In the heart of Udaipur, where heritage homes bore the weight of dynasties and gramophones played soft renditions of Lata and Rafi, lived a man who had turned his back on both memory and marble.
Vikram Suryavanshi did not reside in the sprawling ancestral mansion that overlooked Fateh Sagar Lake—the one adorned with Belgian mirrors and corridors echoing with political schemes. Instead, he lived on the edge of the city, in a modest haveli inherited from his late maternal grandfather. It had neither servants nor legacy, but it had silence—and that was all Vikram craved.
Once, as a boy, he had laughed in the courtyards of the Suryavanshi palace, clutching the hand of a woman with moonlit eyes and jasmine in her hair. His mother, Meenakshi Devi, was the only softness in a house of iron. And when she died—under mysterious circumstances whispered in hushed voices and silenced by wealth—something inside Vikram broke.
He never forgave his father.
Veer Suryavanshi—a towering figure in Rajasthan's political map, revered in public, feared in private—stood like a fortress between the past and truth. The world called him Netaji. Vikram called him murderer. No charges were ever filed. No inquiries conducted. Power had a way of cleaning its hands.
And so, Vikram vanished from the Suryavanshi mansion at the age of sixteen, and never returned.
But there was one tie he never severed—Mahendra Suryavanshi, his father's younger brother. Gentle, principled, and poetic at heart, Mahendra had been the quiet compass in Vikram’s life. It was he who helped Vikram complete his studies in Bombay. It was he who sent books wrapped in brown paper and letters scented with sandal ink. It was he who taught Vikram the art of survival without surrender.
For Mahendra’s sake, Vikram tolerated Raghav—his cousin. Loud, brash, and too eager to step into the shoes of their powerful lineage. Raghav was the poster child of Udaipur’s elite. Vikram… was its contradiction.
While Raghav graced every political rally and royal polo match, Vikram prowled the shadows—signing land agreements, forging connections with underground reformists, and slowly chiseling cracks into his father’s empire. Not out of ambition. But vengeance.
“You build palaces on graves,” Vikram had once said to his father during a brief confrontation.
Veer had only smiled. “And yet, you carry my name.”
Back at Rathore Haveli, the air smelled of vetiver oil and turmeric, where radio news hummed in the background and women embroidered stories into saree borders. And in one of the sunlit jharokhas, Shikha Rathore sat cross-legged, a diary in her lap and her thoughts in disarray.
It had been four days since Teej.
Four days since the encounter at the old temple.
Four days of restless dreams.
Four days of one name: Vikram Suryavanshi.
She had heard of him, of course. Everyone had. In a city where tea stalls and chess clubs doubled as gossip arenas, Vikram was both intrigue and scandal. The banished son. The rebel. The Suryavanshi who never bowed.
But no one ever spoke of the man Shikha met.
She had seen sorrow in his eyes, yes—but also strength. He hadn’t looked like a villain. He looked like someone who had fought too many battles alone.
She looked at her sketchbook. Page after page, she had drawn him. The curve of his shoulder. That half-smile. The scar at the edge of his lip. It was madness, she knew. Yet it felt like purpose.
Her sister caught her once and teased, “You’ve either found a muse or a mistake.”
Shikha had just smiled.
“Sometimes,” she whispered to herself, “they’re the same.”
The monsoon rains returned that evening, drenching the bougainvillea and turning the cobbled streets into rivers. In the dim yellow light of the oil lamp, Vikram sat at his desk, reading the day’s newspaper—The Rajasthan Times. A front-page photo showed Veer Suryavanshi inaugurating a new textile mill. Another step in his march to Delhi.
Vikram folded the paper quietly and poured himself a cup of chai. No sugar. He liked the bitterness—it reminded him of everything unspoken.
There was a knock at the door. A boy stood outside, soaked, holding a small packet wrapped in oilcloth. A note.
“Thought you’d like this. It belonged to your mother. – Mahendra Kaka”
Inside, a gold locket. Oval. Faded. When Vikram opened it, a black-and-white photograph greeted him. His mother, smiling. Holding a child.
His breath caught.
He turned off the lamp and sat there in darkness, the rain a lullaby of loss.
Meanwhile, Shikha pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering the way he had looked at her. Not as a Rathore daughter. Not as some porcelain heiress.
But as someone real.
A girl raised on ragas and rebellion…
And a man born of fire and fractures.
Something had begun.
Something unscripted.
Something dangerous.
And in 1969 Udaipur, beneath the gaze of old gods and older grudges, stories like these weren’t whispered—they were warned against.
But fate, like a monsoon river, never asks permission.
It just floods.
✨ Hii cuties! 💕
Grab your chai ☕ and get cozy because…
the next chapter of A flame in the shadows is here! 💫
More secrets, more romance, and a whole lot of drama awaits 👀🔥
Let’s dive back into the royal chaos — you’re not ready for what’s coming next! 😍💌
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