The Princess He Forgot

Prologue

Prologue

The Last Letter

The letter arrived three days before Prince Veerendra disappeared.

Princess Amara Poorna knew his handwriting before the messenger even placed the folded parchment in her hands.

She always did.

For twelve years, letters from the neighboring kingdom had come bearing that familiar royal seal.

The first had arrived when she was eight years old.

Back then, Prince Veerendra was nothing more than a name chosen by their fathers and written into a marriage agreement neither child understood.

Her future husband.

She had disliked him before she ever met him.

His first letter had not helped.

Princess Amara Poorna,

My tutor says I have to write to you because one day you will be my wife. I do not really know what husbands are supposed to say to their wives, so I will just tell you that my new horse is faster than my brother's.

Amara had been deeply offended.

She had spent an entire afternoon writing her reply.

Prince Veerendra,

My tutor says a prince should have humility.

Maybe yours just forgot to mention that part.

That had been the beginning of everything.

Letters about lessons turned into letters about horses, festivals, and annoying siblings.

Then came secrets.

Fears.

Dreams.

And eventually, love.

Now Amara was twenty years old, and the boy who once bragged about his horse would soon become her husband.

She broke the seal.

My Amara,

Father insists on one last hunting trip before the wedding.

Amara frowned.

She kept reading.

Before you start scolding me from two kingdoms away, I promise it's only for a few days.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips.

He knew her too well.

When I return, there will be ceremonies, ministers, priests, and enough wedding preparations to make both of us question why we were ever born royal.

But after all of that, there will be you.

Amara's smile softened.

For most of my life, everyone has told me I have to marry you.

They were wrong.

I don't have to marry you.

I want to.

She read that line twice.

Then a third time.

Outside her window, the evening breeze moved gently through the jasmine vines.

Keep this letter.

When we are old and arguing about which one of us was more difficult as a child, I will use it as proof that I was occasionally capable of saying something sensible.

I will be back before the next moon.

Veer

Amara pressed the parchment against her chest.

She didn't know why, but a strange unease settled over her.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe love just made people bad at goodbyes.

She walked over to her writing table.

There was still enough daylight to send a reply before the messenger left.

She dipped her pen into the ink.

My Veer,

Then she stopped.

A drop of ink fell onto the parchment.

Amara stared at it.

Something inside her whispered:

Tell him not to go.

She almost did.

Instead, she smiled at her own foolishness and kept writing.

Three days later, a rider arrived at the palace gates.

He carried no letter.

His clothes were torn.

His face was streaked with blood and mud.

And in his shaking hand was Prince Veerendra's royal signet.

Amara Poorna's letter to Veer was still on its way toward the mountains.

It would never reach him.

For seven years, she would wonder if everything would have been different if she had written just four words.

Do not go, Veer.

But when Prince Veerendra finally returned from the dead, Amara would learn something far worse than losing him.

He had forgotten her.