The palace gardens bloomed with marigold and madness.
Spring arrived with the first monsoon—storm clouds breaking like ceremonial drums, the scent of jasmine thick in the air. And from her window, Anaya watched the petals fall across the old marble, where once, she had been discarded.
Where once, she had watched Meher rise.
Now?
There was no one above her.
She sat on the imperial throne, no longer borrowed.
No longer inherited.
*Claimed.*
---
The public called her *The Iron Rajkumari.*
The court whispered another name: *The Serpent Queen.*
But Aryan…
Aryan called her *Anaya*.
And that was enough.
---
Their nights were still wild. Still whispered. Still filled with slow-burn touches and wordless need. But they were also layered now—with trust, with understanding, with a love too deep to admit aloud.
Because neither of them had ever learned how to love gently.
So they didn't.
They loved like warriors.
And it was perfect.
---
One evening, after court, Aryan came to her war chamber where she was reviewing trade routes and military reform.
She looked up at him, tired but luminous.
"You always stare at me like you know something I don't," she murmured.
He smirked. "I do."
She tilted her head. "What is it?"
He walked to her slowly, took her hand, kissed the center of her palm.
"That one day, they'll write legends about you."
She arched a brow. "Villain or queen?"
He pulled her into him. "Both."
---
**One year later**
Her empire stood stronger than ever.
Meher had vanished into quiet exile. Veer ruled Rajputana with diplomacy and silence. The old royalists who once mocked Anaya now *feared* her.
And Aryan?
Still by her side.
Her general.
Her sword.
Her only softness.
---
They never had a wedding renewal.
They never needed it.
But sometimes, on quiet nights, when the palace fell asleep and the crown rested on its velvet pillow…
He would roll over, brush her hair from her face, and whisper—
> "You were never a villain, Anaya."
> "You were just the only one brave enough to stop pretending."