The palace of Padmavati slept in silence, wrapped in soft night winds and the fading scent of temple lamps. From the outside, nothing seemed amiss. But in the eastern wing, a quiet plan unfolded like a whisper through stone.
Dattadevi stood before a mirror, not to see herself — but to vanish from herself.
Gone were the silks of royalty. In their place, she wore a warrior's attire — a simple cotton angarkha cinched at the waist with a belt, dhoti-style pants for movement, and a curved blade strapped to her side. Her hair, black as ink, was tied tightly beneath a white turban with an ochre band. A long scarf veiled her face below the eyes.
At her side, Rajima, her older maid and guardian in all but name, finished knotting the last strap.
"You look like your mother did," Rajima whispered. "The day she faced down the jackals who raided our grain stores."
Dattadevi glanced at her. "Then let history echo."
Across the room, a young maid named Shreeja lay on her side under silk covers. The dim lamp flickered beside her. Her hands trembled slightly under the blanket, but she nodded.
"You know what to do," Dattadevi said. "No words. Just silence."
Rajima draped a cooling cloth on Shreeja's brow and lit incense.
"She is unwell tonight," she rehearsed. "No visitors. The fever speaks more than she can."
With one last glance at her own reflection — now a stranger cloaked in courage — Dattadevi slipped through the servant corridor behind the chamber wall.
The corridors were quiet. A few guards dozed upright on their spears. She passed the old temple wing, where bricks had begun to crack, and slipped out through a forgotten herbal storeroom, stepping into the night air like shadow wrapped in breath.
The palace gates stood firm in the distance. But she didn't need them.
She scaled the edge of the grain store wall, landing softly in the outer herb gardens, then walked into the streets of Padmavati — unseen, unannounced.
Inside the palace, Veerkund's sandals clicked against stone.
"She missed the evening assembly again," he told King Ganapati Naga, voice laced with worry. "No handmaiden has seen her."
The king frowned. "She may be resting. She often avoids noise."
"Or hiding something."
The king hesitated — then nodded once. "Let's see her."
Outside the princess's chamber, Rajima stood firm.
"She is sleeping," she said gently. "The fever drained her. I gave her oil and herbs. She cannot be disturbed."
"I will only look," the king replied, his voice quiet.
Before she could answer, Veerkund pushed open the door.
The room smelled of sandalwood and bitter medicine. A veiled figure lay still on the bed, turned slightly away, unmoving beneath soft sheets. Her breathing was low, steady. A half-used bowl of herbal paste sat on the table.
The king looked on, concern etched between his brows.
"Let her rest," he said at last.
Veerkund squinted, watching the figure longer than needed. Rajima shifted toward the lamp and adjusted the flame, casting a new shadow.
"We'll speak tomorrow," she murmured.
Veerkund nodded but said nothing more.
The door closed behind them.
Rajima touched Shreeja's shoulder. The girl was sweating but had not moved.
"Sleep now," Rajima whispered. "The real storm rides tonight."
Outside, in the slums beyond the city's stone lanes, Dattadevi walked with her head low and her eyes sharp.
Smoke lingered in the air. The outer village still bore black marks from a fire Veerkund's men had called "an accident."
But the people knew better.
She passed a home where three girls huddled beside their mother — their grain taken, their father beaten for asking why.
A boy limped past, his head bandaged in cloth torn from a curtain. A woman sat on her doorstep, arms around an empty basket.
"The palace forgets we exist," she muttered to no one.
"They see us when they need soldiers or taxes," another man said. "Not when we burn."
Dattadevi's eyes stung. She pressed a silver coin into a girl's palm and adjusted her veil.
"You are seen," she said quietly. "And not alone."
She helped lift a collapsed cart from the road, gave a man her scarf to bandage his arm, then moved on.
Unseen in the shadows, a man stood leaning against a post. His robes were plain, but his eyes missed nothing.
He watched the warrior woman with the veil. He saw how the people leaned toward her — not with fear, but with trust.
He smiled faintly and scribbled something in a small scroll tucked into his sleeve.
"She walks like royalty," he murmured to himself. "And listens like rebellion."
His name was Harisena.