Page 4 of Scars and Crowns

The air smells of leather-bound files, sandalwood polish, and paper that has been handled by too many hands over too many generations. It is a smell I've known since childhood. Back then, I thought it smelled important.

Now it only smells old. Heavy..Like responsibility left unopened for decades.

As a boy, I used to sneak into this room whenever Father was away. I'd climb onto the oversized chair at the head of the table—my chair now—and imagine how different everything would feel once I became the one making decisions.

I thought power would make the room smaller. Instead, it only made the silence louder.

" . . . which brings us back to the same concern we've been discussing for the last three years." Verma's voice drags me back to the present. He sits two seats to my right, spectacles balanced low on his nose, one finger tapping steadily against the folder in front of him. He always does that when he believes he's making an important point. Across the table, the rest of the council watches me carefully, waiting for a reaction they already know they won't get.

I glance around the room.

Finance.

Legal.

Estate administration.

Tourism.

Textiles.

Agriculture.

Every department that keeps Rajvansh standing in the twenty-first century is represented here.

Seven years ago, most of these men looked at me and saw a prince who still had growing up to do. Now they wait for my approval before they approve their own thoughts. It's strange how quickly respect starts resembling distance.

"Hukum," Verma continues carefully, choosing every word the way people always do around me now, "the estate is flourishing. Our revenue has doubled in the last five years. The heritage hotels are performing beyond projections, exports are stronger than ever, and public sentiment towards the royal trust remains exceptionally positive."

I nod once. I know. I signed every report myself.

"But . . . " There it is. The real agenda. " . . . there is still one matter that remains unresolved."

I almost smile. Not because it's funny. Because I already know what's coming. It's always the same conversation.

Different month. Different files. Same conclusion.

Verma folds his hands together. "The succession." Silence settles over the table. "The board has begun asking questions. So have the trustees. Your mother has . . . expressed similar concerns." He clears his throat. "With all due respect, Hukum, it is time you seriously consider marriage."

There it is. Right on schedule. Not one of them looks uncomfortable saying it anymore. Maybe because they've repeated it so often they've convinced themselves persistence will eventually wear me down. Maybe because, in their minds, they're right.

A kingdom needs continuity. A royal family needs heirs. A king needs a queen. Simple. Logical. Efficient.

As though finding someone to spend the rest of your life with belongs in the same category as approving an annual budget.

My gaze drops to my left hand resting against the table.

Empty.

They see an unmarried king. I see something else entirely.

Seven years.

Seven years, and I still remember exactly how her fingers disappeared inside mine whenever we crossed busy roads. Seven years, and I still know the sound of her laugh better than my own. Seven years, and if I close my eyes for even a second too long . . . I'm back on Platform Three, watching a train carry away the only future I had ever pictured for myself.

The silver daisy pendant flashes through my mind before I can stop it.

Ridiculous.