370 BC

The throne room of Suryapur was a masterpiece of architecture, its vast expanse exuding a blend of grandeur and authority. The marble floors, polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflected the dim glow of golden oil lamps, while intricate carvings of celestial deities and legendary conquests adorned the towering stone pillars. Heavy silk drapes in rich crimson cascaded from the vaulted ceilings, their embroidered gold filigree shimmering in the flickering light. The air carried the scent of burning sandalwood and rose, an ever-present aroma that infused the hall with a sacred reverence.

At the heart of this regal chamber stood Princess Samyukta, the sole heir to the throne of Suryapur. Her deep-blue lehenga, meticulously embroidered with golden threads forming the sun insignia of her dynasty, shimmered subtly with each movement. A delicate gold maang tikka rested upon her forehead, the emerald centerpiece a stark contrast against her warm, honeyed complexion. Her waist-length, dark brownish-black hair cascaded in thick waves, framing her high cheekbones and full lips. Yet, it was her eyes—large, almond-shaped, and brimming with quiet determination—that commanded attention.

Seated before her on an opulent ivory and gold throne was her father, King Narayan, with Queen Haimlata by his side. Their expressions were unreadable, their presence formidable. To their right stood the kingdom’s Prime Minister, an elderly man draped in flowing robes, his keen eyes betraying decades of experience. The air between them was heavy with unspoken gravity.

The subject of their discussion was Samyukta’s impending marriage.

At twenty, she was to wed Prithvi, the second son of the Commander-in-Chief—a man she had loved since childhood. The thought of him filled her with warmth; Prithvi, with his effortless charm and unwavering bravery, had been the source of her daydreams for years. She had long imagined a future by his side, ruling together as equals. Yet, as the conversation unfolded, an unexpected revelation sent a chill through her veins.

King Narayan spoke with measured authority. “After your wedding, Prithvi will ascend the throne as King of Suryapur.”

Samyukta’s breath caught. The weight of his words pressed upon her like an iron shackle.

She was the sole heir. By right, by lineage, the throne belonged to her. She had dedicated years to mastering governance, diplomacy, and military strategy, preparing herself for the day she would rule. And yet, with a single decree, her rightful claim was being cast aside—not for lack of competence, but because tradition dictated that a woman could not rule alone.

Her heart wavered between anger and sorrow, but she swallowed her protest. The love she bore for Prithvi dulled the sting. If he were king, and she his queen, she would still wield influence. Wouldn’t she?

Pushing aside the bitter taste in her mouth, she forced a serene expression. “Of course, Father. As my husband, Prithvi will share my destiny.”

The words felt hollow.

That evening, she wandered the corridors of the palace, her mind clouded with doubt. The flickering torches cast elongated shadows as she made her way back to her chamber. She longed to speak with Prithvi, to share her thoughts, to hear his voice and find reassurance in his embrace.

But as she passed by a half-open chamber door, she froze.

From within, Prithvi’s voice rang out—low and confident. “Of course, I am marrying her only for the throne. Once I am crowned, I will wed you.”

Silence.

Then, a soft, familiar laugh—one that sent ice through Samyukta’s veins.

Shraddha.

Samyukta’s closest friend. The woman she trusted above all others.

Heart hammering against her ribs, she pushed the door open just enough to glimpse inside. What she saw shattered her world in an instant.

There, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, Prithvi stood with Shraddha in his arms. Their fingers interlocked, their bodies impossibly close. His eyes—those same eyes that had once gazed at Samyukta with devotion—now held a different kind of fire as he whispered promises meant for another.

She stumbled backward, the breath torn from her lungs. The walls of the palace, once her sanctuary, now closed in around her like a cage. She turned and ran, her vision blurred by tears. The murmurs of the servants faded as she stormed past, her only focus the four walls of her chamber, where she collapsed onto the cold floor.

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade. Love. Trust. Friendship. All of it had been a lie.

When her tears finally ceased, clarity took their place.

With trembling hands, she reached for the plain black dupatta in her wardrobe. Draping it over herself, she cloaked her identity along with her shattered heart. If they had taken everything from her, she would take something in return.

Moving like a shadow through the halls, she navigated the familiar passageways, slipping past the guards undetected. She reached the royal stables, her decision already made. Ignoring her own steed, she selected Prithvi’s horse—a final act of defiance, perhaps, or a poetic twist of fate.

With the torchlight flickering against the darkness, she mounted and rode into the night, the echo of hoofbeats the only sound accompanying her departure.

By sunrise, she was gone.

From that day forward, Princess Samyukta ceased to exist in the eyes of Suryapur. No trace of her remained within the palace walls, no whisper of her name among the common folk. She became legend, a mystery etched into the annals of history.

She became The Disappeared Princess.