The ceremony wasn't held in court.
It was held in the Temple of Sovereigns—a sacred site reserved for moments of imperial reckoning. The kind of ground where oaths were made not for politics, but for *destiny*.
Only five people were summoned.
The Empress.
Anaya.
Aryan.
A royal adjudicator.
And the head priest.
---
The temple was silent as Anaya stepped onto the black onyx dais, her saree deep sapphire and gold, her hair woven with crimson silk and pearls once worn by the empire's first ruling queen.
The priest spoke.
"In the eyes of gods and lineage, we ask: do you, Anaya Mehra-Rathore, born of blood both noble and hidden, claim your rightful place as heir by spirit and sword?"
She didn't blink.
"I do."
The Empress nodded, regal and unflinching. "Then let it be recorded."
The priest turned. "And do you, Aryan Rathore, bound to this woman not by rank, but by soul, swear fealty to her claim—knowing that this oath binds you not just as husband, but as protector of her reign?"
Aryan didn't hesitate.
"I do."
---
The words weren't just tradition.
They were *binding*.
From this moment forward, Anaya was no longer just the Prime Minister's daughter, or a consort scorned.
She was *Rajkumari Anaya Mehra-Rathore*.
Not yet Queen.
But next in line—if she dared to fight for it.
---
Later, in the solitude of the temple gardens, Anaya sat on the edge of the moonlit fountain, her feet bare, crown resting on the marble beside her.
Aryan approached, still dressed in his ceremonial uniform. He stood behind her, silent.
"You didn't flinch," she said quietly.
"I never would."
She turned. "Not even if I become everything they fear?"
His voice was low. "You already are."
She smiled then. Not with triumph. But with *certainty*.
And when he leaned down, kissed the top of her head like she was both fire and future, she whispered against his collar:
"I'll burn the world, Aryan. Not for revenge anymore. But for what's mine."
His reply was a vow, not a promise:
"Then I'll be the sword you wield when it strikes."