As an author of fiction set in medieval India, I’m constantly fascinated by the spiritual geography of our world. Of the major religions practiced today, three originated right in the Indian Subcontinent: Hinduism, Buddhism, and Sikhism. Every single one of the world’s most followed religions originated on the continent of Asia.
I often sit in my chair and wonder what this world felt like two millennia ago, when these ideas were first catching fire. In my upcoming book, Curse of the River, Buddhist monks, Vedic priests, and Hindu mythology do play a significant role.
And I’d love to know: If you could travel back two thousand years to witness the birth of a single idea or belief, where would you want to land?
Coffee in the morning and chai in the afternoon is fueling my writing and editing spree as I get across the finish line. When I started working on the Prophesied Princeseries, I decided to use more authentic medieval Indian names. Half my editing time now goes into wondering if a place was called Jalpaiguri or Jaipaiguri and opening my glossary for the 100th time. The joys of writing are many!
Other than that, my editing of Curse of the River is moving steadily, and I cannot wait to get this sequel into your hands.
I recently heard back from my beta readers, and their reactions have been everything I hoped for.
One reader shared:
“Wow! That was a sad but powerful ending to the book! OK, I can’t wait for the conclusion. Really enjoyed this book.”
Another was caught off guard by the final pages:
“Wow!!! The story ends with a cliffhanger for both main characters, but the epilogue! That is quite stark and surprising. I very much look forward to seeing where you take us in book three.”
To give you a sense of the tension and emotional depth my beta readers are describing, here is an excerpt from Curse of the River:
Chapter 1 – SugandhaSpring Year 2
For most of that first day on the river, Prince Atul rowed like a man expecting trouble. His gaze swept the banks, searching for signs of pursuit. Whenever he spotted someone, too far from us to tell if they were fishermen or travelers, he quieted his strokes and steered us farther from shore.
Sweat glazed his muscles as he rowed with the strength of three men. Suddenly, his head snapped toward a thicket of trees by the water’s edge; his eyes were sharp and his jaw set. He looked like a hunter watching for movement. I studied him in that moment, still unsure if I had been brave or foolish to ask him to come.
“Crouch,” he whispered, in the kind of voice that expected to be obeyed. He folded in on himself, head tucked to his knees. I stayed upright, eyes sweeping the landscape for whatever had rattled him, until his hand pressed down on my head and forced me lower.
“With instincts like yours, how did you survive this long?” he murmured, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“By not trusting strangers,” I shot back, though I stayed crouched. My brush with the nagas had made me bolder, yes; but I was not foolish enough to believe a divine rescue would come every time I found myself in trouble.
As an author, I am constantly living in the minds of my characters, but sometimes the modern world breaks through with a fascinating bit of trivia. The other day, I heard a segment on the radio about the term “Hat Trick.”
Coming from a background where I appreciate the nuances of cricket, I’ve always known it as that rare, celebrated phenomenon where a bowler takes three consecutive wickets. But I never knew the literal origin! Apparently, in 19th-century England, a bowler who achieved this feat was actually presented with a new hat bought by his club. It’s a bit funny to imagine, considering cricketers usually wear caps, yet the tradition demanded a proper hat. There is no hat given to cricketers in modern day games but they are well compensated by other means.
Even more interesting? The tradition migrated to Ice Hockey. When a player scores three goals, spectators throw their beanies and headgear onto the rink in celebration. While “hat tricks” and ice rinks are completely useless for medieval Indian fiction, I enjoy learning the history of words and it helps me understand how traditions evolve—much like how I enjoy exploring the ancient customs of the Swayamvara in my romance series.
If you haven’t yet stepped into the world of the Prophesied Prince, now is the perfect time. To celebrate the upcoming sequel, Child of the River (Book One) is currently on sale for just $0.99 / £0.99 in the US and UK.
I am absolutely delighted to finally reveal the cover of my upcoming novel, Curse of the River, the second installment in the Prophesied Prince trilogy.
This cover has quickly become one of my favorites. To keep the visual thread tied to the first book, Child of the River, I have returned to the imagery of the crown of Kashgar. However, as the story evolves, so does the symbol of its power.
What to Look For:
A Muted Legacy: While the first cover featured a crown surrounded by cascading water, this crown is a much muted gold.
Darker Omens: You’ll notice something dark dripping from the crown—a nod to the fact that this sequel is a significantly darker journey than the first.
New Symbols: Instead of the swan, we have introduced a winged horse. This rakshasa (demon or monster) and other mythical ones play a pivotal role in the story, and I can’t wait for you to encounter them.
The Blades: In the center, you’ll see two blades crossing. They hold significance to the difficult path Prince Atul and Sugandha must walk together.
This cover perfectly captures the heart of this book and the growing danger lurking in the lands of Kashgar. Let me know in the comments what you think about this cover.
Eighty-three thousand words in, the story finally learned how to stand on its own—and then promptly broke my heart.
This book has been living in my head for a long time, but writing it still surprised me. One of the unexpected joys was returning to familiar ground. A few characters with ties to The Land of Magadha slipped into this story, and weaving those threads back to my very first series felt deeply satisfying. It reminded me that these worlds are still alive—that time has passed, but nothing is ever truly left behind.
At the center of Curse of the River are two protagonists thrown together whether they like it or not. They spend a lot of time irritating each other, challenging each other, and—very reluctantly—learning from one another. Writing their interactions became one of my favorite parts of the book. Their conversations are sharp, sometimes petty, often restrained, and always revealing. They don’t grow through grand declarations, but through friction.
Rakshasas—shape-shifting demons from Hindu mythology—make several appearances, and they are anything but gentle. Their presence pulls the story into darker territory, putting our protagonists in real, mortal danger. They’re clever, cruel, and deeply unsettling, and I loved letting them haunt the edges of the narrative.
But the heart of this book belongs to Sugandha.
As she begins to understand where she comes from—and what that truth costs—the story itself changed shape. Some answers can’t be uncovered without loss, and some truths leave scars. Walking Sugandha toward that realization was both exhilarating and devastating.
And then there’s the ending.
I won’t say much, except this: writing it broke my heart into many pieces. It felt inevitable and earned—and still cruel. The kind of ending that stays with you long after the final line.
As I move into revisions, I’m holding tightly to what made this draft special: the echoes of older worlds, the sharp companionship at its center, the danger hiding behind every transformation, and the emotional price of truth.
More soon. For now, I’m letting the river run where it will.
As I look toward 2026, my writing path feels both clear and a little daunting—in the best possible way. My primary goal is to publish Curse of the River, Book Two of the Prophesied Prince trilogy, and then keep my momentum going straight into writing Book Three, the conclusion of Sugandha and Atul’s journey.
This trilogy has always been a coming-of-age story at its heart—about power that is inherited, power that is chosen, and the cost of both. I’ve been planting seeds for the ending since Book One, even when I didn’t fully understand what they would grow into. Now, as I write deeper into Book Two, I can see the shape of the finale forming on the horizon.
I know this much: the ending will be bittersweet. How much bitter and how much sweet? Even I don’t know yet. My characters certainly don’t. They’re still making choices, still stumbling, still hoping. And I’m following them, page by page, trusting that the story will reveal exactly the ending it demands—whether it breaks my heart a little in the process or not.
What I do know is that I want to give this world, these characters, and you—the readers who’ve walked this road with me—the most honest ending I can write. One that lingers. One that feels earned.
Here’s to a year of rivers that refuse to stay calm, prophecies that don’t behave, and stories that insist on being told.
As I close out 2025, it feels right to finally share something I’ve been carrying quietly with me for months—the title of Book Two in the Prophesied Prince trilogy.
Curse of the River.
If Child of the River was about beginnings—a prophecy awakening, a girl fleeing grief, a prince crossing the sea—then Curse of the River is about aftermath. About what lingers once the river has spoken, once the curse has been cast, and once running is no longer enough.
Rivers, in this story, are never just water. They remember. They witness. They bless—and they punish. In Book Two, the river that shaped Sugandha’s fate refuses to loosen its grip. The magic deepens, the truths grow sharper, and the cost of survival becomes harder to ignore. Sugandha is no longer only a girl on the run; she is a young woman beginning to understand that power, once awakened, demands to be reckoned with. And Atul—still haunted by who he is and who he is not—must decide what loyalty, leadership, and sacrifice truly mean when curses do not stay neatly in the past.
I chose this title because it reflects what this book has become for me while writing it: darker, more intimate, and more unforgiving. The river does not simply carry them forward—it tests them. And sometimes, it turns against those who think they understand it.
Revealing this title feels like a promise. To higher stakes. To deeper bonds. To consequences that ripple far beyond a single choice or a single shore.
Sugandha is the quiet heartbeat of the Prophesied Prince trilogy. I’m deep in Book Two right now, so I’m living in her world every day—and she’s definitely taken up long-term residence in my head.
When we first meet her in Child of the River, she’s grieving the loss of the only family she’s ever known: her grandfather.
“Sorrow and grief filled my heart when I realized I would receive no more guidance from my grandfather. I had never known my parents, and my grandfather had raised me from birth.
Usually, I would stir into wakefulness at this time of day. From my cot, I would hear my grandfather in the kitchen, pulling down pots, grinding an array of herbs, and brewing them.
Those small sounds would bring me peace, and I would snuggle into my sheets and close my eyes… He would grin at me as if I brightened his day just by existing, his wrinkled face glowing.”
One of my favorite chapters featuring her is Chapter 31 (Summer, Year 1). There’s a certain innocence to Sugandha there—one that still survives even as she’s fighting for her life. She stumbles through chaos guided only by instinct and heart, doing what she believes is right, even when she has no idea what’s really happening around her. That combination of bravery and bewilderment is exactly what makes her so compelling to write.
Book Two lets me deepen her dynamic with Atul. These two couldn’t be more different—each carrying their own scars, their own expectations, their own definitions of who they should be. Watching them learn to trust each other, challenge each other, and sometimes collide spectacularly has been one of the joys of drafting this book. This moment between them is from earlier in book two:
“Look at me,” I said, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Imagine what it would mean to master that power,” I said, my voice low. I let the oars still in my hands.
She clenched her jaw, then closed her eyes again. Her breath evened out, arms stretching forward as if reaching for something unseen. I waited. But the river stayed calm.
Then she gasped—clutching her throat like something had seized it—and coughed, harsh and broken.
“Nanda—”
“No.” Her voice came between sobs, ragged and raw. “Stop. You think you understand what it’s like—to carry this wild, flickering thing inside me—but you don’t. You can’t.”
This trilogy is, at its core, a coming-of-age story. Through Sugandha, I wanted to portray a deeply human young woman—strong yet unsure, resilient yet overwhelmed, someone whose magic feels as dangerous as it is wondrous. Her journey isn’t neat or easy, and it mirrors the hardships a girl on the run would face in a world shaped by myth, patriarchy, and the weight of expectations. These are truths often left unexplored in traditional Indian mythology, and Sugandha gives me the space to write into those gaps.
She grows slowly. She stumbles often. But she keeps trying. And that, to me, is what makes her unforgettable.
I feared that the men who revered me as the Heir to Malla would abandon me if they knew the truth about my birth. That was the reason I had urged my uncle, King Jay of Malla, to send me on this mission. Uncle Jay wanted me to wait until our soldiers had secured Kashgar, but I itched to prove myself.
Atul’s journey in Child of the Riveris a tangle of identity, duty, and the quiet ache of wanting to be enough. When his ships crossed the Nira Sea, he didn’t just bring soldiers—he carried the weight of his own questions about who he is… and who he desperately hopes to become.
One of my favorite moments to write is his exchange with the fake prince in Chapter 26 (Spring, Year 2). Those scenes crack Atul open a bit. The fake prince’s doubts mirror Atul’s own, and you see him slide into that big-brother role so naturally—steady, protective, and sometimes wiser than he realizes. And then, just as quickly, he’s unmistakably a teenager again: impulsive, earnest, and brave in ways that don’t always make sense but feel undeniably true.
Being Meera’s son (yes, that Meera from the Land of Magadha trilogy) gives me a chance to explore the complicated corners of his heart—respect tangled with resentment, admiration overshadowed by old hurt. His mother’s secrets shaped him, and in many ways, he’s still deciding what parts of that legacy he wants to claim.
Through Atul, I get to return to one of my favorite questions: What truly makes a good ruler? Birthright? Choice? Sacrifice? Something quieter and harder to name?
Atul doesn’t have the answers yet—but he’s determined to earn them.
Anna Bushi 