The cool, vast expanse of Mehrawan's Grand War Council Hall felt less like a chamber of strategy and more like a mausoleum of silenced wills. Torches set into the high, carved walls flickered, their flames casting dancing shadows across the polished ebony table that stretched like a river through the center. Around it, the might of Rathore sat – grizzled generals with battle-scarred faces, stern-faced ministers with scrolls clutched in their hands, and the unyielding figures of Maharaja Harshvardhan and Prince Raidant. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, parchment, and the unspoken weight of power.

Iravika sat at the very end of the long table, a solitary splash of emerald green amidst the severe brocades and dark silks of the men. Her new silk choli, a gift from Raidant after the first rasoi, felt luxurious, yet also like a cage, its intricate embroidery pressing against her ribs. She was positioned to observe, not to participate. Her chair was slightly apart, emphasizing her status as the new, yet still unproven, queen. Every rustle of a robe, every low murmur of strategy, seemed to echo in the cavernous room, magnifying her isolation.