Five years later...
Twin voices echoed through the marble corridors of the palace.
One girl. One boy.
Running barefoot, hair wild, laughter louder than the court's judgment.
Anaya sat on the garden swing, her silk saree draped carefully to hide the slight stain of jam where her daughter's sticky fingers had clung. Her hair was looser now. Her throne no less secure.
"Ma! Amma! He took my crown!"
"She bit me!" her son shouted.
Anaya smiled. "I hope it scarred."
Aryan appeared behind them seconds later, tall and calm, his son clinging to one leg and his daughter to the other.
"She has your rage," he said.
"She has your precision," Anaya replied. "We're doomed."
They watched the children tear through the grass, pretending to battle invisible armies and conquer fortresses made of rose bushes.
Then, softly:
"You're still my queen," Aryan said, pulling her close.
"And you're still mine."
---
Later that night, after the twins had fallen asleep wrapped in silks too royal for their age, Anaya lay in bed, one palm resting on Aryan's chest.
"I almost didn't get here," she whispered.
He pulled her tighter.
"But you did," he said.
"Do you think they'll remember who I was before this?"
He kissed her forehead.
"They'll know what you are now."
She smiled. "What's that?"
He met her gaze.
"*Unwritten history.*"