1855,Ferozabad, june
The bazaar of Ferozabad was not quiet that morning.
It heaved and surged like a living thing—its heart made of drumbeats, clanging metal, rustling silks, and the constant thrum of voices bargaining, pleading, haggling, laughing. The scent of the place was chaos made perfume: thick cardamom chai boiling somewhere to the left, turmeric-drenched fried lotus root crackling to the right, and in between—attar oil, charcoal, sweat, dust, and crushed marigolds.
And into this breathing storm walked Raza.
He did not walk like other men.
Where others moved with hesitation, jostling and folding to fit into space, he cut through the crowd like winter's wind through silk curtains. Tall—taller than most around him—broad-shouldered and dressed in midnight blue robes that bore the subtle insignia of the Raj's army, he did not carry the arrogance of power. He carried authority like it had been woven into his soul.
People parted—not because they knew who he was, but because some men do not need introductions to command silence.
It was in the way his boots hit stone with absolute confidence, how his icy green eyes moved with purpose and silence, scanning faces without the need for words.
His face was carved from something ancient—cheekbones sharp, jaw shadowed with stubble, and lips rarely used for smiling. His presence felt like the hush before snowfall—serene, but watchful. Lethal if crossed.
Women glanced. Some bolder ones whispered.
Children stilled their running to look at him, and even the crows atop the old minaret quieted as he passed beneath.
Raza didn't care.
He hadn't slept well. Not since the dream-the girl who had looked up at Arav as if he were a story written just for her. The one whose voice echoed like a forgotten prayer in the back of his mind.
He had searched. Spoke to sellers. Described her—no name, only a face and presence.
A few had nodded vaguely. "A girl like that," they'd said. "Could've been yesterday. She bought books near the old coin seller… no, wait—maybe she passed the bangle shop… wears a dupatta too long, that one…"
But nothing concrete. No lead had bloomed.
So he moved.
Through rows of spices he walked, the saffron and cinnamon bursting beneath footfalls. Past traders with bulging satchels of glass beads, children with charcoal-rimmed eyes selling cheap whistles, and veiled women haggling over silver trinkets.
He moved like a man possessed. Not frantic. Just determined.
And then—
It happened.
He turned the corner near a shop draped in yellow brocade—too quick, distracted by the shouts of a merchant when—
Thud.
He collided.
Not heavily—just enough for the sensation of silk brushing against leather, and the sharp breath of someone taken by surprise.
She had bumped right into his chest.
He barely took a step back, but she staggered slightly, her soft slipper scraping against the stone. He instinctively reached out—a large, gloved hand steadying her by the upper arm—and then looked down.
For a moment, the marketplace ceased to exist.
The girl before him was small, no taller than five-foot-three. She wore a deep crimson scarf—not on her head, but around her shoulders, the ends falling behind her like blood-red wings. Her skin was fair, dusted with heat, but glowing nonetheless.
And her hair—it struck him first. Red. Not henna-dyed. Not copper. But a deep auburn, rich and vivid beneath the sunlight that dared to pierce through the canopy above.
Her eyes—met his briefly. Not brown.But an odd blend,Oxyx brown. flecked with green like oxidized metal left in firelight.
Her upper lip had a slight, elegant curve, as though designed to mock the world gently without saying a word. Her brows, sculpted like fine calligraphy, arched above those eyes with natural grace. And her lashes—long, dark, curled without effort—fluttered once, then stilled.
She blinked. So did he.
The world was still moving, but somehow… they weren't.
Only a second passed. Maybe two.
She didn't speak. Neither did he.
He let go of her arm slowly, and she lowered her gaze, stepping aside. Another woman was with her—a taller figure but not more than 5'5 , face partly hidden beneath a veil, already calling her softly, nudging her forward. The red-haired girl gave Raza a final glance, then slipped into the moving tide of people. Gone.
He stood still.
There had been something—he couldn't name it.
Not recognition. He did not know her. He was certain.
And yet… his eyes lingered where she had stood.
Was it the color of her hair? The curve of her mouth? The stare that hadn't flinched at his own?
Perhaps it was the strange quiet between them in the sea of chaos.
Like two stars shining through smog.
He shook his head and moved on.
But somewhere, in a space between memory and imagination, something had just shifted.
And though Raza did not know it yet,
he had just collided with a thread of fate,
woven tight into the fabric of everything that was to come.
Chapter: When Paths Collide, But Eyes Do Not Meet
"Noor, you walk too fast!" Yasmeen whispered in irritation, adjusting the scarf she had lazily thrown around her head. "And look—my shoes are sinking into the mud."
"Because you chose velvet flats to run through choas," Noor replied without turning. Her voice was low but teasing. "You're a royal, Yasmeen, not a forest fairy."
Yasmeen scoffed. "You said it would just be a short morning walk. Not a wilderness expedition."
The palace gates shimmered in the distance like a mirage. They were nearly there. Noor stopped, her palm raised, listening sharply.
Yasmeen narrowed her eyes. "What now?"
"Be careful," Noor whispered, eyes darting around. "I think someone—"
Before she could finish, Yasmeen—head turned to toss a sarcastic comment—spun around abruptly.
And collided.
Her body smacked against a wall. At least, that's what it felt like. A warm wall that didn't move.
She stumbled back a step, stunned by the impact. Her wine-red hair tumbled loose from her wrap, cascading across her shoulders. Her wide onyx eyes blinked up—
But before they could meet his gaze fully, she spun away on instinct, turning sharply, brushing past Noor with an embarrassed curse under her breath.
Raza, tall and broad-shouldered at six foot three, didn't flinch. He had caramel brown hair, tousled from the breeze, and eyes like the frozen waters of Wular Lake—icy green, piercing but unreadable. A sword hung loosely at his side, and his hand twitched near its hilt, only relaxing when the girl's hair brushed against his arm and she turned, too quickly, away.
He didn't know who she was.
And she didn't know who he was.
Their shoulders had touched for a moment. That was all.
No words.
Only fleeting collision.
Yasmeen caught Noor's sleeve, nearly dragging her forward. "Let's go."
They didn't look back.
Inside the palace, the golden corridors twisted like whispers of silk. Mir Baksh was waiting for them at the side entrance, chewing the edge of a beetle leaf and shifting from foot to foot.
"Took you both long enough," he muttered. "You're about to be noticed. Here—this way, quick!"
He led them to their respective chambers, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds. Soldiers stood at the corners, straight as steel, their eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"The General's orders are not to let the princesses out without escort," one murmured as they passed.
"They've been with me, training in the forest gardens," Mir Baksh said with all the flair of a dramatic actor. "Swordplay. Combat. Royal duty. We don't just sip syrup here."
The soldier blinked. "But—"
"No but. Move."
Mir Baksh ushered the girls inside.
Moments later, dressed in fresh silks and glowing with guilt disguised as royal calm, Noor and Yasmeen entered the Durbar Hall. Their father, Mr. Sultan, looked up from his seat beside a stack of scrolls.
"And where were you two this fine morning?" he asked casually.
Yasmeen opened her mouth.
"We were with full security," Noor said swiftly.
"Just in the nearby forest," added Yasmeen.
"For sword training," Noor finished.
Mir Baksh stepped forward dramatically. "With me."
All three said it at once.
There was a beat of silence.
Mrs. Sultan raised an eyebrow. "Sword training, Yasmeen?"
Yasmeen sighed, placing a hand on her hip. "Yes. With Mir Baksh. Who else could show me how to wave a blade like a toothpick?"
Everyone laughed—except Mr. Sultan, who peered over his glasses at Noor. "And who won?"
Mir Baksh puffed his chest. "Naturally, the princess. Noor sliced every bamboo target I set up. I was merely a humble opponent, almost in tears."
Mrs. Sultan chuckled and clapped her hands. "My daughter, the warrior."
Yasmeen rolled her eyes. "While I pretended to be a tree."
"Every warrior needs someone to guard the woods," Mir Baksh winked.
Mr. Sultan leaned back with a proud nod. "It's not every house that can boast of a daughter with steel in her hand and fire in her heart."
As the Durbar resumed and voices rose around them, Yasmeen sat beside Noor and leaned in.
"I'm not going to forget that wall I ran into."
"It wasn't a wall." Noor sipped from a silver cup, smirking. "No. It was a man."
Yasmeen stiffened. "You saw him?"
"Only his height. And the fact that you turned redder than your hair."
"Oh shut up," Yasmeen hissed. But her eyes betrayed her curiosity.
Noor tilted her head. "He didn't say anything, though. Just stood there.Was he handsome?"
"Icy green eyes. Tall. Looked like he belonged in a war painting. That do?"
Yasmeen pretended not to care, but her fingers fidgeted at the ends of her scarf.
And somewhere, across the palace, Raza stood still in the corridor where the collision had happened. He frowned to himself, brushing a lock of caramel hair from his forehead.
He didn't know her name.
But for a brief moment, the scent of crushed roses and the flicker of onyx eyes had burned itself into his mind.