Hey beauties,

How are you all?

So Here I am with the first chapter of this novel.

I know usually I write long chapters but since this is the first chapter and I don't want to scare the new readers with long chapters, therefore, I wrote a short one.

Let the new readers adjust to my writing style and take interest in the novel, then I will be posting long chapters too.

So since this is the first chapter, I am expecting atleast some stars and comments.

Yes I have not yet made the POV banner, but will soon make it too.

So no more taking now let's start with the chapter...

Adirath POV

Power is a strange inheritance. Most people believe it is something a man acquires, something he fights for, builds, or steals.

They are wrong. Power, when it is real, is something that grows around you like a second skin.

It suffocates before it strengthens. It isolates before it elevates. And if you are not careful, it devours the man beneath the crown long before the world ever sees the king.

My name is Adirath Singh Rathore.

For some, that name carries the weight of authority. For others, it carries the warning of consequences. In Rajasthan, especially in Jaipur, it carries both.

My palace stands on land that has belonged to the Rathores for generations—sandstone walls that have watched centuries rise and fall, corridors that still whisper stories of kings who ruled with swords before men like me ruled with silence and strategy.

Jaipur wakes slowly, but my palace never truly sleeps.

I live in what is known here as the king's chamber. It is less a room and more a world of its own—an expansive private wing within the palace that most people in my family do not enter.

Not because I forbid them with words, but because boundaries around power tend to establish themselves without explanation. The chamber contains several rooms: my personal office, a training hall, a pool room, a study filled with documents that could reshape industries, a private lounge for meetings that require discretion, and beyond all that, a carefully maintained garden that remains untouched by the chaos of the city outside the palace walls.

In this chamber, I am not just the heir of a legacy. I am the authority that sustains it.

And I am not alone.

Kesar lives here with me.

His room is attached to mine, separated by a reinforced corridor designed for a creature whose instincts the world would rather fear than understand.

To outsiders, he is a lion. To the palace staff, he is a danger carefully tolerated. To my family, he is a presence they respect from a distance.

To me, he is simply Kesar.

No one in the family enters the king's chamber without reason. The servants who clean the place are among the oldest and most loyal members of the household, men who served my grandfather before they served me.

They know how to move quietly. They know which doors remain closed. Most importantly, they know when to speak and when silence is the better decision.

Discipline begins before sunrise.

Every morning, I wake at four.

There is no alarm clock beside my bed, no electronic interruption forcing consciousness into existence. My body has learned the rhythm of responsibility the way a soldier learns the rhythm of war. The moment my eyes open, the day has already begun.

The air inside the chamber is cool at that hour, the kind of stillness that exists before the world remembers it has to move.

I sit up, my gaze drifting briefly across the carved ceiling above my bed, the same ceiling that has watched generations of Rathores wake to carry burdens they never chose but were born to inherit.

By the time my feet touch the floor, I can already hear movement. Heavy, deliberate.

Kesar is awake.

He emerges from the adjoining room without urgency, his massive frame moving with the controlled grace of a creature who knows that speed is never necessary when power already belongs to him.

His golden coat catches the faint light filtering through the tall windows, the dark mane framing a face that has unsettled more than one guest unfortunate enough to see him without warning.

His eyes meet mine. There is no uncertainty in them. Only recognition.

He does not need commands. He never has.

When I walk toward the corridor that leads to the gym area, he follows without sound, his steps matching my pace the way they have every morning for years.

The palace corridors remain quiet as we move through them. The early staff members know better than to crowd this part of the estate at dawn. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint clatter of utensils from the kitchen beginning preparations for breakfast, but here the silence still belongs to us.

The gym area lies in the royal training wing, a place built not for aesthetics but for discipline. Every man in the Rathore family uses this space. Strength has never been optional in this house.

I begin my routine without hesitation.

The iron of the weights is cold against my palms at first, the resistance of muscle and metal grounding the body before the mind fully awakens. Push-ups, combat drills, weight training—each movement calculated, each breath measured.

Strength is not built in dramatic bursts. It is built in repetition. Across the room, Kesar begins his own routine.

No one trained him to mimic human exercise. What he does instead is far more instinctive. He stretches his massive limbs, his muscles flexing beneath his coat as he moves across the training floor, occasionally pouncing against the reinforced training pads fixed into the wall.

His claws strike the surface with controlled force, the dull thud echoing through the gym. For a creature capable of tearing through flesh, his restraint is remarkable.

It took years to build.

Around five thirty, the gym door opens.

I do not stop my exercise when I hear the footsteps enter. I know who it is before he speaks.

"Good morning bhai sa."

Abhimanyu's voice carries the easy warmth that this palace rarely hears from anyone else. My younger brother steps inside, already dressed for training, though his hair is slightly disheveled in a way that tells me more about his night than any explanation could.

I glance toward him briefly before returning my focus to the weights in my hands.

"You're late Abhi."

Abhimanyu rubs the back of his neck, offering the kind of nervous smile he reserves for moments when he knows discipline is about to follow.

"Bhai sa, yesterday shoot ended late so I slept late..."

The barbell settles back onto its rack as I finally turn my head fully toward him. My voice remains calm, but firmness has never required volume.

"Do 100 pushup extra then."

Abhimanyu's expression shifts instantly into a small pout, the kind he used to give our mother when we were children and consequences felt unfair. But he knows me well enough to understand that negotiations are pointless.

"Ji bhai sa." (Yes, brother.)

He drops to the floor without another word and begins the push-ups. I return to my routine.

The gym fills with the quiet rhythm of effort—breathing, the scrape of equipment, the occasional dull impact of Kesar striking the padded wall during his practice. Abhimanyu counts softly under his breath as he works through the additional push-ups.

When my own training reaches its end, I do not leave. Instead, I step beside him and continue another set of exercises.

He notices eventually, his voice slightly strained between breaths.

"You finished already..."

I do not look at him.

"You're not done."

That is enough explanation.

By seven-thirty, the morning training is complete.

Abhimanyu collapses briefly onto one of the benches, breathing heavily but smiling with the familiar satisfaction that comes from surviving one of my routines. Kesar, meanwhile, sits near the center of the gym floor, his tail moving lazily behind him as his sharp eyes observe the room.

Even within the family, a certain distance remains around him. They know what he is capable of. They also know that the only reason he has never harmed any of them is because they belong to me.

Kesar understands hierarchy better than most humans. No one touches him. Not Abhimanyu, not any of the staff, not even the elders of the household.

Only me.

When I reach out and rest my hand against the thick mane at his neck, he leans slightly into the contact, a low rumble vibrating quietly in his chest.

Our morning routine finished, I leave the gym and return to the king's chamber. Kesar follows as he always does, his presence silent but constant beside me.

Inside the chamber, the early sunlight has begun to filter through the tall glass windows, casting long patterns across the marble floor. I step into the private bathing room attached to my bedroom, letting the hot water wash away the sweat from training.

Kesar has his own bathing space.

Calling it a bathroom would be inaccurate. It is more like a small stone enclosure designed to resemble a natural waterfall, built specifically so he can clean himself without restraint.

When I step out, dressed now for the day in a dark tailored suit, I pause near the entrance to watch him.

Kesar approaches the stone fixture where the water tap is installed. With the practiced movement of a creature who has repeated this ritual countless times, he nudges the lever upward with his paw.

Water begins to fall in a steady stream. He steps beneath it without hesitation.

For a moment, the powerful lion stands there beneath the falling water, his mane darkening as it absorbs the flow. Droplets scatter across the stone floor as he shakes his head once, the movement sending a brief spray outward.

I find myself allowing a small smile. He did not learn this alone.

I taught him. Everything.

When he finishes, he walks back toward me, shaking the remaining water from his coat before settling beside the doorway.

Together, we leave the chamber. Downstairs, the palace dining room awaits.

And the day—like every day before it—has only just begun.

By the time we reach the main dining hall, the palace has fully awakened. The morning sun filters through the tall arched windows, pouring warm gold across the long polished table that has served generations of Rathores.

The room itself carries the same quiet authority that the rest of the palace does—carved pillars, walls adorned with portraits of kings long gone, chandeliers that hang above like silent witnesses to the countless conversations that have shaped this family.

It is exactly eight in the morning.

Everyone is already seated.

My younger brother Abhimanyu sits to the right side of the table, his posture relaxed in the way only he can manage inside a palace where discipline is practically carved into the walls.

Across from him sits my mother, Rajmata Devyani Rathore, her presence calm, composed, and quietly commanding in a way that only true grace can achieve. Beside her are my chacha sa, Harshvardhan Singh Rathore, and my chachi sa, Nandini Rathore.

They all look up the moment I enter the room. They were waiting. Not unusual. When you are the king, rooms wait for you.

I give a small nod of acknowledgment as I step inside.

Kesar does not stop beside the table. Instead, he walks past the chairs with his usual unhurried confidence, heading toward the smaller adjoining room where his breakfast is prepared every morning.

That arrangement exists solely because of my mother. She has never liked the smell of meat, and Kesar, being exactly what he is—a lion—requires it.

I have never had any problem eating with him in the same room, but my mother's comfort has always mattered more to me than stubborn principles. So Kesar eats separately. Even he understands my mother dislikes the smell of meat. He has never protested the arrangement.

The moment he disappears into that room, the faint metallic sound of the meat trays being placed before him reaches us.

Then the storm arrives.

She bursts through the doorway with the kind of energy that seems almost criminal inside a palace that runs on structure and quiet discipline. One of the servants nearly collides with her as she rushes in, barely managing to step aside before disaster occurs.

"Sorry pyare family members, I got a little late." (Sorry dear family members, I got a little late.)

Meher Rathore. My cousin sister.

Or, more accurately, the chaos this house occasionally needs to remind itself that it is still alive.

Her hair is slightly messy, her expression bright with the complete lack of guilt only she seems capable of displaying after arriving late to a table that has already been waiting for her.

My chachi sa sighs immediately.

"Meher how many times have I told you to wake up early? When will you even listen to me?"

Meher drops into her chair with exaggerated innocence, her lips forming a small pout that convinces absolutely no one.

"Sorry na maa sa, I was studying late night that is why I woke up late." (Sorry mother, I was studying late at night so I woke up late.)

Abhimanyu leans back in his chair, lowering his voice slightly—but not enough.

"Studying or watching those kdramas?"

Everyone hears it.

Meher's head snaps toward him instantly, her glare sharp and dramatic before she turns toward my mother with the expression of someone about to reveal state secrets.

"Badi maa sa, pta h apko Abhimanyu bhai sa kl raat..." (Elder mother, do you know Abhimanyu brother last night...)

Abhimanyu's eyes widen. He sits up straight so fast that the chair legs scrape softly against the floor.

"Of course chachi sa, my lovely sister was studying yesterday night all night. She didn't even get any proper sleep. Please don't scold her."

Meher's expression transforms into a victorious grin.

The crisis dissolves instantly. I shake my head slightly. This is their routine.

Every morning holds some variation of this exchange—Abhimanyu teasing Meher, Meher threatening exposure, both of them pretending they will actually follow through.

The palace might run on discipline, but these two run on mischief.

Breakfast begins.

As the king, I occupy the main chair at the head of the table. It is not a position I requested. It is simply where the structure of the house places me.

Servants move quietly around the room, placing plates and pouring tea with practiced efficiency. The smell of freshly prepared food fills the air, but my attention remains elsewhere.

I eat mostly in silence. Not because I dislike their company. Because I dislike this place.

No one here truly knows that. Or perhaps they do, and they simply choose not to acknowledge it.

Three years.

That is how long I lived away from these walls.

Three years in my penthouse overlooking the city, where the silence belonged to me and no one else. Kesar lived with me there. The two of us carved out a life that did not require the ghosts this palace carries.

But my mother was afraid. Afraid that if I stayed alone long enough, I would become just like my father.

Or him.

She never says the second name aloud, but I know exactly who she means when she fears it. So she asked.

Then she insisted. Then she made me swear on her life. And that is the one oath I cannot break.

That is why I came back.

The moment I became the king of Rajasthan, the first order I ever issued was simple. My father was no longer allowed to live in this palace. I did not banish him from the world.

I did not strip him of his title. But he would not live under the same roof as my mother and me again.

I hate him. That hatred is quiet. But it is permanent.

Across the table, my mother eats slowly, unaware of the storm of thoughts that passes through my mind whenever this palace reminds me why I once left it.

My dadi sa would probably say that hatred is an unnecessary emotion for a king. She has always believed that discipline matters more than feelings.

Rajmata Indira Devi Rathore. My grandmother.

The woman who raised me not as a grandson—but as a future ruler.

After my grandfather died early, she lost the softness most women carry in their smiles. In its place came steel. She managed the throne herself until my father was old enough to take it.

She believed passing the crown to him would be the right decision. It was not.

What he did to my mother destroyed more than a marriage. It destroyed whatever remained of our family.

After that day, she never looked at me the same way again. Not with affection. Not with warmth.

Only with expectation.

She trained me personally. Every lesson a ruler must know. Every quality a king must possess. Strategy, discipline, authority, restraint.

Everything. Now that I sit in the seat she once protected, she respects my position more than anyone else.

Even when my first order removed her own son from this palace. She never opposed it. Because she understands something that very few people in this country do.

Once a king gives an order— no one, not even a former Rajmata, has the right to oppose it.

Her six-month arrangement was her own decision. Six months with my father. Six months here. Currently she is with him.

Next month, she returns.

The breakfast table grows quieter as the meal nears its end.

One by one, plates are cleared. Abhimanyu stretches slightly in his chair while Meher continues whispering something dramatic to him that makes him roll his eyes.

I finish my breakfast and place the napkin down beside the plate. Immediately, my mother's voice reaches me.

"Adirath I need to talk to you."

I look up at her. A slow breath escapes me before I can stop it.

A sigh. Because I already know. Whenever my mother says those words, it is never something simple.

It is always something serious.

Something that places me in the exact position I dislike most—

The position where saying no to my mother becomes impossible.

____

So guys how was it? No one will say it was short, I know it was, I deliberately wrote less. Reason told above.

So do tell me your feedback in comment section.

Next chapter will be updated soon.

Follow me on insta too for new updates and spoilers.