Seducing the princess

Princess bath

Princess Dhara, though her father ruled Chiva, belonged to one of the many smaller regions governed by the King—or rather, by the Prince himself. He was known as the Prince of Chiva, a title earned by winning the annual sword-skills contest year after year. What irked the Princess was that this title should never have been his. Though he was a Prince by birth, the honour should have belonged to her brother. Ashoka could have remained the finest swordsman, a bearer of an honorary title—but not this one.

Despite her objections, neither her father nor her brother paid heed. They granted Ashoka, Prince of Amartya, the title of Prince of Chiva without hesitation. Dhara feared that once the Prince set his hands on something, no one would deny him—be it a title or an entire kingdom.

What unsettled her further was that women were forbidden from participating in sword fights. That injustice had driven her to master the art in secret. Yet even then, the Prince had outmatched her, a fact that stirred a storm within her. Discrimination never escaped her notice. Women were denied equal standing—she believed even the Queen had endured the same fate.

The King, she felt, merely awaited the Prince’s marriage so he could abdicate the throne and retreat into leisure with his Queen. Their love story was celebrated, yet Dhara saw only injustice in it. The Queen’s a*******n had been neither romantic nor necessary. The King could have asked for her hand—but instead, he had chosen power.

The thought chilled her: the son was no different from the father—perhaps even worse.

She laughed bitterly, pitying the woman destined to marry such an arrogant, self-absorbed Prince.

Whenever she thought of him, his mocking gaze returned to haunt her. Why did he enjoy every privilege? Was it not sheer authority at play? Had he not been a Prince, she would have struck him without hesitation. And why shouldn’t she? He had stolen her first kiss—by force.

Dhara had already been wounded by royal arrogance, but that act crossed every boundary.

Elsewhere, Prince Ashoka greeted Yogiji Maharaj, while the Rajguru returned his blessings. The gathered monks and missionaries were honoured by the presence of the King, Queen, and Prince. This festival was sacred—never to be missed. Yogiji Maharaj held an indispensable place in their lives, which was why each year the nobility gathered in Kashi with their families.

After offering his respects, the Prince took his seat between the King and the Rajguru. He was the last to arrive. No one objected—but it was unusual. He had never been late before.

“Looks like His Highness has found something more important to occupy his hands,” Yogiji Maharaj remarked lightly.

This time, “His Highness” referred not to the King, but to the Prince—and he knew it. Yogiji Maharaj was the only man Ashoka never disobeyed, regarding him as the wisest soul he had ever encountered.

“It is not like that, Acharya… I just—” the Prince paused, uncharacteristically shy.

His thoughts drifted again to the maiden.

The ministers exchanged glances. The Prince’s attention never wavered—this distraction astonished them. The Queen saw a glimpse of the King in her son, while the King himself knew it was only a matter of time before the crown passed on.

Yogiji Maharaj studied him closely. Ashoka never lied in his presence.

“Prince Ashoka,” the Acharya asked gently, “is everything well?”

“Certainly, Acharya,” the Prince replied.

“That is good. And if not, it soon will be,” the Acharya smiled.

Cryptic words were his second language.

Soon after, Yogiji Maharaj dismissed the nobles.

Princess Dhara had deliberately avoided the gathering. She was unimpressed by the excessive reverence Ashoka received. Seeking peace, she decided to bathe.

She instructed her companion to bring fresh clothes and stepped into the bathing chamber wrapped in a single cloth. Entering the pool, she laid the cloth at the edge and submerged herself. The water embraced her, soothing her unrest. Lost in its coolness, she paid no attention to the presence entering the outer chamber, assuming it to be her maid.

She splashed water over herself, releasing the weight of recent events. Her hair loosened, her shoulders relaxed.

After a while, she rose to leave.

“Meera, the clothes,” she called, reaching forward.

Nothing.

“Meera?” she called again, turning—

“Aaaaaaah!”

She screamed and plunged back into the water. Her face burned with rage and humiliation. The kiss had already crossed a boundary.

This—this act of the Prince of Amartya shattered it entirely.