The golden sun hung low over the vast desert of Rajasthan, painting the dunes in hues of amber and crimson. The wind carried whispers of the past, weaving through the ruins of ancient forts and lost battlefields, where echoes of forgotten warriors still lingered in the air.

Here, in the heart of the desert, stood Rathoregarh, a kingdom that had refused to bow to time.

Unlike the rest of India, where democracy had erased the rule of kings, Rathoregarh remained untouched by the tides of change. It was a land where traditions held the same power as laws, where loyalty to the throne was not a duty but a way of life. The people did not look to a government for leadership; they looked to their Maharaja, the guardian of their land, the protector of their honor.

And that Maharaja was Rajveer Singh Shekhawat.

The towering Shekhawat Palace stood like a fortress against the endless desert, its ancient sandstone walls soaked in the blood and glory of the past. Intricate carvings of war elephants, royal processions, and Rajput warriors adorned its gates, telling the story of a lineage that had never been conquered.

Inside, the palace was a world of its own—a testament to centuries of power and prestige. High domed ceilings gleamed with golden inlays, corridors stretched endlessly, lined with handwoven carpets, and the walls bore paintings of kings who had once ruled this land with an iron fist. The scent of sandalwood and fresh roses lingered in the air, blending with the faint aroma of incense that burned in the temple within the palace grounds.

But beyond the grandeur, beyond the wealth, there was a heartbeat that kept this kingdom alive—the unwavering loyalty of its people.

In the villages surrounding Rathoregarh, men still wore their turbans with pride, carrying swords passed down through generations. Women adorned themselves in heavy silver jewelry, their ghagras sweeping across the dusty roads as they whispered tales of their king—the man who had upheld their traditions, who had never let modernity taint the purity of their land.

To them, Rajveer was not just a ruler. He was a legacy in human form.

He had been born into power, raised in the ways of kings, and trained to wield both the sword and the pen with equal mastery. His education was a mix of tradition and modern knowledge—he spoke multiple languages, studied warfare, politics, and diplomacy, yet his heart remained deeply rooted in his ancestors' ways.

Unlike the rulers of the past, who led their armies into battle, Rajveer ruled in an era where wars were fought not with swords, but with strategy and alliances. His enemies no longer came charging on horseback with swords drawn; they hid behind masks of diplomacy, waiting for the right moment to strike.

And Rajveer was always ready for them.

Even now, as the sun dipped lower into the horizon, casting a golden glow over Rathoregarh, the Maharaja stood at the palace balcony, his gaze fixed on the land that stretched before him. His figure was imposing—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a royal bandhgala that spoke of both tradition and power. His deep brown eyes, sharp as a hawk's, missed nothing.

Down below, the torches lining the palace courtyard flickered to life, and the distant sounds of temple bells echoed across the land, signaling the arrival of dusk. The people of Rathoregarh moved about with a sense of purpose, tending to their daily lives, never once doubting that their king watched over them.

And he did.

Because Rajveer Singh Shekhawat was not just a ruler by birth. He was a king by choice.

No matter how much the world around him changed, Rathoregarh would always be his to protect.

—————

The grand Darbar Hall of Shekhawat Palace was a place where history had been written and rewritten for centuries. The high-arched ceilings, adorned with intricate carvings of Rajput battles and victories, stood as a silent reminder of the legacy Rajveer Singh Shekhawat carried on his shoulders. A massive chandelier, crafted from pure crystal, hung above the long marble table where the royal council was gathered.

Dressed in bandhgala suits, the council members sat in an orderly manner, their faces a mixture of wisdom and experience. Some had served his grandfather, Amar Singh Shekhawat, before Rajveer's birth. Others had been appointed in recent years, selected for their intelligence and loyalty to Rathoregarh.

At the head of the table sat Rajveer himself—his posture commanding, his presence alone enough to demand attention. He was dressed in a regal black Suit, its golden embroidery a subtle symbol of his authority. His deep brown eyes, sharp as a hawk's, observed each man in the room, missing nothing.

The discussion had been long and rigorous, covering matters ranging from land disputes to trade agreements. Water scarcity in some regions had been addressed, and a new proposal for restoring an old fort into a heritage site had been brought forward.

One of the council members, Thakur Pratap Singh, cleared his throat, shifting in his chair.

"Maharaj, regarding the recent land issues in the western villages—some of the farmers claim that the zamindars have been unfairly increasing taxes. If we do not intervene, there could be unrest."

Rajveer leaned forward, his fingers laced together.

"Summon the zamindars. I want their records checked. If they have taken even a single rupee more than the rightful amount, they will answer for it," he stated with finality.

The men nodded in agreement. No one questioned Rajveer's decisions—his judgments were always fair, and his punishments were swift.

Another minister, Kunwar Devendra Singh, adjusted his spectacles.

"Maharaj, the trade routes through the desert have seen an increase in bandit attacks. Some merchants are hesitant to use them. Shall we increase patrols?"

Rajveer's gaze darkened slightly. Bandits were nothing new, but their recent activity was concerning.

"Yes. Double the security in those areas. If needed, I will send my personal guards to ensure safety."

The council murmured in approval.

The meeting continued for another hour, addressing smaller matters—temple renovations, education initiatives, and the upcoming festival preparations. Once all issues were resolved, Rajveer stood, signaling the end of the discussion.

"This meeting is adjourned. If there are further matters, they can be addressed in tomorrow's session," he declared.

The council members began rising from their seats, murmuring amongst themselves. Some exchanged pleasantries, while others gathered their documents.

Just as Rajveer turned to leave, an elder minister, Raghunath Singh, cleared his throat.

"Maharaj, before you go—there is one matter we must discuss."

Rajveer stopped. He could sense where this was going.

"What is it, Raghunath Ji?"

The old man exchanged glances with the others before speaking carefully.

"Your marriage, Maharaj."

Rajveer's expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of irritation crossed his eyes.

Before he could respond, his grandfather, Amar Singh Shekhawat, spoke up.

"Raghunath is right, Rajveer," the old man said, his voice steady. "It is time you think about it. A king cannot rule alone forever."

A heavy silence settled in the room. The council members nodded in agreement, their faces filled with expectation.

Rajveer exhaled slowly, his hands resting on the chair in front of him.

"I understand the importance of marriage, Dada Saheb," he said, his tone composed. "But I will not marry out of duty alone."

Raghunath Singh smiled knowingly.

"Maharaj, duty and legacy go hand in hand. The people need a queen. The women of Rathoregarh need someone to look up to, just as they look up to you."

Another minister, Thakur Shivraj Singh, leaned forward.

"There are many suitable girls, Maharaj," he said. "Women from noble families, daughters of respected ministers—some of us even have daughters who would be honored to be your wife."

Rajveer's jaw clenched slightly.

He knew their intentions were not entirely selfish; they wanted a queen who could uphold the traditions of Rathoregarh. But the idea of marrying for political convenience was something he refused to entertain.

"I will choose my wife when the time is right," Rajveer said firmly. "And when I do, it will not be for the sake of duty alone. It will be because she is someone I respect and cherish - and the only woman I will call My Ardhangini."

A murmur ran through the room at his words. Some of the ministers exchanged glances, while others sighed in resignation.

His grandfather nodded but did not seem entirely satisfied. Before he could say anything more, Raghunath Singh leaned forward, his expression solemn.

"Rajveer, you are not just any man. You are the king. A king's duty is not only to his people but also to his lineage. You must secure the future of Rathoregarh."

His grandfather stroked his beard and nodded in agreement. "Raghunath is right. You have devoted yourself to your responsibilities as a ruler, but a kingdom without a queen is incomplete."

One of the elder ministers spoke up. "There are many suitable women, Rajveer. Daughters of noble families, respected lineages. Even some of us here have daughters who would be honored to wed you."

Rajveer let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "I understand my duty. But I will not marry simply to fulfill an obligation." His gaze was sharp as he looked at each of them.

A moment of silence followed his words. His grandfather watched him carefully, then exhaled deeply.

"Very well," Amar Singh finally said. "But do not take too long, Rajveer. The kingdom will not wait forever."

Raghunath sighed, shaking his head. "Think about it, Rajveer. That is all we ask."

Rajveer gave a brief nod, then turned sharply and strode out of the hall, leaving behind the murmurs of his council.

-------

The afternoon sun cast golden rays through the arched windows of Jaipur University's History Department, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The lecture hall, with its rows of wooden benches and walls lined with framed portraits of historical scholars, was filled with murmuring students waiting for class to begin.

At the center of it all sat Advika Singh Rathod, her notebook open, pen in hand, her eyes fixed on the professor, who adjusted his glasses before pacing towards the podium.

"History is more than just dates and events," Professor Shukla began, his voice firm and authoritative. "It is about the legacies that endure, the cultures that evolve, and the mysteries yet to be uncovered."

Advika leaned forward slightly, completely absorbed. This was why she had chosen history—to unravel the hidden stories of the past, to seek out forgotten truths buried beneath time's layers.

Beside her, Kriti, her best friend and eternal skeptic, let out a quiet sigh, propping her chin up with her hand. "Here we go again," she muttered under her breath, earning a small elbow jab from Advika.

Professor Shukla continued, "For centuries, there have been rumors of lost kingdoms—places untouched by modern governance, ruled by kings whose names are no longer found in history books."

A hushed intrigue spread across the room.

"And for your next project," he announced, "you will be researching Rajasthan's hidden royal legacies. Your task is to uncover forgotten histories, lost dynasties, or even locate direct descendants of these royal bloodlines."

A ripple of excitement ran through the hall.

Advika's hand shot up instantly.

"Sir, I'd love to participate," she said without hesitation.

Professor Shukla's lips curled into a small knowing smile. "I expected no less from you, Advika."

Kriti groaned, shoving her notebook into her bag. "Of course he did."

Other students volunteered as well, but Advika was too preoccupied with her own thoughts. This was exactly the kind of opportunity she had been waiting for. Her mind buzzed with possibilities. Where would she start? Which royal family's lineage could she trace? Were there still places in Rajasthan where kings truly ruled?

As they exited the lecture hall, Advika spoke, more to herself than to Kriti. "Maybe... a place where a king still rules."

Kriti, who had been sipping from her water bottle, choked and looked at her in exaggerated disbelief. "Right. And how do you plan to do that? Summon a ghost?"

Advika rolled her eyes. "I meant a place where the royal traditions are still alive, where the ruler actually has power, even if not officially recognized."

Kriti smirked, shaking her head. "Advika, we live in 2025, not Balika Vadhu. If we go looking for kings, we'll probably just end up in some museum staring at a dead body."

Advika gave her a light shove. "Shut up."

Kriti laughed. "I'm serious! The only 'kings' left are politicians who act like them. But, hey, if you want to chase fairytales, who am I to stop you?"

Advika didn't reply, but a small part of her refused to accept that Rajasthan's royal legacies had completely faded. Something still existed beyond the pages of history books. She could feel it.

And soon, she would find it.

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That's it for chapter one 2k words.

I know it is short but I do not want to make it much just in the first chapter so just wait for the next one. I hope you guys like it.