AUTHOR POV

The air in the **Durbar Hall** turned electric as the "Cold Prince" finally lost his patience with tradition—and his wife’s stubbornness. Before **Ishita** could protest further, **Rudra** stepped forward. In one swift, powerful motion, he swept her off her feet.

Ishita let out a sharp gasp, her hands flying to his **ivory and gold shoulders** for balance. Her **magenta lehenga** billowed around them like a royal cloud as he carried her the remaining distance to the high platform.

He set her down firmly right beside the massive golden throne. While the crowd watched in stunned silence, he leaned down, his **ocean-blue eyes** narrowed in a mock-glare as he muttered into her ear.

> "Pati hoon aapka, kabhi ek baar mein baat sun liya karo," he growled low. "Reputation kya hai meri, pata hai na?" (I’m your husband, listen to me for once. Do you even know what my reputation is?)

Ishita didn't flinch. She adjusted her **emerald choker**, tilted her chin up, and whispered back with a playful smirk. "Hmm... aye bade **ruthless, heartless, emotionless man**."

Behind them, the sound of two synchronized snorts broke the tension. **Ram Singh** and **Lakhan Singh** were both vibrating with suppressed laughter. They stepped forward and, in a rare display of fatherly solidarity, each patted one of Rudra’s shoulders.

"Hum samajhte hain, beta," Lakhan whispered, his eyes twinkling. (We understand, son.)

Ram just shook his head, his hand lingering on Rudra’s shoulder. It was a silent admission: *Even a King of Rajasthan has to bow before his Queen.*

However, the warm family moment was short-lived. The **Royal Council**, led by the elder statesmen in their stiff turbans, stepped forward as one unit.

"Yeh anarth hai!" one elder shouted, his voice cracking with indignation. "The throne is a symbol of the Sun God. A woman cannot stand on the same pedestal during the sacred anointing! We do not agree to this decision, Maharaj!"

They turned to the crowd, trying to incite a murmur of rebellion. "If the rules of the ancestors are broken today, the Rathor legacy will crumble!"

Rudra’s hand instantly made in fist The warmth he had shown Ishita vanished, replaced by the icy, lethal aura that made him ruthless

"The legacy doesn't crumble because of a seat," Rudra’s voice was like a whip cracking through the hall. "It crumbles when its leaders are too weak to protect the ones who stand by them. The decision is made. Pandit ji... start the Tilak."

The **Royal Council** began to protest again, their voices rising in a discordant chorus of "This is not our way!" and "The gods will be displeased!" But **Rudra** didn't even let them finish. He stepped to the very edge of the platform, his hand still possessively around **Ishita’s** waist.

"Jisko bhi problem hai," he announced, his voice cold enough to freeze the desert air, "darvaje khule hain... nikal jaao." (Whoever has a problem, the doors are open... get out.)

The hall went deathly silent. No one moved. The council members looked at the heavy oak doors, then back at the man who held the keys to their future and their fortunes.

Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the back of the hall. A group of people dressed in simple, earthy-toned village attire pushed through the sea of silk and jewels. These weren't royals or businessmen; these were the people from the small village where Rudra and Ishita had lived undercover during their mission.

At the front of the group was **Priya**. She walked with a newfound strength, her head held high. Behind her were the village elders and the families who had seen the "normal" side of the man now standing in ivory and gold.

"Humein manzoor hai!" (We accept this!) Priya’s voice rang out, clear and brave.

The council looked at her in shock. She stepped forward, looking directly at Ishita.

> "When the world turned its back on me, it wasn't a tradition that saved me," Priya said, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. "It was the Yuvrani. She didn't sit on a throne then—she stood in the mud to protect my honor. If she can kill the monsters who touched me using **King and Oscar**, she has more right to that throne than any of you."

As if on cue, the heavy thuds of paws echoed from the side entrance. **Oscar**, the black tiger, and **King**, the royal lion, prowled into the hall. The crowd scrambled back in terror, but the animals ignored everyone. They walked straight to the platform and sat at Ishita’s feet like two massive, golden-eyed guardians.

The message was clear: Even the kings of the jungle recognized her.

The villagers began to chant, a low rhythmic sound that soon drowned out the whispers of the council. "Yuvrani Ishita singh. Rathor ki Jai! Hamari Rani ki Jai!"

Rudra looked down at the council, a ruthless smirk playing on his lips. "It seems the people and the protectors have spoken. Pandit ji... unless you want to explain your 'traditions' to Oscar and King, I suggest you finish the Tilak."

The high ceilings of the Durbar Hall echoed with the deep, rhythmic vibrations of the Vedic mantras. The air was thick with the scent of sacred herbs and the weight of a thousand-year legacy.

**Siya Maa** stepped forward, her eyes shimmering with tears she refused to let fall. She dipped her fingers into the silver *thali* of vermilion and sandalwood. With a steady hand, she first applied the **Raj Tilak** to **Rudra’s** forehead—a bold, red mark of power and responsibility.

Then, turning to **Ishita**, she applied the same sacred mark on her brow before moving her hand upward to fill Ishita’s **Maang** with sindoor. It was the ultimate acknowledgment: she wasn't just the heart of Rudra, but the soul of the kingdom.

**Ram Singh Rathore** moved with the grace of a departing lion. He reached out and carefully removed the Yuvraj safa from Rudra’s head. In its place, he set the **Crown Pagdi**—a magnificent headpiece of deep silk adorned with the royal *Kalgi* and encrusted with diamonds that caught every flicker of the temple fire.

As the weight of the crown settled on Rudra’s head, he looked every bit the **Greek god** king—muscular, ivory-clad, and immovable.

Finally, **Lakhan and Urmila Chachi** stepped forward. They took the smaller, ceremonial Yuvraj sword from Rudra's belt. In a perfectly synchronized movement, Lakhan presented the **King’s Royal Sword**.

The blade was legendary—heavier, longer, and encased in a scabbard of pure gold and rubies. Rudra took the hilt, and the metal seemed to hum in his hand. This wasn't just a weapon; it was a symbol of his promise to be **ruthless** to his enemies but a shield for his people and his **Janna**.

**Ishita** watched him, her **brown eyes** wide with awe. Her "Ru" was gone; in his place sat the **Sovereign King of Rajasthan**.

Rudra stood up, the royal sword at his side, and looked out over the sea of people—the villagers, the royals, and even the now-silent Council. **Oscar** and **King** let out a simultaneous, low roar that vibrated through the floorboards.

"The coronation is complete," Rudra’s voice boomed, reaching the furthest corners of the hall. "But a King's first duty is to celebrate the one who brought light back to his soul."

The air in the grand hall was thick with the scent of rose petals and the electric energy of a thousand voices. As the last mantra faded, a roar erupted that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Rathor Raj Mahal.

**"Maharaj Rudra Singh Rathore ki Jai! Maharani Ishita singh Rathor ki Jai!"** The cry was picked up by the thousands outside, a rhythmic wave of loyalty that echoed across the Aravalli hills.

In the midst of the royal spectacle, the family stood as a wall of support. **Akshat, Vardaan, and Jay** exchanged looks of immense pride, their usual teasing replaced by the realization that their 'Bhai' was now truly the Sovereign. Beside them, **Dhristi and Reet** were beaming, Reet adjusting her own dupatta while admiring how perfectly the magenta lehenga sat on the new Queen.

**Ahana** was practically vibrating with excitement, her jewelry clinking as she clapped. She looked toward the spot where **Tara di** would have stood, a bittersweet smile on her face, knowing her sister would have been the first to bow to the new King.

**Veer, Shiv, and Krishiv** stood like pillars of steel behind the throne, their presence a silent warning to the disgruntled council members. Their wives—**Aditi, tanya , and Chavvi**—were witnessing their friend ascend to a height they had only dreamed of.

The Durbar Hall was packed with high-end cameras. National and international media outlets were broadcasting live, their lenses focused on the "Cold Prince" who had just broken centuries of tradition for love.

But in the middle of the professional chaos, **Kriti** didn't care about the press or the protocols. She stood close to the platform, her phone held high, recording every micro-expression on Ishita’s face—the shy smile, the way her hand trembled slightly in Rudra's, and the fierce pride in her **brown eyes**.

To the world, this was a political event; to Kriti, this was just her big sister finally getting the crown she deserved.

**Rudra** sat on the throne, the **Crown Pagdi** feeling heavy, but his gaze never left the crowd. He saw the villagers, he saw the media, and he saw the council. But then he looked down at **Ishita**, who was now officially his Queen.

He leaned in, the emeralds of his necklace brushing against her shoulder. "The whole world is watching you, Janna," he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

"No," she whispered back, looking at him through her lashes. "They're watching *us*

**Bebe** stood at the center, her voice projecting with matriarchal authority.

"Now, according to our ancient rituals," she announced, "The Queen of Rajasthan and the new bride of this house must perform the **Ghoomar** for her husband. Ishita is now both our Queen and our daughter-in-law. It is time for her to honor the throne.

Because of the sanctity of the ritual, the protocol was strict. Since Ishita was now the reigning Queen, tradition dictated that no outside men could gaze upon her dance. The Darbans signaled the exit, and thousands of men from across Rajasthan respectfully filed out of the hall.

Only the ladies of the kingdom and the immediate male family members—**—remained in the inner circle to witness the performance.

**Urmila and Dhristi** stepped forward, gently taking Ishita’s hands to help her descend from the high platform. The **15kg magenta lehenga** flowed behind her like a royal river as she moved toward the circular center of the hall.

The heavy velvet curtains of the Durbar Hall remained drawn, keeping the sanctuary of the Queen's dance private. From behind the gold-threaded fabric, the deep, soulful voices of the **old royal musicians** began to resonate. These were the men whose ancestors had sung for the Rathor kings for centuries, and their voices carried the weight of history.

As the first rhythmic beat of the dhol hit the floor, the singers began the haunting invocation:

> *"Ghoomar rabb waare... Aap padharo sa..."*

The melody was slow and grand, a call for the Queen to grace the center stage. **Ishita** moved with a quiet, regal power. Every step was deliberate, the **silver payal** and **ghungroos** on her feet answering the musicians' call with a sharp, rhythmic *chamak-chum* that echoed off the high marble arches.

As the musicians sang *"Aao sa ghoomar hi dilwa de,"* Ishita reached the center of the hall, directly in front of the golden throne.

She didn't begin the dance immediately. Instead, she paused, her **long curly hair** partially veiled by the magenta dupatta. She brought her hands together in a graceful, deep **Namaste**, bowing her head first in respect to the **King of Rajasthan** and then, with a softening of her gaze, to her **husband**.

It was a silent acknowledgment of the new life they were beginning. Her **red chooda** shimmered in the torchlight as she held the pose, her **brown eyes** meeting Rudra’s **ocean-blue** ones for a fleeting second of pure devotion.

**Rudra** sat perfectly still, his hand gripping the hilt of the **Royal Sword**. He felt the vibration of the music in his chest, but his focus was entirely on the woman before him. Seeing her bow to him in front of the entire family wing made something stir in his "heartless" chest. He offered a singular, slow nod—a king’s permission and a husband’s encouragement.

The musicians shifted the tempo. The beat of the dhol grew faster, more insistent.

Ghoomar Hi Khelba De

Padhaaro Saa Ghoomar Hi Khelba De

Balam Thharo Ghurraran

Ghuurarran Ghurrave

Aaas Maaro Jeevado Ghano Hichkave

Ho Ghabrave Mann Main Bhhave

Mahharo Badloo Bhavar Mann Bhave

Chamak Cham Baaje, Payal

Baaje Baisaa Khelo

Chamak Chamak Ghungra Baaje

Aao Saa Ghumar Hi Khilwa De

Aao Saa Ghumar Hi Khilwa De

> *"Chamak cham baaje payal baaje... Mahi sa ghere..."*

Ishita rose from her bow, her **magenta lehenga** already beginning to sway as she took the first circular step. the **Rathor Lioness** now, ready to swirl into a storm of gold and silk.

The music swells as the **female chorus** joins the old masters, their voices lifting the energy of the hall to a fever pitch. The heavy scent of incense and rose petals seems to vibrate with the rhythm of the dhol.

As the lyrics *"Dhanak Preet Ki, Sar Pe Odh Kar"* resonate through the stone arches, **Ishita** captures the essence of the song. She pulls her heavy, gold-bordered dupatta tighter over her head, her **brown eyes** flashing with a mixture of royal pride and the "Gym waalo ki beti" fire

> *"Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume... Haa.. Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume!"*

The transformation is complete. Ishita begins the rapid, continuous pirouettes. Her **15kg lehenga** defies gravity, flaring out into a massive, shimmering disc of magenta. The gold embroidery creates a literal "dhanak" (rainbow) of light as she spins faster and faster.

**Rudra** remains seated on the throne, but his body is tense, leaning forward as he watches his Queen. his own heartbeat as he watches her. Every time she spins, her **hair** catches the light, and the **Pushtani Kangan** on her wrists create a golden blur

The chorus reaches its peak:

> *"Lalak Reet Sab Jag Ki Chhod Kar... Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume!*

> *Bhar Ke… Dhola Vale Thaat!"*

The musicians are pouring their souls into the song. The hall is no longer just a room; it’s a living, breathing testament to the Rathor legacy. Even the **Royal Council** members who stayed are silent now, completely mesmerized by the grace and stamina of the woman they dared to doubt.

**Ishita** is now a blur of motion. Her **red chooda** clinks in perfect time with the *chamak-chum* of her ghungroos. She isn't just dancing; she is claiming her space, her throne, and her husband's heart all over again in front of the entire lineage.

The song shifts to the verse:

> *"Baai Saa Ghoomar Ghume Re... Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re!"*

The tempo is at its absolute maximum. **Oscar and King** let out low, appreciative rumbles, their tails twitching in rhythm with the dhol. **Bebe and Siya Maa** are clapping along, tears of joy streaming down their faces as they watch the "Sava-Sherni" conquer the floor.

The Durbar Hall has transformed into a sanctuary of rhythm and light. The female chorus continues to swell, but now a new voice joins them—clear, soulful, and brimming with the raw emotion of a woman deeply in love. **Ishita** begins to sing along, her voice echoing off the ancient stone walls, making the performance deeply personal.

As she moves, her **long curly hair** caught in a beautiful mess under her dupatta, she sings:

> *"Ooo... Mhaari Saari Kaaya Bole*

> *Dhola Ji Ki Chhaya Bole*

> *Mann Kaa Ghoomar Jab Bhi Dole*

> *Sune Pan Main Nehela Phar Ke*

> *Dhola Wale Thaat Ghoomar"*

The lyrics "My entire body speaks, it speaks of my beloved's shadow" resonate through the hall. **Rudra** clutches the armrest of the golden throne, his knuckles white. To the world, he is the King, but to her, he is the "Dhola" (beloved) whose shadow she carries.

The support dancer —create a tight, protective circle around her. Their lighter-colored lehengas create a pale frame for the vibrant, 15kg magenta masterpiece Ishita is wearing.

As the chorus hits the peak again:

> *"Ghoomar Ghoomar*

> *Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re*

> *Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re*

> *Baai Saa Ghoomar Ghume Re"*

Ishita enters a series of rapid, seamless spins. She looks like a spinning top of pure silk and gold. The **Pushtani Kangan** on her wrists and the **red chooda** on her arms create a blurring streak of gold and crimson. Even with her injured foot, she moves with a "Gym waalo ki beti" stamina that leaves the elders breathless.

The music shifts, becoming more melodic and soft for a moment, and Ishita slows her pace, her eyes locked onto Rudra’s **ocean-blue gaze**. She sings the next lines with a smile that is for him and him alone:

> *"Thaare Ahesaanso Ki Ronak*

> *Hai Mhaari Diwali*

> *Mann Mahel Ki Saari Deeware*

> *Thhare Rang Rang Waali..."*

Her voice trembles slightly with emotion. "The glow of your feelings is my Diwali... all the walls of my heart's palace are colored with your colors."

**Siya Maa** and **Gayatri Sharma** hold hands, watching their daughter bridge the gap between two powerful families with a single dance. Behind the throne, **Oscar and King** remain perfectly still, their golden eyes reflecting the flicker of the palace lamps, as if they too are enchanted by their "Mumma's" grace.

The beat picks up speed one last time, the dhol players at the back hitting the drums with a frenzy.

> *"Thaare Ahesaanso Ki Ronak*

> *Hai Mhaari Diwali*

> *Mann Mahel Ki Saari Deeware*

> *Thhare Rang Rang Waali…Iii"*

The Durbar Hall is no longer a room; it has become a living heartbeat of Rajasthan. The air is thick with the scent of crushed rose petals and the heat from the torches. **Ishita** is at the peak of her performance, her voice weaving through the heavy beats of the dhol with a raw, soul-stirring melody.

As she begins the verse that speaks to their three years of separation and the light he brought back to her life, her voice drops to a soft, vibrating tone:

> *"Paake Thhara Saaya, Tann Hai Jag-Magaaya,*

> *Taaron Bhari Ho Gayi Mhaari Saari Kaari-Raat..."*

"Having found your shadow, my body is illuminated... my dark, lonely nights have become filled with stars."

As she sings Dhola Waale Thhat Ghoomar

she reaches for the edge of her **magenta dupatta**. With a slow, incredibly graceful movement, she pulls the veil down, performing a deep **Ghunghat**. She isn't hiding from the world; she is creating a private sanctuary for her shyness.

The effect on **Rudra** is instantaneous. He leans forward, his **ocean-blue eyes** darkening with an intensity that borders on obsession. He can only see the outline of her face through the sheer fabric and the glint of her **nath**. The way she hides from his gaze—yet dances only for him—shatters his "ruthless" exterior completely.

**Ram Singh and Lakhan** exchange a look. They’ve never seen Rudra look so... *human*.

The music explodes into the final chorus. The dhol players are in a frenzy, their hands moving like a blur.

Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re

Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re

Baai Saa Ghoomar Ghume Re

Dhanak Preet Ki Sar Pe Odh Kar

Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume

Lalak Reet Sab Jag Ki Chhod Kar

Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume

Bhar Ke,

Ishita lets go of the ghunghat and begins the **Grand Spin**. She becomes a cyclone of magenta and gold. Her **15kg lehenga** flares out to its absolute limit, the heavy embroidery making a *whirring* sound through the air.

> *"Dhola Wale Thhat, Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghume Re

> *Baai Saa Ghoomar Ghume Re!"*

Ishita is spinning so fast that she is nothing but a blur of royal magenta. Her **red chooda** and **Pushtani Kangan** create a golden ring around her body. Every single person in the hall, including the skeptical council, is now standing. They are caught in the rhythm, clapping in unison with the *chamak-chum* of her feet.

The **Durbar Hall** exploded into a fever pitch as the traditional melody collided with the **FAST BEATS** of the finale. The atmosphere was no longer just royal; it was electric, a "Rock with Chorus" energy that surged through every stone pillar and royal heart.

As the chorus roared:

> *"Aao Ji Aao Re Ghoomar Khelva Aao!*

> *Aapa Sath Sath Ghoomar Sagda Khelva Aao!"*

**Ishita** pushed her body to its absolute limit. The "Gym waalo ki beti" stamina took over as she began a series of high-speed, breathtaking pirouettes. The **magenta lehenga** was no longer just fabric; it was a spinning blur of fire and gold. She moved so fast that the support dancer*—had to widen their circle just to avoid the force of her swirling skirts.

The musicians pounded the dhols with a rhythmic fury:

> *"Arey Lehengo Kurti Chunri Paayaliya Thee Pehno!*

> *Ho.. Lummar Jhummar Ghoomar Ghoomar Ghoomar Pe Khelo!"*

The force of her final, most aggressive spin was too much for the heavy, silver **Janjhar** (heavy anklets) on her feet. With a sudden, sharp metallic *crack* that could be heard even over the music, the threads gave way.

The **Ghungroos**—dozens of silver bells—shattered and were **thrown away**, scattering across the marble floor like diamond rain.

The crowd let out a collective gasp. In any other situation, this would be seen as a mistake, but Ishita didn't stop. She didn't even flinch. She continued to spin on her bare, aching feet, proving that her spirit didn't need the bells to keep the rhythm.

**Rudra** was on his feet before the last bell hit the floor. His **ocean-blue eyes** were blown wide with a mix of terror for her injured foot and absolute, raw adoration for her strength. He didn't care about the cameras, the media, or the Royal Council.

As Ishita completed her final, dizzying rotation, the momentum threatened to send her reeling. The **15kg lehenga** acted as a weight, pulling her toward the hard marble.

The final beat of the dhol echoed through the high arches of the Durbar Hall, and **Ishita** came to a dead stop. She was in a perfect, statue-like pose—her **magenta lehenga** settling around her feet like a blooming lotus, her hands frozen in a graceful mudra.

Though she was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly against the weight of her jewelry, she wasn't dizzy for even a second. She had shown her true mettle. Her **big gold Nath** jiggled against her cheek, catching the light of the palace torches, and her **brown eyes** were bright with triumph as she looked straight up at the platform.

**Rudra** was already moving. He didn't just smile; he beamed with a raw, unadulterated pride that the "Cold Prince" usually kept locked away. To him, she wasn't just a Queen; she was a force of nature.

The silence of the hall was shattered as every lady in Rajasthan—from the royal guests to the village women—erupted into thunderous applause. The sound was deafening, a collective roar of respect for their new Queen.

Rudra didn't wait for the protocol of the descent. He strode down the marble steps, his **Crown Pagdi** glinting. As he reached her, Ishita started to take a step toward him, but he held up a hand.

"Don't," he commanded softly, his voice thick with emotion.

Before she could protest, he leaned down and **picked her up** in one smooth, powerful motion. He cradled her against his **ivory sherwani**, her head resting near the **tattoo of her name**.

As he turned to carry her back toward the throne, Ishita looked down over his arm. There, scattered across the white marble floor, were the **broken silver ghungroos**. They looked like fallen stars, ripped from her heavy **Janjhar** by the sheer force and speed of her dance.

She realized then why he wouldn't let her walk—the sharp silver pieces were everywhere, and her feet were bare.

"Ru... the bells," she whispered, her voice still shaky from the exertion.

"Let them stay there, Janna," Rudra muttered, his grip on her tightening as he ascended the steps. "Let them remind everyone in this hall that you didn't just follow the rhythm—you broke it."

The entire Durbar Hall fell into a stunned, respectful silence as **Rudra Singh Rathore**—the man known for his icy heart and ruthless business tactics—did the unthinkable. Right there, on the elevated platform in front of the royal family, the media, and the villagers, he knelt.

He didn't care about the crown on his head or the royal sword at his side. He gently took **Ishita’s** bare feet into his large, muscular hands. His **ocean-blue eyes** searched her face with an intensity that bordered on desperation, checking for any sign of pain.

"You didn't get hurt, right?" he whispered, his voice thick with a tenderness he only ever reserved for his 'Janna.'

His thumbs brushed over her skin, checking for cuts from the shattered silver bells that lay scattered like stardust on the marble below.

Ishita looked down at him, her **big gold Nath** swaying as she shook her head gently.

**Siya Maa** and **Urmila Chachi** exchanged tearful smiles, while **Ram Singh** looked on, realizing his son had surpassed him in both power and the courage to show love.

The **Royal Council** members, who had previously complained about tradition, now watched in absolute silence. Seeing the most powerful man in Rajasthan touch the feet of his Queen in public was the ultimate statement. It was clear to everyone: Ishita Sharma wasn't just sitting beside him on the throne; she was the very foundation he stood upon.

"Ru, I'm fine," she murmured, leaning down so only he could hear. "The bells broke, but I didn't."

He looked up, a proud, sharp smirk finally returning to his face. "I know you didn't. You're a Rathor sherni after all

TIME SKIP

The coronation festivities spilled out of the palace walls and into the streets as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Outside the **Rathor Raj Mahal**, a magnificent **white and gold royal carriage** awaited the new sovereigns. The carriage, pulled by two majestic white horses, was adorned with delicate carvings and ivory curtains, looking like something out of a dream.

Despite the presence of thousands of onlookers and international media, **Rudra’s** focus remained solely on **Ishita**. As they reached the carriage, he didn't wait for the royal attendants. He stepped forward, his **ivory sherwani** catching the fading light, and held out his hand.

Knowing the weight of her **15kg magenta lehenga**, he carefully gathered the heavy fabric in one hand to ensure she didn't trip or strain her tired feet.

With his other hand, he gripped hers firmly, guiding her up the carriage step with the same protective intensity he had shown during her dance.

Once she was settled, he climbed in beside her, his **Crown Pagdi** glinting under the carriage’s golden lanterns.

As the carriage began its slow procession through the streets of Rajasthan, the air filled with the scent of marigolds and the sound of traditional trumpets. Thousands of people lined the roads, waving flags and throwing rose petals that covered the carriage roof like soft, pink snow.

**Ishita** looked out at the crowds, her **brown eyes** shimmering with tears of happiness. She saw children sitting on their fathers' shoulders, elderly women raising their hands in silent prayer, and the villagers from their mission waving frantically.

> "Look, Ru," she whispered, her **big gold Nath** swaying as she leaned toward the window. "They’re all here for you."

Rudra took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. "No, Janna," he corrected softly, his **ocean-blue eyes** reflecting the joy of his people. "They are here for *us*."

Following closely behind the carriage, **Oscar** and **King** walked with a rhythmic, powerful grace. The black tiger and the royal lion acted as the ultimate protectors, their presence ensuring that while the people could cheer, they remained at a respectful distance from their Queen.

As the carriage turned toward the main square, the chanting reached a deafening roar: **"Raj-Rani ki Jai!"**

The streets of Rajasthan transformed into a river of colors as the people showered the **white and gold carriage** with rose petals and marigolds. The scent of the flowers mixed with the desert air, creating an atmosphere of pure celebration.

The procession was a sight of absolute power and protection:

Oscar**, the black tiger, and **King**, the royal lion, walked with rhythmic, heavy paws on either side of the carriage, their presence commanding immediate respect from the crowds.

Laksh** stood behind the royal couple’s seat on the carriage, his posture rigid and his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings with lethal precision, ensuring not a single soul could disrupt the peace.

Dozens of security guards formed a human wall around the carriage, moving in perfect synchronization with the horses.

As the carriage slowed down near the ancient stone steps of the **Shiv-Parvati Mandir**, the bells began to chime in a welcoming melody. **Ishita** leaned closer to **Rudra**, her **big gold Nath** catching the light of the setting sun as she looked at the temple towers.

She reached out and took his hand, her voice a soft whisper over the cheering of the crowds.

> "Remember in Delhi... how we met at the Shiv Mandir?" she asked, her **brown eyes** filled with nostalgia. "You saved me from falling on those stairs."

Rudra tightened his grip on her hand, his **ocean-blue eyes** softening as he looked at her. That first meeting felt like a lifetime ago—before the **three years of separation**, before the kidnapping, and before they became the sovereigns of this land.

"I remember every second, Janna," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "I fell in love with you the moment I caught you. Back then, I didn't believe in God, but I believe in the fate that brought you to me."

The carriage came to a full stop. Rudra stood up and, with his usual protective grace, helped his Queen descend so they could offer their first prayers as a married couple at the feet of the deities who had witnessed their first encounter.