At nineteen, Dattadevi was not a girl waiting for her fate.She was a woman already shaping it — even if it meant standing alone in a palace thick with silence.
Padmavati, once the proud heart of the Naga Dynasty, had begun to bend under the weight of unseen hands. Markets grew tense. Soldiers became selective. Villagers whispered of disappearances, of cruelty dressed in royal colors.
Her brother — the heir — had fallen into a strange, lingering illness.And still, no answers.
But Dattadevi had one:Veerkund.
That evening, the court was heavy with the scent of sandalwood. King Ganapati Naga sat on the black stone throne, his shoulders broad, his arms resting heavily on the lion-carved handles.
He was a man in his middle years, skin weathered like old bronze, yet still strong. His eyes — sharp and dark — missed nothing, but they had begun to carry the heaviness of age, of war, and of quiet regrets. He wore deep maroon robes and a golden serpent-armlet coiled around his forearm — the mark of his clan.
He looked powerful.But he also looked tired.
The one thing he had not tired of… was trusting his nephew
One evening, as dusk spilled through the latticed windows, she stood in the royal court beside her father. The physicians had just left his chamber again — defeated, as always.
She turned toward her father, voice steady.
Dattadevi: "It's poison. And you know who planted it."
King Ganapati Naga (rubbing his temple): "Enough. I will not hear this again, Dattadevi."
Dattadevi: "Then perhaps you will listen when the kingdom starts to rot under your silence."
King (coldly): "Watch your tone. You are still a princess — not a judge, not a soldier."
She didn't flinch.
Dattadevi: "And what is the worth of a princess who watches her people suffer and does nothing?"
She stood tall — radiant in a deep indigo sari. Her hair long like flowing ink, soft as riverwater, braided with fresh jasmine. Her eyes were deep and calm — like those of a deer, wide with knowing, but never afraid. Her skin glowed in the torchlight, kissed with the soft blush of a cherry blossom at dawn — the kind of beauty that whispered, not shouted.
But more than her beauty, it was her presence that moved the room. She did not raise her voice. She did not beg.
The court fell still. Even the birds outside seemed to stop.
The king looked at her long and hard. But he said nothing.
She turned, her silken robes trailing like shadows, and left the hall — eyes forward, heart burning.
______________________________________
In her private chamber
Her old maid Rajima entered with trembling hands.
Rajima: "My lady… the court turns colder toward you each day. And Veerkund… he watches."
Dattadevi (tightening the straps on her dagger belt): "Let him watch. I do not move in fear."
Rajima: "What if they brand you a traitor?"
Dattadevi looked up, eyes dark and still.
Dattadevi: "Then I shall wear the word like armor. For I would rather be a traitor to men than a traitor to justice."
She stepped toward the candlelight and unfolded a parchment — marked villages, dates, names of those who vanished, those beaten, those silenced.
Dattadevi: "Tell me, Rajima. When they hang the law by a thread, what does a true heir do?"
Rajima (softly): "She becomes the sword they never saw coming."
Dattadevi gave a faint smile.The kind of smile that could melt hearts or make traitors shiver