Udaipur—the city of lakes, marble palaces, and golden dreams. Under the shadow of the Aravalli Hills, where dawn broke in saffron hues and dusk painted the skies like a poet's brushstroke, lived Shikha Rathore, the youngest daughter of one of the city’s oldest Rajput families.
The Rathores were known not just for their lineage, but for the quiet power they held—political, cultural, and emotional. Their haveli, built centuries ago, still stood proud with its latticed jharokhas, winding corridors, and walls that held stories in every mural. The air in the Rathore household smelled of sandalwood and tradition.
But Shikha... she was a wildfire in a walled garden.
She wasn’t like her older sisters who embroidered quietly in the courtyard or recited verses from the Ramcharitmanas in hushed tones. Nor did she mirror her cousins, who trained in Kathak and readied themselves for matrimonial alliances like dutiful princesses.
Shikha was spirit personified—raw, vibrant, and insatiably curious.
She woke before the sun, walked barefoot through the rose garden, fed the cows with her own hands, and often lost herself sketching clouds beside Lake Pichola. Her heart beat not for praise or propriety—but for the unknown, the untamed, the unsaid.
Everyone adored her. Her father, Thakur Saheb Devendra Singh Rathore, called her Raj Dulari—the darling of royalty. Her anklets rang like monsoon rain. Her mother tied sacred red threads to her wrist daily, whispering, “Nazar na lage meri sherni ko”(God protect you from evil eye). Even the temple priest once said she was born under a rare star—destined for something her family could not yet comprehend.
But stars—no matter how bright—must choose between burning or falling.
It was during the festival of Teej, when the monsoon air was heavy with music and the scent of jasmine, that something shifted.Teej, celebrated by women across Rajasthan and northern India, is a festival of love, devotion, and longing. Married women pray for the well-being of their husbands, while unmarried girls dress in their finest, dreaming of a love yet to arrive. The city comes alive with swings hanging from banyan trees, folk songs echoing through courtyards, and a kaleidoscope of colors twirling under the overcast skies. The haveli was alive with women dancing in crimson and emerald lehengas, their hands hennaed and lips stained with beetle-leaf red. Shikha, dressed in a peacock-green ghagra, her braid laced with white jasmine, was the most radiant of them all.
And yet, her eyes wandered.
She stood at the edge of the terrace, looking far beyond the glowing lanterns and swirling dancers.
“Why are you brooding like some tragic heroine?” her cousin Meera teased, offering her a cup of sugarcane juice.
“You usually own this dance floor.”
Shikha smiled faintly but didn’t look away. “Do you ever feel like… something is waiting for you out there? Not a thing, but a pull—like your soul knows something your mind doesn’t?”
Meera rolled her eyes. “Shikha, stop reading Mirza Ghalib before bed. It’s making you dramatic.”
But it wasn’t poetry that haunted Shikha. For weeks now, she had felt it—a strange flutter just beneath her ribs. Not anxiety. Not fear. But anticipation.
That night, while the family dozed in a post-feast slumber, Shikha slipped out quietly. It wasn’t rebellion. It was instinct.
The moon was high, painting the lake silver. She walked barefoot, her dupatta knotted around her waist, her sandals in hand. Through narrow lanes, past the sleeping city, past the banyan tree where newlyweds tied bangles for blessings, she made her way to a place she’d only seen once as a child—an old, near-forgotten family temple by the lake.
It was said that the temple once belonged to her mother’s ancestors but had long been abandoned after a political fallout. No one from the Rathore household visited it anymore. It had become a place of shadows and silence.
But Shikha didn’t believe in ghost stories.
She stepped inside.
The temple smelled of old stone and wet earth. The marble was cracked, vines crept up the pillars, and broken idols still whispered stories of glory and grief. And in the center, near the blackened shrine, stood a man.
He wore a simple black kurta, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His shoulders were broad, his stance still, but commanding. He didn’t turn at first. But he spoke, his voice smooth like aged wood.
“You came.”
Shikha froze, heart racing.
“Excuse me?” she asked, steadying her voice.
Now he turned.
His eyes—deep amber—met hers. Not glowing, not unnatural. Just intense. And tired.
His face was striking: sharp jawline, dusk-kissed skin, hair that brushed his collar, and a small scar at the corner of his lip, like a secret.
“I didn’t expect to see anyone here,” she said, clutching her dupatta.
He tilted his head. “Then why did you come?”
She blinked. “I… I don’t know.”
He stepped aside, giving her space. “You shouldn’t be here alone. It’s not safe.”
“I can take care of myself,” she replied, lifting her chin.
A corner of his mouth quirked. “I don’t doubt that.”
For a few seconds, there was silence. Not awkward, but charged. Like two instruments waiting to play in tune.
“Who are you?” she asked finally.
He turned back toward the temple idol, folding his arms.
“Someone with old roots in this city. Like you, I suppose.”
“You know who I am?” she asked, surprised.
“I’ve heard of Shikha Rathore. The girl who dances in the rain and sketches stars on paper.”
She blushed, annoyed at how flattered she felt.
“I’m Vikram,” he said at last, looking back. “Vikram Suryavanshi.”
Her breath caught. The name was familiar. A rising name in Udaipur’s elite business circles. Powerful. Influential. Whispers of him filled her father's drawing room—of land deals, court battles, rivalries.
“But you’re…” she hesitated.
“Supposed to be dangerous?” he finished with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Depends who you ask.”
She didn’t answer. He didn’t move.
There was something about him that felt... unfinished. Not broken, not threatening. Just a man shaped by silence and shadows.
A man, not a myth.
Before she could speak again, a distant sound—perhaps a guard’s voice—echoed from near the lake. Vikram’s demeanor changed instantly. Alert. Protective.
“You should go,” he said, his voice low.
She hesitated. “Will I see you again?”
He looked at her, long and hard. “That’s up to you.”
She turned, heart thudding, and slipped out the back way, melting into the night.
Back in her room, Shikha sat on the floor, her diary open, her thoughts spinning.
Vikram Suryavanshi.
He wasn’t a ghost. He wasn’t a prince cursed in a temple.
He was a man. Complicated. Quiet. Real.
And she had just stepped into a story no one in her world would dare to write.
✨ Hii cuties! 💕
This was the first chapter of A Flame in the Shadows 🔥👑
A journey of love, betrayal, secrets, and royalty has just begun…
I hope you all enjoyed diving into Shikha and Vikram’s world 💫
Stay tuned for more drama, romance, and unexpected twists!
See you in the next chapter! 💌📖
Write a comment ...