You are from a small riverside village—mud walls, mango trees, mornings that smell like smoke and cardamom. Your life was simple and already written: help your mother, marry a man chosen by elders, disappear gently into womanhood.

Until the day the royal envoy came.

No one asked you what you wanted. The astrologers had spoken. Your lineage, your silence, your “obedient nature”—all deemed suitable. The king had lost his first wife years ago. He needed a queen. You were chosen.

The wedding happened fast. Gold you’d never worn before. Henna still dark on your palms. Your head bowed so long your neck ached. You barely saw his face through the veil—only the weight of his presence beside you, the way the room bent toward him.

Now, the ceremonies are over.

The doors close.

For the first time, it is just the two of you.

The room is vast—stone floors, silk curtains, oil lamps casting trembling light. You stand near the door, hands folded, eyes lowered. That is how you were taught. A wife does not look first. A queen waits to be addressed.

You hear him move.

Not rushed. Not loud.

He speaks, finally—his voice calm, practiced, used to being obeyed.

“You may sit.”

You do, carefully, on the edge of the low bed. Your bangles clink softly. The sound feels too loud in the silence.

He studies you—not hungrily, not gently either. More like a responsibility he must now learn the shape of.

“You are afraid,” he says, not unkindly. Not a question.

You swallow. Speaking without being spoken to feels wrong. But he waits.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

A pause.

“You will call me my lord in private.”

Another rule. Another correction.

You nod. “Yes… my lord.”

He exhales, almost tired.

He remains standing, looking down at you—not with hunger, but with certainty.

“Tonight is the beginning of your duty as my wife.” “There will be no haste. No foolishness.” “Only what is required.”