The Diwan-e-Khas, the Hall of Private Audience, was drenched in power. Its arches soared high, carved with verses that gleamed gold under torchlight. The marble beneath reflected not only the courtiers' silken shoes but also their ambitions. A hundred whispers filled the hall, but all stilled when the emperor spoke.
Emperor Akbar sat upon his jewel-studded throne, his presence alone silencing the room. Time had added lines to his face, but none had dulled the steel in his gaze. Every man in the court bent beneath it—except one.
Prince Saleem.
He stood before his father, clad in ceremonial emerald robes that shimmered like sunlight on water. His bearing was regal, his jaw set in pride, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something that did not belong in the cold chambers of power.
"Saleem," Akbar said at last, his voice echoing like thunder against marble. "You left the feast early last night."
A tremor ran through the courtiers. No question from the emperor was ever harmless.
Saleem bowed lightly. "I was unwell, Padshah."
Akbar leaned forward, his sharp gaze narrowing. "Unwell? Or… restless?"
The hall fell silent. Some courtiers smirked behind jeweled hands, others held their breath. Everyone knew Akbar's questions were not to be taken lightly.
"I carry the weight of my duties," Saleem answered carefully. "The lessons of statecraft, of war, of justice—they grow heavier each day. Perhaps it was only that weight that unsettled me."
Akbar's lips curved in a knowing half-smile. "A crown is not a jewel to admire, my son. It is iron, forged in fire. It will bend your neck, and if you are not strong, it will break you."
Saleem's chest tightened. He could feel the courtiers' eyes on him, weighing every word, searching for weakness. Yet behind his calm expression, another face flickered in his mind—moonlight on her skin, fear trembling in her breath.
Anarkali.
"Strength," Akbar continued, "requires freedom from distraction. And yet I hear whispers. Whispers of your fondness for poetry, for song… for women whose names this empire should never hear."
The words were like arrows, loosed without warning. Gasps rippled through the court.
Saleem's fists curled, but his voice remained steady. "To love poetry is not weakness. To hear music is not indulgence. Even the mightiest empire is hollow without a soul, and it is the soul of the people that speaks through these things."
A daring reply. Too daring. A few courtiers exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Akbar's smile vanished. "Do not mistake defiance for wisdom. A ruler who listens to his heart will one day lose his crown." His voice thundered now, a warning wrapped in prophecy.
Saleem bowed, though inside, rebellion blazed. If ruling means killing the heart, then what is the crown worth?
That night, the palace gardens lay bathed in silver. The fountains whispered, and roses released their fragrance into the warm air.
Anarkali stood at the edge of the fountain, her veil drawn close. Every sound made her breath quicken—the rustle of a leaf, the crack of a twig. What if it wasn't him this time? What if a guard discovered her here?
Then a shadow moved swiftly across the path.
"Forgive me," Saleem said softly as he stepped into the light. "The emperor's lectures are endless."
Anarkali exhaled in relief, then quickly glanced around. "You should not be here, my prince. Already the court whispers about your restlessness."
He came closer, his eyes reflecting the moon. "Let them whisper. Their words are chains only if we allow them to bind us."
Her heart pounded. "But those chains can strangle me, not you. A prince may survive scandal. A dancer will not."
Saleem reached out, his hand brushing against hers. "Do you think I do not know the risk? I have lived in the shadow of a crown my entire life, and still, tonight I stand here—because when I looked into your eyes, I saw freedom."
Her breath caught. His touch burned, yet she could not pull away. "My lord… this is madness."
"Perhaps," he whispered, "but it is the only madness that makes me feel alive."
For a long moment, silence held them. The fountain's ripples shimmered under the moonlight. She wanted to flee, to remind herself that she was nothing but a fragile leaf in the storm of his destiny. And yet—her soul betrayed her.
"My prince," she said finally, her voice trembling, "this road leads only to ruin."
Saleem's gaze softened, but his grip did not loosen. "Then let us walk it together, even if it leads to ruin."
The world seemed to still. The night air grew heavy with their unspoken vow.
Far above, in his private chamber, Emperor Akbar stood on his balcony, gazing out over the glittering city of Agra. The wind carried with it the faintest rumors, whispers gathered by spies who haunted every corner of the palace.
A dancer. A name half-spoken. A shadow in the gardens.
Akbar narrowed his eyes. He did not yet know the truth, but he would. No secret could escape his reach, no rebellion—whether in war or in love—could survive his shadow.
And in that shadow, both prince and dancer were already ensnared.