THE HOLLOW THRONE
YUVAAN
There are days when this palace feels less like a home . . . and more like a museum where I'm expected to play the role of a man who's been dead for centuries.
The council chamber is the worst of it.
The room hasn't changed in my thirty years of life.
The same carved teak table dominates the center—polished so often that its surface reflects the afternoon light pouring in through the tall arched windows.
Portraits of my ancestors line the walls, each one wearing the same expression—stoic, regal, impossible to read.
They watch every meeting in complete silence, as if judging whether I'm worthy of sitting where they once did.
The air smells of leather-bound files, sandalwood polish, and paper that has been handled by too many hands over too many generations. It is a smell I've known since childhood. Back then, I thought it smelled important.
Now it only smells old. Heavy..Like responsibility left unopened for decades.
As a boy, I used to sneak into this room whenever Father was away. I'd climb onto the oversized chair at the head of the table—my chair now—and imagine how different everything would feel once I became the one making decisions.
I thought power would make the room smaller. Instead, it only made the silence louder.
" . . . which brings us back to the same concern we've been discussing for the last three years.
" Verma's voice drags me back to the present.
He sits two seats to my right, spectacles balanced low on his nose, one finger tapping steadily against the folder in front of him.
He always does that when he believes he's making an important point.
Across the table, the rest of the council watches me carefully, waiting for a reaction they already know they won't get.
I glance around the room.
Finance.
Legal.
Estate administration.
Tourism.
Textiles.
Agriculture.
Every department that keeps Rajvansh standing in the twenty-first century is represented here.
Seven years ago, most of these men looked at me and saw a prince who still had growing up to do. Now they wait for my approval before they approve their own thoughts. It's strange how quickly respect starts resembling distance.
"Hukum," Verma continues carefully, choosing every word the way people always do around me now, "the estate is flourishing.
Our revenue has doubled in the last five years.
The heritage hotels are performing beyond projections, exports are stronger than ever, and public sentiment towards the royal trust remains exceptionally positive. "
I nod once. I know. I signed every report myself.
"But . . . " There it is. The real agenda. " . . . there is still one matter that remains unresolved."
I almost smile. Not because it's funny. Because I already know what's coming. It's always the same conversation.
Different month. Different files. Same conclusion.
Verma folds his hands together. "The succession." Silence settles over the table. "The board has begun asking questions. So have the trustees. Your mother has . . . expressed similar concerns." He clears his throat. "With all due respect, Hukum, it is time you seriously consider marriage."
There it is. Right on schedule. Not one of them looks uncomfortable saying it anymore. Maybe because they've repeated it so often they've convinced themselves persistence will eventually wear me down. Maybe because, in their minds, they're right.
A kingdom needs continuity. A royal family needs heirs. A king needs a queen. Simple. Logical. Efficient.
As though finding someone to spend the rest of your life with belongs in the same category as approving an annual budget.
My gaze drops to my left hand resting against the table.
Empty.
They see an unmarried king. I see something else entirely.
Seven years.
Seven years, and I still remember exactly how her fingers disappeared inside mine whenever we crossed busy roads.
Seven years, and I still know the sound of her laugh better than my own.
Seven years, and if I close my eyes for even a second too long .
. . I'm back on Platform Three, watching a train carry away the only future I had ever pictured for myself.
The silver daisy pendant flashes through my mind before I can stop it.
Ridiculous.
One small piece of jewellery. One evening. One goodbye.
And somehow my entire life divided itself into before and after.
"Hukum?"
I look up. Verma mistakes my silence for consideration. He's wrong. "I'm listening." He relaxes slightly.
"There are several suitable families who have already expressed interest. We aren't asking you to make a decision today. Merely . . . allow us to begin discussions."
Discussions.
Meetings.
Introductions.
Photographs.
Horoscopes.
Engagement announcements.
The entire process laid out neatly, like ticking items off a checklist. As though love is simply the final document waiting to be signed.
My fingers tighten around the fountain pen in my hand.
Not enough for anyone to notice. Just enough for me to feel it.
I wonder—not for the first time—what any of them would say if I admitted the truth.
That the problem isn't finding a woman worthy of this palace.
The problem is that this palace has never felt worth sharing with anyone except one person.
Someone who left without asking me to wait. Someone I never asked to stay. Because loving her meant wanting her dreams more than I wanted my own happiness.
I made that choice. Every single day since then, I've had to live with it. And I can only hope she is happy, that she achieves everything she ever wanted.
"I'm perfectly content." My voice comes out calm. Steady. Years of practice have made sure of that. "The estate is functioning well."
"It is."
"The charitable trust exceeded its targets."
"Yes."
"The textile expansion was completed ahead of schedule."
"Correct."
"So tell me . . . " I lean back slightly, folding my hands together. "Which of those achievements would've happened differently if I wore a wedding ring?"
No one answers. Not immediately.
Rathore finally speaks. He's the oldest member of the council and one of the few people still alive who remembers my grandfather as more than a portrait.
"It isn't about administration, Yuvaan." He rarely uses my name in meetings.
When he does, it reminds me that he's known me since before I understood what a crown cost. "It's about you.
" I hold his gaze. "A man shouldn't carry every burden alone. "
Something shifts painfully inside my chest.
If only it were that simple.
Loneliness has very little to do with whether another toothbrush sits beside yours.
You can sleep in the largest palace in the country and still wake up feeling like every room echoes.
You can spend your entire day surrounded by ministers, employees, security staff, guests, and advisors .
. . and still have no one you actually want to speak to.
People assume loneliness begins when someone leaves. They're wrong. Sometimes it begins because one person existed.
"I appreciate your concern." And I do. I know none of them are trying to manipulate me. They genuinely believe they're looking after both their king and their kingdom.
But concern cannot manufacture love. My eyes drift toward the windows. Beyond them, the palace gardens stretch endlessly beneath the afternoon sun. Everything is immaculate. Every hedge trimmed. Every pathway swept. Every flower bed perfectly arranged. She would've hated it.
A memory slips in before I can stop it. Anamika running barefoot across those very lawns despite being yelled at by three gardeners at once.
Laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
Holding fistfuls of marigolds she'd absolutely not been allowed to pick.
The palace was always trying to teach her discipline.
She kept teaching the palace how to laugh instead.
Even now . . . The gardens have never looked as alive.
I blink once and the memory disappears.
If I marry someone else . . . What kind of life am I really offering her?
A palace? A title? Jewels locked inside velvet boxes?
None of those things matter if the man standing beside her spends every anniversary wondering where someone else is.
That isn't marriage.
It's punishment disguised as privilege. And I refuse to do that to another person simply because tradition finds my bachelorhood inconvenient.
"I won't marry out of obligation." My voice cuts cleanly through the room. "If I ever ask a woman to share this life with me, it'll be because I can give her all of me."
I pause. Then add quietly, "And until I can do that . . . I won't ask anyone."
The room falls silent. No one argues. No one pushes further. Outside, somewhere in the gardens, a peacock calls.
The sound echoes through the open windows before fading into stillness. Verma closes his file with visible reluctance. "I understand."
No. He doesn't. None of them do. Because they think I'm waiting for the right woman.
I'm not.
I'm waiting for the wrong one to somehow become possible again.
And that's the kind of hope no sensible man admits aloud. And I know, this will come up again, maybe in another meeting but the talks of my marriage have never really died since I took over after Papa’s demise.
I reach for the next file before anyone can restart the conversation.
"Treasury allocations." The papers slide across the polished wood.
Figures.
Budgets.
Hotel renovations.
Infrastructure proposals.
Numbers have always been easier than memories. Numbers stay where you put them. Memories don't.
The meeting continues. Voices rise and fall around me. Approvals are given. Decisions are made. I sign where signatures are needed. Ask questions where questions are required.
To everyone in this room, I am exactly what they expect me to be. Decisive. Composed. Unshakable.
No one notices that, halfway through the meeting, my thumb absentmindedly brushes against the inside of my wrist. The same place where, years ago, she'd tied a daisy stem around it because she'd declared flowers looked better than watches. The flower had wilted before sunset. The habit never left.
I cap my pen after signing the final document and close the file. Outside, the palace carries on exactly as it always has.
Inside . . . There is a throne. There is a king. There is an entire kingdom depending on me.
And somehow, despite having everything, generations of men before me fought to protect . . . The only thing I've ever truly wanted is still the one thing this palace has never been able to give back.