— where truths buried in blood and silence finally rise.
The Gathering Storm
The palace court hadn't been this crowded in decades. Every noble, every official, every bloodline tethered to the throne had gathered — not for a celebration, but for reckoning.
Sitara stood at the center, her pulse like thunder in her ears. Beside her, Vivaan held the rewritten prophecy — not a holy vision anymore, but proof of deception.
The Maharani's voice cracked first:
"I was wrong. Not because I doubted you, Sitara... but because I never dared to question the prophecy."
Her words trembled in the air, and then Vivaan took a step forward.
His voice rang out like fire through frost.
"Both Sitara and I were born on the same date, same year, same hour. So why was I crowned and she cast aside? Why was a child condemned before her first breath?"
He turned, eyes burning.
"Why were her parents erased from history?"
The Forgotten Ones: Sitara's Parents
And then, for the first time, the palace heard the story — the truth buried beneath years of silence and shame.
Her father, Prince Aarav, the third brother of the Maharaja, had not died in disgrace. He had died a hero, a general who had defended the northern border during the Black War, his name sung by soldiers but silenced within the court.
At the very moment he rode into battle, his wife — Padmavati, the Maharani's own sister — had discovered she was pregnant.
But instead of joy, the news brought ruin.
The second brother and the veiled sister of the crown, fearing their hold on power would slip, accused Padmavati of treason, forging letters and twisting truths. Her family name was blackened. She was exiled — pregnant, dishonored, and heartbroken — while her husband bled for the country that had abandoned them.
They died separately — he on the battlefield, never knowing his daughter's name, and she in a distant temple, raising Sitara in hiding, carrying both grief and hope like a hidden flame.
Tears streamed down Sitara's face, her voice barely a whisper.
"My mother never told me the full story... only that my father had loved me before he even knew me. She died holding that hope like a prayer."
"They were not traitors," she said, voice cracking. "They were erased for loving too deeply in a kingdom ruled by fear."
There was not a dry eye in the hall.
The Flame of Justice
Vivaan took Sitara's hand and raised it in front of the court.
"Today, the kingdom knows the truth. Her father was a prince. Her mother, royal blood. The treason was never theirs — it was born from envy and lies."
The council fell to its knees.
The ban was lifted, publicly, irrevocably. A royal decree was signed, reinstating the honor of Sitara's lineage. Statues were to be built. The old war records amended.
The kingdom that had once spit her name now chanted it in solemn unity.
"Sitara. Daughter of flame. Child of forgotten fire."
The Prophecy, Rewritten
That night, Sitara couldn't sleep.
The firelight from her chamber flickered against the walls, casting dancing shadows that reminded her of her childhood. She closed her eyes, and the vision came not with pain, as it used to, but with a strange warmth.
She saw them.
Padmavati, her mother, stood by the sacred pond where Sitara used to play as a child — dressed in soft silks, hair braided with marigolds, and tears shining in her eyes. Prince Aarav, her father, stood beside her, tall and regal, dressed in worn armor bearing the insignia of the Third House — the house that history had tried to erase.
They smiled. Not with sadness. Not with longing.
With peace.
Padmavati stepped forward, her voice soft as a prayer:
"My sweet child... We carried the burden so you wouldn't have to. I hid the truth, not because you weren't strong enough — but because I feared the world wasn't ready."
Prince Aarav placed a hand on Padmavati's shoulder, his gaze steady on Sitara:
"We gave up everything. Not for a crown. Not for vengeance. But so you might have a choice... to rule with heart. With fire. Not like them."
Sitara's chest tightened. She reached out in the vision — and her mother's hand brushed hers, warm and real.
"You are the living answer to everything we prayed for," Padmavati said.
"Our love wasn't a mistake. You are not a mistake."
When she woke, tears were streaming down both cheeks.
She turned — and Vivaan was there, watching her in silence. His thumb gently wiped a tear from her temple, and for a moment, neither spoke.
She simply said:
"They loved me. They believed in me — even when the world didn't."
Vivaan nodded.
"And I do too."
Two Halves of a Whole
Later, under the moon-drenched sky, Sitara and Vivaan stood alone on the palace balcony. The celebration had ended. The ministers had gone quiet. The kingdom was finally listening again.
But now... it was just the two of them. No power. No prophecy. Just truth and ache.
Vivaan took her hands gently, tracing the lines of her palm as though trying to read her like scripture.
"You said we were born at the same time... the same day. Same hour. You and me."
Sitara met his eyes.
"Yes. Two sides of the same coin. They picked you and cast me out. As if one flame was holy, and the other cursed."
Vivaan's expression twisted, not in anger — but something deeper. Regret. Protectiveness. Obsession.
He whispered:
"Then it was never about one savior. Or one ruler. It was about balance."
Sitara stepped closer.
"We are incomplete without each other, Vivaan. Two halves on opposite sides of a page. The crown only fits when both sides are written in ink."
His gaze softened. Slowly, he pulled her close, touching her forehead to his.
"Then let them see what happens when the page is whole again."
They stood like that — two hearts, still bruised, but finally beating in rhythm.
The prophecy wasn't broken.
It was misunderstood.