The Diwan-i-Khas glittered like a jewel box that night. Silk banners swayed from marble arches, golden oil lamps flickered against the walls, and the scent of rosewater clung to the air. Courtiers sat in semicircles, their jewels catching the light as poets recited verses of love and valor. Laughter swelled and ebbed like the tide, but beneath it all, anticipation thrummed. Everyone waited for the dancers.
Behind the crimson curtain, Anarkali's hands trembled as she adjusted the edge of her golden veil. Her reflection in a polished bronze mirror showed kohl-lined eyes wide with nerves, her lips pressed into a determined line. She had danced before crowds of hundreds, but tonight was different. Tonight, the emperor himself was watching. Tonight, the young Prince Saleem was watching.
"Don't lose yourself, Anar," whispered Shahnaz, her fellow dancer and closest friend. She tightened the anklets around Anarkali's feet, the tiny bells chiming a warning. "The court is not kind. They watch for flaws more than beauty."
Anarkali forced a smile. "And what do they do when they find beauty?"
Shahnaz's eyes softened with something like pity. "They envy it. And envy burns deeper than cruelty."
Before Anarkali could answer, the curtain was drawn aside.
The music began—sitar strings vibrating with longing, tablas echoing like heartbeats. She stepped forward, draped in flowing red silk, her jewels glittering like fireflies against her dark hair. The hall fell silent as she raised her arms, the golden veil slipping slightly to reveal the delicate curve of her jaw.
She began to dance.
Each step was measured, each turn precise, yet fluid like water. She told a story with her body—a tale of forbidden love and desperate longing. Her anklets jingled with every movement, her veil swirling like a flame around her. The courtiers leaned forward, captivated. Even the emperor's stern eyes softened with approval.
But Anarkali was not dancing for them.
Her gaze sought him—Prince Saleem.
He sat near the throne, a goblet of wine in hand, his emerald robes shimmering under the torchlight. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes… his eyes followed her every step with an intensity that made her falter. For the briefest second, her foot missed the beat, her heart stumbling faster than the rhythm. She recovered instantly, spinning into another movement, but she knew he had seen it.
The emperor did not notice. The courtiers did not notice.
But the prince did.
When the performance ended, the hall erupted in applause. Nobles clapped, poets praised her grace, and the emperor nodded with a smile that meant favor. Anarkali bowed low, her forehead nearly touching the marble floor, her veil shielding the storm on her face.
But when she dared to glance up, Saleem was watching her. His lips curved, not into a smile, but into something sharper—an unspoken question.
The moment lasted no longer than a breath. But it was enough.
Later that night, the palace grew quiet. Servants extinguished the lamps, their footsteps fading into silence. The stars watched over the Mughal gardens, where fountains whispered secrets to the night air.
Saleem walked alone, restless. The courtly flattery and hollow praises of nobles had left a sour taste in his mouth. He had grown up among power, politics, and manipulation, but tonight… tonight he had seen something different.
He remembered the dancer.
Her hesitation. Her eyes meeting his, then lowering like a frightened bird. Her defiance in returning that gaze, even for a heartbeat.
He had seen countless women in his life—princesses, courtesans, noble daughters—but none had dared look at him that way. Not with reverence, not with fear, but with something else. Something raw.
He paused at a fountain, the moonlight silvering the marble edge. His father's words echoed in his mind, as they always did: "A prince bows only to the crown, never to his heart."
Saleem clenched his jaw. He had never been the prince who bowed. Not to his father, not to tradition, not to destiny. And yet… when he thought of her eyes, he wondered if he was already bending without realizing it.
Meanwhile, in the women's quarters, Anarkali sat before her mirror, unpinning the heavy jewels from her hair. Her fingers shook as she removed the last earring, her reflection a stranger with flushed cheeks and wild eyes.
"You saw him, didn't you?" Shahnaz's voice broke the silence. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression half-teasing, half-worried.
Anarkali turned quickly. "Saw who?"
"The prince." Shahnaz smirked. "You met his eyes. Don't deny it."
Anarkali swallowed hard, her lips trembling with words she dared not say. Finally, she whispered, "It was a mistake."
Shahnaz sighed, moving closer. "No. It was fate. But Anar, remember this—princes are not for girls like us. Their love is as dangerous as their anger."
Anarkali lowered her gaze, clutching her veil tightly. She knew her friend was right. A dancer could be admired, even favored, but never loved—not truly. Love between a prince and a dancer was a fire that could only end in ashes.
And yet… in that single glance, something inside her had awakened. Something she could not silence.
That night, as the city of Agra slept, two souls lay awake. One, a prince who would not bow. The other, a dancer who should not dream.
Neither knew that their paths had already begun to entwine—and that every
They took with them closer to both ecstasy
and ruin.