The throne chamber had changed.

Gone were the grand performances of court politics. Gone were the silken flatteries and ceremonial greetings.

In their place sat cold urgency.

The weight of the hall hung on Rudraksh like old iron—familiar, suffocating, and soaked in memory. Yet he stood in it like a man who no longer feared being shackled by expectation.

He took one step forward, and silence spread like ink in water.

The ministers looked between mother and son, unsure which side of the storm would strike first. They had seen his wrath on battlefields, but this silence—it was worse. This quiet meant calculation.

Rudraksh did not blink.

Rajmata—Queen Mother—sat beneath the great golden emblem of the lion, carved into the wall above the ancestral throne. She wore no crown, but she did not need one. Her posture was straight, her face sculpted from marble and command.

Around her, ministers and generals whispered like dry leaves in windless air.

Rudraksh entered the hall with slow, measured steps. He neither bowed nor rushed. He did not offer greetings.

He did not need to.

Rajmata's eyes, dark and unreadable, pierced through him. "Rajvansh ka rivaaz toh yaad hoga tumhe—raani ghar laane se pehle sabhasadhon se salah lena zaroori hota hai. Ya phir woh bhi apne rangin junoon mein bhool gaye ho?"

You do remember the tradition of the Rajvansh, don't you? That before bringing a queen into this house, the council must be consulted. Or have you forgotten that too in one of your colorful frenzies?

The room fell into a hush so deep, even the torches seemed to dim.

But Rudraksh only smiled—slow, tired, and sharp.

The Mad King had returned. And madness, this time, wore restraint.

"Riwaazon ke naam par kitni baar yeh darbaar jhooth bol chuka hai, Mata?" he asked, voice low, echoing against stone. "Sabhasadhon ki salah? Ya woh mohar jo unhone khud par kab ka chhod di thi?"

How many times has this court lied in the name of tradition, Mother? Counsel of the ministers? Or the seal they long stopped carrying with pride?

Rajmata's expression didn't crack. But her fingers tapped once—twice—on the armrest of her throne. "Yeh riyasat ek tamasha nahi hai jahan tum apne man ke naatak karte phiro."

This kingdom is not a theatre where you stage plays to please your whims.

Rudraksh walked closer. Each step rang clear, unhurried. A lion did not rush to answer barking hounds. "Aur main koi raja nahi jo manzoori ke liye darkhwast le kar aaye," he said with quiet ferocity. "Maine ek rakh ko raani banaya hai. Uski kahani jaanne se pehle, uski aankhon mein jhaank lijiye. Shayad kisi din samajh aaye, ki iss baar, main jang jeet kar ghar lauta hoon. Khel karke nahi."

And I am not a king who comes bearing petitions for approval. I have made a queen from ashes. Before judging her story, look into her eyes. Perhaps one day you'll understand—that this time, I returned not after a game, but a war truly won.

The ministers flinched, as though the words had drawn blood.

Rajmata's eyes narrowed, but not in rage. In realization. Rudraksh turned his gaze toward Rajmata, the tension in his jaw stilling only when he spoke, low and unyielding: "Maa... jis hisaab se aap aarti ke liye bhi nahi aayi, log yeh na soch baithe ki aap khud ke bete ki mrityu chahti thi."

Mother... the way you didn't even come for the aarti, people might begin to believe you wished your own son dead.

A hush broke over the court, sharp as shattered glass. The Rajmata's eyes flashed. "Agar pata hota ki beta ek vidhva aurat ko rani bana ke la raha hai," she said, each word cutting like a chisel to marble, "toh Shree Krishn se yahi mang leti... ki woh yudh se kabhi na laute."

Had I known my son was bringing a widow home as his queen, I would have prayed to Lord Krishna that he never return from war.

The breath of the sabha faltered. Even the torches seemed to flicker in dread.

But Rudraksh only exhaled once, a whisper of calm wrapped in steel.

"Shree Krishn ke hi charanon mein seekha tha—ki izzat dena kamzori nahi, rajdharma hai. Draupadi ke saath bhi toh sabne sawal kiya tha, maa. Par Krishna ne unka saath diya tha. Aaj main bhi wahi kar raha hoon."

It was at the feet of Lord Krishna I learned this—honor is not weakness, it is the duty of kings. Even Draupadi was questioned by all. But Krishna stood beside her. Today, I do the same.

A murmur spread like smoke—shocked, indignant.

Then came a voice, slick with venom and tradition.

A senior minister stepped forward, gray-bearded and cold-eyed. "Even the gods won't bless this union. A widow on the throne?" He paused, " Kalank hai vo—She will be the downfall of you."

She is a stain

"Mere ghar ki laxmi hai vo" his voice rang out loud.

"She's the goddess of prosperity in my home."

Another minister joined, half-smirking. "What did she offer, Maharaj? Her sorrow, her silence, or something else? The palace is not a shelter for shadows."

That was when the storm hit.

Before she could lift her gaze, before even her breath could tremble, his voice split through the air—deep, controlled, final: "Usse mehmaan kehna bhi gunaah hai... woh meri izzat, meri hadd hai. Aur jisne uspe ungli uthayi... uska wajood mita dunga."

She is not my guest—she is my honor, my limit. And the one who dared to point a finger at her... I'll erase their very existence.

Silence didn't return. It collapsed.

No one dared to speak. Not even the Rajmata.

At that moment, the Mad King was not mad.

He was sovereign.

And the widow he brought home was no longer a whisper in the dark.

She was a name that would be written in fire.

The air in the throne room had begun to move again—quiet, uneasy, reverent.

After the ministers fell silent and the storm of words subsided, there was only one who spoke without fear. He didn't wear silk or carry a seal, but his voice held weight, not from power, but from knowing.

Rudraksh's closest friend, Veer, leaned forward from where he sat—one brow raised in that familiar way that once belonged to laughter, but now sat heavier, older. "Kaisi dikhti hai vo?"

What does she look like?

The court waited. Some in mock interest. Some in disbelief.

Rudraksh didn't look at Veer. His eyes were fixed on the floor—where moonlight from the high windows fell like spilled silver.

He spoke like he was remembering, not describing. "Chand si safed."

White as the moon.

There was no need to explain further. But he did, slowly, like peeling poetry from stone. "Na koi gehna. Na sindoor. Sirf safed lebaas, jismein har rang ki aarzoo dafan hai. Magar phir bhi... usme ek roshni hai jo kisi ka bhi chehra chhupa de. Jise dekho, usi mein kho jaaye."

No jewels. No vermilion. Only a white garment where every color of desire is buried. And yet... there's a light in her that overshadows every face. One glance, and you lose yourself.

He finally looked up. Not at the ministers. Not even at Rajmata. But at the moonlight.

"Vo ek vidhva hai, haan. Par uska dukh bhi sajta hai. Jaise chaand apne daag ke saath bhi poora dikhta hai."

Yes, she is a widow. But even her sorrow shines. Like the moon, full despite its scars.

No one spoke after that. Not even Veer.

Because how could they argue with a man who saw the moon in a woman the world wanted to keep in the dark?

Rajmata's voice cut through the hush like a cold blade: "Yehi toh kehna chah rahe hai sab... vo ek vidhva hai. Unpar bas safed hi jachta hai, rajgrahane ki rani banna nahi."

That is exactly what everyone is trying to say... She is a widow. White suits her. Not the crown of a royal queen.

The sting was deliberate. Precise.

Rudraksh turned his face to her—not as a son, but as a king.

His voice was soft. Commanding. "Surmaya ko yahan laya jaye. Abhi ke abhi."

Bring Surmaya here. Right now.

A ripple of shock moved through the court.

Not because he had spoken.

But because he had just declared before the throne, the court, and his own mother—that the moon belonged in the sky, not behind veils.

And he would crown her with stars, even if the world tried to drag her down with shadows.