The Exiled Queen is still a Queen.

It was the middle of the night when she finally received the letter.

The candles were nearly burnt out, their dim flames casting flickering shadows across the room. She pulled a thick drape over her shoulders, seeking warmth from the cold air seeping in.

She sat beneath the candlelight, its glow reflecting on her face, illuminating the deep furrows of worry on her brow.

Her troubled eyes rested impatiently on the letter in her trembling hands. She was still in her skirt and blouse, unaware of her disheveled state. Her outer garments lay forgotten somewhere in the room.

The rustling of paper filled the silence. She read the entire letter in haste, her tears welling up. She sat there, staring at the bowls overflowing with grapes. Each grape held a reflection of the candle's flame, each flickering with life—yet she felt her own life draining away. She knew she couldn't allow herself to crumble. Anything could still happen; there was still hope.

"They haven't found him yet..." she thought, closing her eyes in helplessness.

Tears spilled onto her palms, resting there for a moment before being smeared away as she rubbed her eyes. Every fresh tear was wiped away, erased like the hope slipping from her grasp. She looked pitiful.

"He shall not die." She declared with assertion to herself.

It wasn't just about the person she cared for; it was about the realization that her world was truly clashing, on the verge of crumbling.

"Don't!" she scolded herself. "He is not dead yet. Don't lose hope until there is none left."

But the more she tried to hold onto hope, the more it seemed to slip through her fingers. Outside, people were already preparing for his funeral.

"There is no way he can come back from this," they said.

She stood abruptly and searched frantically for those pieces of parchment. She rummaged through the shelves, unable to recall where she had placed them. She searched tirelessly until she finally found them buried beneath books she had forbidden anyone to touch.

Coughing from the dust, she pulled the papers from beneath the pile of old, rotting manuscripts. She turned them over, looking for something.

"No hope is dead if you go after it," she read aloud. "Follow it, and it will take you somewhere. That place holds the solution to the problem. Don't sit idle—act. Follow hope."

She wasn't sure what those words meant, but they had always been Alokika's writings—words she had penned for herself, words of wisdom. Yet, they always helped Abhilasha the most.

"Where is hope?" she muttered to herself, distressed. But she knew she couldn't just sit there.

If there was a way to protect him, she would find it. And if not, she would only be satisfied when she saw that man's lifeless body with her own eyes.

She stepped out of the corner, shutting the door to the shelf behind her.

There was no time to call upon anyone. She hurried to find her clothes, throwing on her drape and fastening it securely. She covered her exposed neck, her cleavage, her waist—her entire body. She was not properly dressed. Even her headdress and jewelry were missing. She knew if she stepped out this way, rumors would spread.

Still, she walked on. An attendant intercepted her, offering assistance.

"Thank you, Samrita. But I need to be somewhere," she said, moving swiftly, leaving the confused woman behind.

"Let me dress you properly," Samrita urged. "You know people will question you again—your integrity as Queen."

"I know," Abhilasha replied, still sifting through things, looking for something.

Then she found it—the dagger.

It was precious. One thing she had learned here, and one thing she took pride in, was handling a dagger.

Usually, she wouldn't have taken it with her—there was no need. But she wanted to keep it close. If anything stopped her, if any danger made her falter, she would be reminded of why she was doing this.

Her best friend had given her this dagger. The man who had taught her how to wield it—he must survive. If there had to be a sacrifice, why should it be him?

He had already done enough for Tarish.

She looked at the dagger, and the night he had given it to her replayed in her mind, every word he had spoken echoed within her. Tears fell onto the blade, pooling in tiny, shimmering droplets. They held a promise—one she had already broken, but not this time.

She gripped the dagger tightly. Her braided hair fell over her shoulder, and thin drape wrapped around her, she walked out.

"My lady, please, tell me where you are going?" Samrita asked hurrying after her.

"I shall go to the King. This is a matter of urgency."

"You're lying."

"I am not. I keep my word. I am not running away," she assured her. "I will let him know before I go anywhere. I won't put you in danger. Rest assured."

"How can I?" Samrita protested. "Let me come with you—I can help."

"I cannot. You are too precious to risk. Don't you understand?"

Abhilasha walked away. Indeed, Samrita was precious—if not to her, then to Alokika. As she began to lose those dearest to her, she realized what it truly meant to lose everything.

She walked briskly, the attendant trailing behind at a distance, head bowed, ensuring no one stopped her or caused her any trouble.

"Hope. Chase after hope. Go where it leads," the young queen repeated in her mind over and over again.

When she reached outside her castle, she tightened her shawl around her and steadied her breath. This time, she wasn't going for compromise.

"Is it necessary?" someone asked from behind. A hand pulled her into the shadows behind the wall.

Shock. Relived. Then scared not for herself but for him. It was Chandramukha.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Is it necessary for you to do this?" he asked.

"How can he be made a scapegoat?" she hissed.

"Because he shall be."

"Why? Because he might one day claim the throne? He never wanted that!"

"How do you know?" He asked

"I just do."

"You only saw what he showed you."

"But what he showed wasn't a lie. He hid some parts, yes. I don't blame him for that. I, too, would destroy the world if it were responsible for my father's death."

"A corrupt father." Chandramukha corrected.

She fell silent. Or perhaps she was rendered speechless. Or maybe she was simply out of breath, out of wit, out of hope.

"His father was corrupt. But why punish him?" she whispered.

Tears betrayed her once more, flooding her eyes. Yet, her voice remained steady. So did her resolve.

"Don't go in there," he pleaded.

"I shall."

"Don't. The people in that hall are looking for an excuse to dethrone you. The King won't be able to stop them."

"He doesn't have to." She said, "A husband who couldn't stand by his wife and exiled her—what more can I expect from him? But I will not let them make my friend a scapegoat. Not on my watch."

He held her shoulders. "You don't want to lose what little power you have left. Your father didn't die for this. Power will keep you alive. People want you dead before the sun rises."

"I know that," she said. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she could see the face before her. "I wouldn't be alive now if not for him. The same blood does not determine a person's soul as well."

A long silence stretched between them.

"Then do as I say." He said "I won't stop you anymore"

She looked up at him. "What?"

"Return to your chambers. Dress as a Queen. The Exiled Queen is still a Queen."