The Matriarch's Confession and a New Direction

The air in the Rajmata's private chambers was thick with the scent of sandalwood and a cold, unyielding power. Anika and Vikram stood before her, not as children awaiting judgment, but as a united front, their bodies a silent, defiant testament to a love that was stronger than any tradition, any secret, any sin of the past. The Rajmata, a silent, imposing figure in her high-backed chair, her face a perfect, unreadable mask, looked at them, her sharp, hawk-like gaze taking in every detail—the diary in Anika's hand, the locket in Vikram's, the grim, unyielding determination in their eyes. She knew. She had always known.