The deafening screech of brakes. The blinding headlights. The sharp pain that lasted only a moment before everything faded to black.
Karan had always heard that one's life flashes before their eyes before death, but all he could remember was a sudden jolt and an eerie silence. Then, nothingness.
Until now.
His body felt different—heavier yet stronger. His senses, sharper. The scent of incense and old wood filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the hospital disinfectant he had expected. Slowly, he opened his eyes, greeted by the sight of an opulently decorated chamber, golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and intricate Kashmiri carpets covering the marble floor.
"Your Highness, you're awake!" A voice called out urgently.
Karan's head throbbed as memories—both his own and foreign ones—began to merge in his mind. He was no longer in 2024. He was in 1943, in the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir. He was no longer Karan Malhotra, a 26-year-old corporate worker from Delhi. He was Karan Singh, the son of Maharaja Hari Singh.
"What...what is happening?" he muttered, his voice unfamiliar to even himself.
A group of attendants rushed to his bedside, concern written across their faces. One elderly man, dressed in royal attire, stepped forward. "Your Highness, you had an accident while riding your horse. We were deeply worried. Thank the gods you have awakened!"
Karan's mind reeled. Horse accident? That explained the bruises and aches in his body. But the reality of the situation was far more mind-boggling.
Transmigration.
It was something he had only read about in novels. Yet, here he was—thrust into a period of history that he had only known from books and documentaries. And worse, into the shoes of a prince with responsibilities far beyond anything he had ever faced.
His heart pounded. If he was now Karan Singh, then his father was Maharaja Hari Singh, the ruler of Jammu and Kashmir. A ruler standing on the precipice of history, where the tides of war and independence were soon to change the fate of the subcontinent.
His mind raced through the events he could remember from history. 1947 was only four years away—the year when British rule would end and India would be divided. The princely states, including Jammu and Kashmir, would have to choose their future.
He swallowed hard. He wasn't just a prince. He was at the center of one of the most crucial moments in history. A single decision could alter the future he had once studied.
But first, he had to survive in this unfamiliar world.
Karan clenched his fists. If fate had given him a second chance, then he would not waste it. He would not let history dictate his future.
Because now, history belonged to him.