Rani Simhala- Aag ki aankhri rani

Before the flames, there was gold.
Before the ashes, there was love.
Before the scream of swords, there was a lullaby echoing through marbled corridors, under skies dyed with lotus hues.
The Kingdom of Simhala, an island jewel off the southern coast, was a realm of poetry and steel. Its people were fierce in spirit, gentle in heart, and proud in legacy. At its center stood Rani Simhala and Maharaj Veer, rulers not only by blood but by beloved devotion. Their marriage was more than a royal alliance-it was a sacred bond born of friendship, loyalty, and passion. Together, they ushered an era of prosperity, where justice was swift, music filled the air, and every festival was brighter than the last.
But such beauty never lasts in the eyes of an empire built on conquest.
Sultan Zaydan, the northern emperor feared across deserts and deltas, heard whispers of the island queen with fire in her eyes and a realm untouched by his shadow. He did not march to negotiate. He marched to own. His war machine descended like a black storm-blades glinting, temples burning, rivers running red.
Veer died defending the gates. Simhala, in her bridal silks, chose Jauhar over chains. She was to burn, defiant, unbroken.
But death betrayed her.
Zaydan pulled her from the fire, not to save-but to steal.
He claimed her as his "trophy queen," dragging her into his golden cage of power, where he expected her to wilt, to weep, to become his.
Instead, she plotted.
From behind silken curtains and under jeweled veils, Simhala watched. She listened. She calculated. Every whisper became a weapon. Every glance a map. Every beat of her heart, a hammer forging vengeance.
This is not a story of forbidden love.
This is the rise of a woman who was supposed to die-but instead lived to destroy the man who thought he owned her.
This is the fire after the fire.
This is Simhala's war.