A Glimpse of Red

Rewar Palace

The early morning sun cast a warm glow across Rewar Palace, its rays slipping through silk curtains into the grand chamber where King Pratham Singh Rajput lay resting. The light traced over his bronzed skin, giving him an ethereal, golden aura as he lay beneath a deep crimson satin sheet that clung to his chiseled frame. His dark, unruly hair fell over his closed eyes, shading his face with a touch of mystery. Nearby, a gold-rimmed wine glass, a remnant of the prior evening's solitude, stood elegantly on his nightstand, catching the morning's light. Just outside his door, Keshav Singh, his trusted guard, stood with quiet vigilance, slightly uneasy that his king, who usually rose before dawn, was still resting.

Then, a sudden beep from Pratham's phone disturbed the silence, echoing in the chamber. The King's eyes flashed open, sharp and intense, like a lion roused from slumber. His powerful frame tensed momentarily, and his piercing gaze scanned the room before settling on his phone. Maids in the garden below, gathering flowers for Queen Mother Durgavati's morning ritual, paused, startled by the unexpected sound from the royal chambers. They exchanged nervous glances before hurrying away.

As he reached for his phone, Pratham's expression softened. The message on the screen read, "Princess Nitya Ranjith Singh Rajput has landed in Rajgarh with her twin siblings." A smile broke across his face, a rare sight, as he murmured, "Welcome back, Yuvrani." Rising from the bed with a calm authority, he pressed the bell beside him to summon his attendants before moving to the bathroom.

When he returned, a towel wrapped low around his waist, droplets of water from his recent shower glistened on his skin, highlighting the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms. His body was a masterpiece of strength and discipline—broad shoulders, a strong torso, and a toned physique that showcased his dedication to sword training and physical prowess. His gaze, sharp and steady, was one of quiet pride as he surveyed himself in the mirror, noting the rewards of years spent honing his body and mind.

A soft knock at the door broke his reflection. Keshav entered, carrying a steaming cup of black coffee, bowing with respect before saying, "Hukum, everyone is awaiting your presence in the worship room." Pratham nodded, taking a sip of the rich, bitter brew as he turned towards his wardrobe—a grand hall divided into three doors, each offering a glimpse into a different facet of his life.

The **first door**, painted in soft cream, housed his Western attire. Within lay an impeccable collection of finely tailored suits, crisp white shirts, and carefully pressed trousers in hues of midnight blue, charcoal, and rich burgundy. His shoes, polished to a high shine, sat neatly below, capturing his preference for refined, understated elegance.

The **second door**, a stately ivory, led to his royal attire. Inside were his ceremonial kurtas, sherwanis, and bandhgalas, adorned with intricate embroidery and crafted in vibrant colors—royal blues, emerald greens, deep maroons, and rich golds. Each garment reflected his lineage and the legacy of his forefathers. Heavy turbans, adorned with family insignias, and royal jewelry lay within this wardrobe, representing his noble heritage and respect for Rajput culture.

The **third door**, painted in stark black, held the attire for his covert duties. Dark, tactical clothing made from soundless fabric hung here, meticulously arranged. Here, durable leather belts and reinforced boots hinted at a different, hidden side of the King—a protector who maintained the delicate balance of peace and power in his estate.

Dressed and prepared, Pratham moved through the palace towards the worship room.

---

**The Worship Room**

The large worship room was filled with the fragrance of marigolds and sandalwood. Queen Mother Durgavati stood at the altar, her hands folded and her eyes closed in silent reverence. She alone performed the sacred rituals each morning, entrusting no one else with the honor of worshipping Lord Mahadev. Not even her daughter-in-law, Queen Arpita, was permitted to do this ritual.

In a whisper, Queen Arpita leaned towards her husband, King Raj Rawal, and murmured, "Is the sun rising from the west today, or is your mother finally going to let me perform the puja?" Raj chuckled, replying softly, " I wish that day will all my heart but thas not the case. She's waiting for Pratham." Arpita raised her eyebrows in surprise, asking, "When did he arrive? I didn't see him return from Paris." Raj replied, "Late last night, while you were at the charity event."

Just then, Pratham entered the room, his tall figure commanding respect without a word. Everyone rose, not to bow—their customs forbade it for the younger king—but out of respect for his authority. His presence was magnetic, his intense gaze briefly meeting each family member before resting on his grandmother. A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth as he made his way to the altar, preparing for the **Rudrabhishek Puja**.

Pratham began the ritual with deep reverence, pouring each offering over the sacred Shiva Lingam: **Dudh Abhishek**: He poured milk over the Lingam, seeking blessings for health and longevity.**Shahad Abhishek**: Honey followed, a prayer for a life free from misfortune.**Panchamrit Abhishek**: A mix of milk, yogurt, honey, ghee, and sugar was poured, symbolizing prosperity and abundance.**Ghee Abhishek**: Clarified butter streamed down, an invocation for protection from illness.**Dahi Abhishek**: Yogurt completed the offering, bestowing blessings for family harmony.

Each ritual carried its significance, drawing upon ancient prayers for strength, protection, and prosperity. Pratham moved with calm precision, applying turmeric, kumkum, tulsi leaves, and finally, coconut water. Reaching for the flowers, he paused as he cannot find them and moved his eye from shivling direction to other than his grandmother's hand appeared, offering a delicate marigold blossom adorned with her heavy gold bangles. He took the flower with a grateful smile, completing the puja in silent reverence.

Just as the ceremony concluded, a breathless messenger rushed into the room, stopping just before Pratham. The King's gaze sharpened as he asked, "What happened?"

The messenger, catching his breath, replied, "A messenger from Rewar Estate has arrived." A tense silence fell over the room.

In the corner, a plate of fruits slipped from a Queen Arpita's trembling hands, crashing to the floor. The retired King Daksh Singh Rawal's expression tightened as he commanded, "Escort him to the Crown Room."

Daksh Singh Rawal turned to his son, Raj Singh Rawal, his gaze steady and commanding. "Raj, go to the Crown Room and wait there," he instructed firmly, leaving no room for hesitation. Then, shifting his attention to his daughter-in-law, Queen Arpita, he added, "Contact Prince Akhil. Have him return from Paris immediately—it's urgent."

Finally, he looked to his wife, Queen Mother Durgavati, whose calm eyes held a shared understanding. "The time has come," he said solemnly, his words carrying the weight of unspoken decisions. With a final nod to Pratham, Daksh turned and signaled for him to follow, their footsteps resonating with purpose as they departed from the worship room, ready to confront the past.