiness on your face."

Ishita looked at herself in the grand mirror. Behind her stood the women who had shaped her—her mother and her new Rathor family. She adjusted the heavy **Hathphool** on her hands and took a deep breath. The 15kg lehenga was heavy, her foot still needed care, but she felt stronger than ever.

This is pushtani Nath that's why she wore it accordingly to rituals

*Bebe** approached **Ishita** with eyes glistening, her hands steady as she took Ishita’s slender wrists. With a gentle click, she slid the heavy, gold-engraved **Pushtani Kangan** (ancestral bangles) onto her arms, their intricate designs speaking of generations of Rathor women. Not stopping there, she fastened a magnificent **Kamarband** (waist belt) around Ishita’s slim waist, the emerald and pearl drops resting perfectly against the deep magenta fabric of her lehenga.

"These have waited long enough for their true mistress," Bebe whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

**Siya Maa** then stepped up, her face glowing with maternal pride. She reached for a small pot of surma and, with a tender smile, applied a tiny dot of **kajal behind Ishita’s ear**. "Kissi ki nazar na lage meri bachi ko (May no evil eye touch my child)," she murmured, her gaze lingering on the "goddess" before her.

The sentimental silence was broken by **Aditi**, who crossed her arms over her own elegant outfit and pouted dramatically.

> "Waah, Siya Aunty! Ab sab kuch sirf apni bahu ke liye? (Wow, Aunty! Now everything is only for your daughter-in-law?)" Aditi joked, nudging tanya  beside her. "Hum sab ke nazar nahi utarogi? Kya hum ache nahi lag rahe? (Won't you ward off the evil eye for the rest of us? Do we not look good?)"

The girls—**Ahana, Reet, Dhristi, and—all joined in, striking model-like poses in their various shades of pastel and gold.

**Siya Maa** laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Tum sab toh meri hi betiyaan ho (You all are my daughters)," she teased, reaching out to mock-pinch Aditi’s cheek. "Lekin aaj ka din toh sirf Ishu aur **Ru** ka hai. Tum logo ki nazar toh tumhare pati utarenge! (But today is only for Ishu and Rudra. Your husbands will be the ones to ward off the evil eye for you!)"

**Ahana** giggled, "Bhai toh nazar utarna bhool jayenge bhabhi ko dekh kar, woh toh bas dekhte hi reh jayenge! (Bhai will forget to ward off the evil eye once he sees Bhabhi; he'll just be stuck staring!)"

The heavy, gold-carved doors of the bridal suite groaned open, and a maid stepped in, bowing deeply. Kama ghani "Yuvraj intzar kar rahe hain, Yuvrani sa. Samay ho gaya hai Raj Tilak ka. Pandit ji bhi bula rahe hain." (The Prince is waiting. It is time for the Coronation. The Priest is also calling for you.)

**Bebe** clapped her hands, her eyes bright with excitement. "Haan, haan! Chalo sab chalo! Don't keep the King of Rajasthan waiting!"

Because of the sheer weight of the lehenga** and the lingering sting in her foot, **Kriti and Chavvi** stepped to either side of **Ishita**. They held her arms firmly, helping her navigate the marble floors of the long, arched corridor.

The sound of her **payal** clinking against the stone echoed through the hallway, a rhythmic herald of her arrival. Ishita’s heart hammered against her ribs, her breath hitching behind the sheer veil of her dupatta.

At the end of the corridor, bathed in the amber glow of the palace chandeliers, stood **Rudra Singh Rathore**.

He was standing with his back to them, adjusting the heavy hilt of his ceremonial sword. But the moment he heard the distinct chime of her anklets—the sound he could pick out of a crowd of thousands—he froze.

He turned slowly.

As soon as his **ocean-blue eyes** landed on her, the "Cold Prince" vanished. The ruthless businessman, the future King, the man who feared nothing—he simply lost himself once again.

He forgot to breathe. His hands, usually steady enough to lead an empire, tightened slightly at his sides. She wasn't just his wife in that moment; she was a divine vision in magenta and gold. The way the emeralds in her **pushtani jewellery against her skin, the way her **hair** was perfectly framed by the royal dupatta—it was too much for his heart to take.

The girls slowed down as they approached him, sensing the magnetic pull between the two. **Kriti and Chavvi** shared a knowing smile and gently let go of Ishita’s arms, stepping back to join the other girls.

Rudra didn't move. He just stared, his gaze traveling from her **red chooda** up to her shy, shimmering **brown eyes**.

"Ru..." she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant thumping of the dhols.

He finally moved, taking the few steps that separated them. He didn't care that the Sharmas, the Rathors, and the palace staff were watching from a distance. He reached out, his thumb grazing the **kajal dot** Siya Maa had placed behind her ear, before resting his hand on her cheek.

"I thought I was ready to lead a kingdom today," he murmured, his voice thick with a raw emotion that made the girls gasp. "But looking at you... I realized I’d rather just be the man who gets to stand beside you."

Ishita’s lips trembled into a smile, her shyness momentarily replaced by the fire he always ignited in her. "The King shouldn't be so distracted, Raja ji . Rajasthan is waiting."

"Let them wait," Rudra rumbled, leaning down until his forehead rested against hers. "The world can have the King later. Right now, I just need a moment with my Janna."

The air in the corridor was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the magnetic pull between them. **Rudra** leaned in closer, his **ocean-blue eyes** tracing the curve of **Ishita’s** shy smile, whispering something so scandalous and sweet that her blush deepened to match the magenta of her lehenga.

"Shhh! Chalo!" she hissed, though her eyes were sparkling with joy. She playfully pushed at his **ivory and gold sherwani**, her **red chooda** clinking softly against his chest.

Suddenly, the heavy silence of the corridor was shattered by the booming, rhythmic voices of the **Darbans**. Standing tall at the entrance of the Durbar Hall, they struck their silver staffs against the marble floor, their voices rising in a poetic, traditional chant that echoed through the entire **Rathor Raj Mahal**.

> *"Phaaro! Savdhan! Rajasthan ke chirag, kul-tilak, Rajendra Singh Rathor ke potr , ram Singh Rathor ke suputr

Shriman Rudra Singh Rathore aur unki ardhangini, Yuvrani Ishita Rathor padhaar rahe hain!"*

They began to recite the lineage—invoking the names of **Ram Singh Rathore**, the legacy of his ancestors, and the union of the Rathor and Sharma families in a grand, royal verse.

As the last word of the proclamation faded, the **Shankh** (conch shell) let out a long, divine blast, signaling the purification of the space. Simultaneously, the heavy, deep thud of the **Dhol** and the piercing melody of the trumpets filled the air.

The massive doors of the **Durbar Hall** swung open.

Inside, the sight was overwhelming. Half of Rajasthan seemed to be gathered within the high stone walls. Thousands of people—dignitaries, village heads, and loyal subjects—stood in perfect, disciplined lines. The men were in colorful turbans and traditional *Angarkhas*, while the women wore vibrant *Odhnis*, creating a sea of color that parted only for the center aisle.

Finally, the couple appeared at the threshold.

The floor was no longer cold marble; it was a thick, fragrant **carpet of fresh rose petals and marigolds** that stretched all the way to the high throne. As they stepped forward, the crowd erupted into a rhythmic cheer, but the sound seemed to fade into the background for Rudra.

He didn't look at the thousands of people bowing their heads. He didn't look at the golden throne waiting for him. He only looked at the woman beside him. He adjusted his stride to match her slower, careful steps, his hand firmly holding hers, acting as her anchor against the weight of the lehenga and the sting in her foot.

Every step they took on that flower carpet was a step away from their past separation and toward their shared destiny as the rulers of this land.

The **Durbar Hall** was thick with the scent of rose petals and history as **Rudra** and **Ishita** walked the flower-strewn carpet. But as they reached the halfway point, the heavy hand of tradition took hold. According to the ancient royal rituals, the Queen-to-be was to join the other women on the side, watching from the wings as the King claimed his birthright.

**Ishita** gently squeezed his hand one last time, her **red chooda** catching the light, and stepped aside to join Mummy and Riva Bhabhi and Rathor girls and friends Rudra’s hand felt suddenly cold without hers, but he continued his walk toward the **Pandit ji**, his long strides echoing with a weight that felt like iron.

He reached the elevated platform where **Ram Singh**, **Siya**, and his uncle and aunt stood waiting. Rudra remained standing; the golden throne behind him was forbidden until the blood of the lineage was marked upon his brow.

As Siya Maa dipped her finger into the vermilion to apply the **Raj Tilak**, Rudra’s hand shot out, gently but firmly catching her wrist.

The silence that followed was deafening. The **Shankh** players lowered their instruments. The thousands of subjects held their breath.

"Kya hua, Yuvraj?" the Pandit ji asked, his voice trembling slightly.

**Rudra’s** voice, deep and echoing with the authority of the "Cold Prince," rang through every corner of the hall. "Main chahta hoon ki meri ardhangini mere saath Raj Gaadi par baithe." (I want my better half to sit with me on the Royal Throne.)

The shock was visible. In centuries of Rathor history, no woman had ever sat on the same throne as the King during the coronation. They were always a step behind, a seat lower. The older courtiers began to whisper, their faces pale with scandal.

But in the center of the storm, **Ram Singh Rathore** didn't look angry. Instead, a secret, proud smile touched his lips. He remembered his own youth—the fire he felt for Siya, and the way he had wanted to break these same walls, only to be crushed by the rigid mindset of the elders of that time. Watching his son, he felt a sense of victory he hadn't expected.

Rudra didn't wait for permission. He turned his head, his **ocean-blue eyes** finding **Ishita** in the crowd.

"Ishita," he called out, his voice softening just enough for her to hear the plea behind the command. "Come here."

Ishita stood frozen, her hand clutching her **magenta lehenga**. She looked at the shocked faces of the elders, then at the unwavering gaze of her husband.

The air in the Durbar Hall became thick enough to choke on. The murmurs from the crowd grew into a low roar of disapproval, but **Rudra** stood like an unyielding mountain of ivory and gold.

"Par yeh mumkin nahi hai, Yuvraj!" the Pandit ji exclaimed, his hands shaking as he held the thali of vermilion. "Kabhi koi stree Raja ke saath nahi baithi... yahan tak ki aapki Maa bhi nahi." (But this is not possible, Prince! No woman has ever sat with the King... not even your mother.)

Rudra’s **ocean-blue eyes** darkened, turning into a stormy, freezing sea. He stepped forward, his frame** casting a long, intimidating shadow over the priest.

"Koi stree se kya matlab hai aapka?" (What do you mean by 'any woman'?) Rudra’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble that silenced the entire hall. "**Patni hai meri woh.** (She is my wife.) Aur hone wala Raja hone ke naate, yeh mera faisla hai." (And as the future King, this is my decision.)

The Pandit ji, desperate for support, turned toward **Ram Singh Rathore**. "Maharaj! Aap hi kuch kahiye... abhi toh aap hi Raja hain!" (Maharaj, you say something! Right now, you are still the King!)

Ram Singh looked at his son—the "Cold Prince" who had finally found something he was willing to burn the world for. He then looked at **Ishita**, who stood trembling but proud in her lehenga**, her **red chooda** catching the light of the sacred fire.

"Aap jaante hain jab Yuvraj koi faisla kar lete hain, toh use koi badal nahi sakta," Ram Singh said, his voice echoing with a surprising finality. (You know that when the Prince makes a decision, no one can change it.) "Main bhi nahi. Woh jaisa chahe, waisa kare." (Not even me. Let him do as he wishes.)

A prominent man from the Royal Council stepped forward, his face red with anger. "**Yeh toh reeti-riwaajo ke khilaf hai!**" (This is against our customs and traditions!)

Rudra turned his head slowly, his gaze sharp enough to draw blood. He didn't even bother to raise his voice.

"Traditions are meant to protect the dignity of the throne," Rudra stated coldly. "And my throne is incomplete without its strength. If the Rathor blood demands a King, then my heart demands its Queen. Either we sit together, or the throne stays empty."

He reached out his hand across the space, his palm open, waiting for **Ishita**.

"Ishita. Come."

The crowd watched, paralyzed. **Ishita** took a deep breath, the heavy **Pushtani Kangan** on her wrists feeling like anchors of courage. She stepped onto the flower carpet, her **magenta dupatta** trailing behind her as she walked toward the man who was rewriting history just for her.

The tension in the grand Durbar Hall remained high, but on the royal platform, the atmosphere had shifted into a hushed, chaotic family debate. **Ishita** looked at **Rudra** with pleading eyes, whispering, "Rehene dijiye na... aap kyu be-vajha sabke samne..." (Let it be... why are you doing this unnecessarily in front of everyone?)

Rudra let out a long, dramatic sigh that only his family could hear. He leaned slightly toward **Ram**, **Siya**, **Lakhan**, and **Urmila**, his voice a low, frustrated rumble.

> "Pura Rajasthan, puri business industry meri baat manti hai," Rudra muttered, shaking his head. "Lekin aapki bahu kabhi ek baar mein nahi sunti! Phir jabardasti karta hoon, toh kalesh karti hai." (All of Rajasthan and the business world listen to me, but your daughter-in-law never listens once! And if I use force, she starts a fight.)

The elders didn't offer him the sympathy he was looking for. Instead, they seemed to enjoy his struggle.

* **Lakhan Singh:** He chuckled, adjusting his royal safa. "Teri hi chunni hui hai, beta." (She’s your own choice.)

* **Ram Singh:** He watched Ishita with a proud glint in his eyes. "Woh ye karti hai, isliye tu line par rehta hai." (She does this, and that’s exactly why you stay in line.)

* **Siya Maa:** She pulled her dupatta more firmly over her shoulder, a smug smile on her face. "Aakhir bahu kiski hai?" (Whose daughter-in-law is she, after all?)

**Rudra, Ram, and Lakhan** answered in perfect, defeated unison: **"Of course, aapki."** (Of course, yours.)

**Urmila Chachi** couldn't stay quiet. She nudged Lakhan with her elbow. "Jab Maa sherni ho, toh bahu sava-sherni toh hogi hi!" (When the Mother is a lioness, the daughter-in-law is bound to be a lioness-and-a-quarter!)

**Lakhan** looked genuinely confused. "Sava-sher toh suna tha... ye sava-sherni kya hota hai?" (I've heard of a lion-and-a-quarter... but what's a lioness-and-a-quarter?)

**Urmila** glared at him playfully. "Chup rahiye aap! Ye mera dialogue hai." (You keep quiet! This is my dialogue.)

Despite the family bickering and Ishita’s protests, Rudra’s resolve didn't flicker. He ignored the council's glares and the Pandit's stuttering. He stepped toward Ishita, his **ocean-blue eyes** locking onto her **brown eyes**.