His Prisoner, The Palace’s Princess / Chapter 4: Punishment and Pride
His Prisoner, The Palace’s Princess

His Prisoner, The Palace’s Princess

Author: Rohan Singh


Chapter 4: Punishment and Pride

When I came to again, I lay aching, shoulder throbbing, the plain ceiling above me and the scent of medicinal herbs in the air. Flies buzzed, a train horn wailed in the distance. My body felt as if I’d wrestled a tiger, every muscle screaming.

The memory of humiliation, pain, and anger was vivid. I could still feel the ghost of Arjun’s hand, pride wounded more than flesh. I sat up, wincing, determined not to show weakness. I grabbed my sword, ready to settle the score.

Before I could move, the door swung open. A gust of dusty wind carried in the scent of gun oil and sandalwood. I straightened, sword half-drawn. Colonel Suresh Nair stood in the doorway—bushy moustache, kindly eyes, the old officer who’d served my father and grandfather. His Malayalam-accented Hindi was warm, words softening the moment. He looked at me as if I were still the child sneaking ladoos from his office.

Suppressing my anger, I asked, “Colonel Nair, were there any shortages in the rations this time?” The memory of the hungry border haunted me; this was about trust and proving myself.

“With the Ration Officer herself here, those rascals wouldn’t dare.” His words were a blessing. He gave a faint, proud smile. My heart unclenched a little—maybe I could make a difference.

Nair continued, “It’s dangerous here. I’ve arranged for soldiers to escort you back to the capital.” His voice was gentle but firm, the way only an old soldier could be. I could almost hear the unspoken "beti."

I arched an eyebrow, coldly. “So eager to send me away? Afraid I’ll punish someone for disrespect?” A challenge in my tone—a touch of palace arrogance. Nair’s eyes twinkled; he understood.

He glanced at my ceremonial sword—the one His Majesty gave me, a sign of authority.

He straightened, playing the loyal servant. "Sab niyam ke hisaab se hoga," he said, guiding me out like an elder keeping peace.

“That scoundrel dared treat the Ration Officer like that. I’ve already had him flogged—twenty strokes; he’s kneeling at the door now.” His words reassured, but there was calculation beneath. Even here, politics played out.

They’d punished him first, to prevent me from demanding more. Cunning old fox. I almost smiled. The palace had its ways, but the border had Nair. Grudging respect joined my resolve.

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