All Chapters of The Rule: Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Three days had passed since the sun last rose over a kingdom at ease. Since the moment the king's breath had grown shallow, and the poison sank deep into his bones, the kingdom stood suspended — like a harp-string drawn taut, waiting for either song or severance.In those three days, the palace became a temple. Courtyards where laughter once echoed now bore solemn prayers. The bustling halls were hushed, lined with bowed heads and fasting mouths. Messengers arrived like doves with letters folded in velvet and bearing seals from every corner of the known world — kings, sultans, emperors, and chieftains — each sending their goodwill, their gifts, their golden offerings for the beloved king who once unified their quarrels with a word and a gesture.But Samarth — King of the Flame-Borne Throne — remained still.Upon his great bed, where woven silks once told tales of victory, now lay dull linens of rough-hewn weave. No ornament adorned him; no gem kissed his brow. His garments were plain,

The chamber was drowned in silence, broken only by the soft flicker of the candles placed in rows upon rows across the stone-carved alcoves. Their flames quivered in rhythm with the wind sighing through the terrace. Samarth lay still, motionless, a shadow of the man he once was. Seven days had passed since the prophet’s word was spoken, and still, no flicker of consciousness stirred behind the king's closed eyelids. He was dressed in simple garments now, as was required during the long healing process. No silks, no embroidered robes. Just a loose, pale cloth wound about him, leaving his chest partially exposed. His eyes were covered in a dark herb-dyed cloth — coarse yet soft — held in place by a physician's careful knot. The poison, which had accidentally touched his left eye during the night of his collapse, had caused inflammation. Thus, they had shrouded his vision to treat it with delicate balm.Priests moved about the room like shadows themselves. The physicians, bleary-eyed b

The flickering lamps cast golden halos across the room, their soft light dancing over the king’s worn but healing form. Pillows had been propped behind his back, silks drawn close over his frame, and a bowl of warm broth — more water than taste — rested beside him, lifted in turns to his lips by his own hand.The scent of clove, cinnamon bark, and tulsi still clung to his linen shirt, where hours ago, Aabroo had nestled in silent prayers. Now, she sat by his side, her posture relaxed yet deeply attentive. Her delicate voice, threaded with warmth and a sister's fondness, filled the room.“You would not believe what chaos stirred when the ministers heard you had stirred from the dark,” she said, her hands folded atop the coverlet. “Raj shouted at the top of his voice like a lion, declaring it was your strength that defeated death itself. And Veer — he vowed to set fire to the entire Everian border if it meant your safety.”Samarth listened, silent but smiling. Each story she shared came

The night wrapped the palace in a silken hush, the stars strewn like scattered blessings over a sky deep and solemn. The marble halls, once echoing with commands and tension, were now lulled into a tranquil silence. A single chamber breathed a quiet warmth, where the light of an oil lamp flickered like the heart of the night itself — tender, unwavering, sacred.Inayat sat beside him, her presence a balm. The air was gently steeped in the aroma of cumin, fennel, ginger, and bay leaves — the healing broth she had prepared, simple and nurturing, steeped in ancient wisdom and prayers whispered into steam.Samarth, the king who had returned from the edge of death, sat reclined against the carved headboard. The blindfold still covered his eyes, the cloth freshly wound each morning. His skin, though kissed by the warmth of healing oils, still bore the exhaustion of wounds unspoken. Yet tonight, there was a softness in his posture, a rare quiet to his powerful presence.Inayat brought the woo

The golden light of early dusk filtered through the carved jharokhas, scattering intricate patterns across the marble floor. Inayat reclined gracefully against the cushioned settee, her silken robe shimmering with subtle embroidery, hair loosely braided and threaded with pearls. Aabroo sat beside her, her hand loosely folded into hers, and on the rug before them, Leela and Ridhima lounged like blooming lilies, laughter bubbling softly between them.The sound of anklets jingled as Leela stirred the contents of a small brass bowl beside her — an ointment she was making, grinding crushed herbs with steady fingers stained green. Ridhima, meanwhile, was braiding a thin garland of jasmine, the scent lifting like incense in the air.“You’re going to be Queen,” Ridhima said suddenly, teasing spark in her eye. “Just like that. One night and the heavens have shifted.”Leela chuckled. “What enchantment did you use, my lady? A glance? A touch? Or simply your silence? He was smitten like a deer ca