Chapter 18: The First Frost

POV: Maharaja Harsha

The bite of the mountain wind found the gaps in the heavy wooden shutters long before the sun had even cleared the sharp peaks of the hills. I woke to the cold smells of damp stone, burnt-out lamps, and distant woodsmoke. The thick blankets of the bed didn't do much to stop the sudden, freezing draft that swept across the floor. Beside me, Sumati stirred slightly in the dark, pulling the edge of her quilt tighter around her shoulders with a quiet grunt as she turned away from the window to stay clear of the morning chill.

I threw a heavy fur-lined wool cloak over my shoulders, stepped onto the freezing stone floor, and walked over to the balcony drapes to push the heavy fabric aside.

The main courtyard below was completely empty now, looking totally different from the chaotic mess of moving horses, muddy wagons, and tired people that had filled the space just hours before. The thick layers of grey road mud caked onto the stones from the horses' hooves had already frozen solid into hard, jagged ridges. Beyond the outer walls, the roofs of the river city were covered in a thin, glittering sheet of white ice—the very first true frost of the season, arriving right on the heels of my sons' return. Plumes of thick, white mist rolled off the river in a ghostly silence, completely hiding the timber bridges. Up on the outer wall walkway, two watchmen wrapped in heavy cloaks were completing their slow patrol, their boots crunching faintly on the frozen stone.

The constant worry of the last three weeks was finally over. The relief wagons were parked safely in the storage bays, the signed treaty was locked inside the archive chests, and the boys were fast asleep in their own rooms down the hall. Yet, as I closed the shutter against the wind, the quiet routine of the house still drew me to check the rooms.

I stepped out of the bedchamber, entering the long stone gallery that connected the family suites. In the outer corridors, the palace was dead silent and freezing. The floor braziers had not yet been lit by the morning pages, but the security was already active. Two personal guards stood at absolute attention near the archway, their bronze breastplates catching the pale, dim light of dawn. They lowered their spears in a silent salute as I passed, while two young night pages who had been waiting on the stone stairs bowed quietly, their hands tucked deep into their sleeves for warmth.

When I pushed open the heavy timber door to Shivsundari's suite, the main outer room was completely still. Behind the wooden partition screens, the deep, steady breathing of her personal maids and her old nurse told me they were still fast asleep, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature.

But when I stepped past the curtains into her inner bedroom, I found her already awake.

A small, dying amber glow flickered from the stone fireplace in the corner. Shivsundari was sitting cross-legged on a low wool cushion directly in front of the embers, a heavy blanket pulled tightly over her small shoulders like a cocoon to catch the remaining heat. On her lap, she had balanced a small, three-stringed wooden lute—a simple practice instrument the music masters had left on her side table weeks ago.

She was plucking a single string over and over again. Her movements were incredibly slow and light, her small thumb touching the gut cord with a steady, quiet rhythm to ensure the sound didn't carry past the door to wake the staff in the next room. It wasn't the traditional court scales or the bright exercises her tutors taught her during her afternoon hours. It was a slow, unfamiliar melody, the notes low, isolated, and heavy with a strange, solitary rhythm. She would strike three clean notes, pause for a long moment as if listening to a completely different song inside her own head, and then try to find the next transition, her brow slightly furrowed in deep concentration.

I didn't step forward onto the rug immediately, simply watching the quiet focus in her posture as she adjusted her small fingers against the wooden neck of the instrument. When the lowest string buzzed sharply against the wood as her hand slipped on the cold cord, she let out a quiet, tired sigh, letting her wrists rest flat against the face of the lute.

"That is a very quiet song for such a cold morning, Shivi," I said softly, stepping into the warmth of the fireplace.

She looked up, her clear green eyes catching the dim amber light of the hearth as I walked over and sat down on the wool cushion beside her.

"Pranam, Father," she murmured softly, adjusting the heavy blanket around her shoulders.

"Pranam, little flower," I replied, looking down at the small instrument in her lap. "Why are you awake so early? The morning watch hasn't even opened yet, and the room is still freezing."

"The wind woke me up when it rattled the wooden shutters," she answered smoothly, looking up at me with her quiet green eyes. "Since I couldn't drift back to sleep, I pulled out the lute. I forgot the middle part of the song, Father. The music master told me to practice my hand placement before the next watch, but my fingers keep getting stuck on the lower cord."

"Your hands are like ice," I murmured, reaching out to wrap my large palms completely around her small, chilly fingers to get the warmth back into them.

I picked her up easily, blanket and all, sitting back against the high wooden frame of the hearth seat and tucking her close against my chest beneath my cloak to block the draft from the door. She leaned her head naturally against my shoulder, her small hand resting flat against my chest while the little lute remained cradled between us.

"The frost has covered the entire valley today," I said gently, looking at the pale blue light starting to touch the edges of the frosted windowpane. "The glass is completely white."

"Will the water in the garden freeze?" she asked softly, her thumb making a small, clean stroke across the lowest string, letting a single, deep note hum in the quiet room.

"Only on the surface, little flower," I answered, pressing my cheek lightly against the top of her dark hair. "The sun will melt it by noon. The roots of the roses are deep enough to handle the cold."

I held her a little closer, looking down at her dark braids as a wave of memory softened the tired weight in my chest. These final few years had passed so quickly, yet the memory of anticipating her arrival was still so vivid. I remembered the long, quiet winter months before she was born, sitting right here in these chambers with Sumati. At that time, Vasundhara was already our eldest princess, growing into a bright, graceful girl who spent her afternoons learning the garden herbs. Sumati and I would often talk about whether this new baby would share her big sister's gentle, quiet nature, or if she would match the loud, restless energy of her brothers who constantly left their toy wooden swords scattered across the pavilion floors. We had wondered how a second daughter would change the daily life of our halls, hoping for a child who would bring an enduring peace to our lives.

When the midwife finally placed her in my arms on that bright spring dawn, my whole heart had settled. She hadn't cried; she had simply opened those remarkably clear green eyes, staring quietly up at the sunlight filtering through the drapes. The naming ceremony had been a beautiful morning that brought the entire palace together. The elders and priests had brought long lists of grand, complex titles, but I remember how Vasundhara had crept up to the side of the cradle, carefully touching the baby's tiny fingers, while Aditya and Vardhan tried to peek over her shoulder. Sumati had looked at that shared sibling silence and chosen the name Shivsundari, a name that felt as calm and whole as the household itself on that day.

And she had brought so much simple, bright happiness to our home as she grew. I remembered her very first laugh—she was barely a year old, sitting on a heavy wool blanket under the courtyard shade while Karna purposefully tripped over his own boots and Aditya made ridiculous growling faces just to hear her high, clear giggle ring through the stone walkway. When she was a little older, she had spent the entire spring following Vasundhara through the lower rose paths, her small hands caked in dark garden dirt, proudly carrying single, bent marigold stems to show me after the afternoon watches closed. Even as she got bigger, skipping the typical messy tantrums of early childhood, she loved sitting by the terrace fountain with her drawing slate, sketching crooked little pictures of the palace peacocks and showing them to Vardhan with a proud, happy smile.

Watching her pass through these childhood years had gone so fast, changing from a tiny baby into this bright, thoughtful girl who filled our ordinary days with so much light. It brought a familiar, deep ache to my chest—a sudden need to hold her safe in this brief pocket of childhood, before she grew entirely beyond my reach.

The golden bar of the morning sun finally broke over the hills, casting a warm light across the bedroom floor. Outside in the main hallway, I could hear the distant, familiar sounds of the morning staff finally waking up to start the day—the soft rustle of brooms along the stone, the quiet clinking of water jars near the wells, and the low voices of the kitchen pages carrying the fresh charcoal pots up the stairs.

The business of the palace would start soon, the ministers would return with their books, and the children's regular winter studies would begin. But inside the quiet warmth of her room, my daughter finally closed her eyes, safe from the cold world outside, and I held her there until the morning watch officially opened.

Author's Note: Happy Janmashtami to all my wonderful readers! 🪶✨ May your day be filled with joy, peace, and good food, and may this festive season bring you lots of happiness and sweet treats. Thank you as always for reading and supporting my work—enjoy this new chapter, and let me know your thoughts in the comments! 📖🌸