The palace of Fatehpur Sikri shimmered under the morning sun, but for Saleem the walls felt like chains. Every corridor, every servant's glance reminded him of the emperor's warning. And yet, his heart beat only one name.
Anarkali.
He had sworn never to let her go, and tonight, he would prove it.
That evening, whispers passed through the women's quarters. A dancer had been summoned, but not for a performance. Anarkali's hands trembled as she adjusted her veil. Every step she took felt like a betrayal of herself—yet it also felt inevitable.
When the doors of Saleem's private chamber closed behind her, silence wrapped around them.
He was waiting, dressed not as a prince but as a man stripped of all pretense. His eyes drank her in as if he had been starving for years.
"You came," he whispered, as though the world depended on her answer.
Her lips trembled. "I should not have."
"And yet you did."
The distance between them shattered. He caught her hand, pulling her closer until her breath tangled with his. She tried to speak, but his eyes—burning with desire and defiance—silenced her.
"Saleem—"
"Say my name again," he demanded softly, his voice raw.
"Saleem."
Her whisper was a surrender. His lips crashed against hers, bolder than before, reckless, unstoppable. It was not just love—it was defiance, the kind that dared kingdoms to fall.
Her anklets jingled faintly as he pulled her deeper into his arms, each sound like a warning bell. Anarkali felt the heat of his touch, the weight of his desperation. She wanted to stop him, to remind him of the emperor's shadow, but the fire of his kiss consumed her.
"Do you know what you've done to me?" he murmured against her lips. "I cannot breathe without you, Anarkali. I cannot live without you. The empire means nothing beside you."
Tears stung her eyes. "And if your father takes my life?"
"Then I will give mine in return."
The boldness of his words was madness—and yet, in that madness, she felt safe. For the first time, she was not just a dancer in silk. She was a woman loved beyond crowns, beyond consequence.
But love has sharp edges.
Outside the chamber, footsteps echoed. A shadow lingered near the door—a spy, loyal to Akbar, pressing his ear against the wood. Every whisper, every kiss, every vow was stolen and carried into the night like poison.
By dawn, Akbar sat once more in his private hall. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes burned with quiet fire. Before him, the spy knelt, trembling, recounting everything.
"…and the prince held her, Majesty. Boldly. Fearlessly. He declared he would give his life for her."
Akbar's hands tightened on the arms of his throne. "So my son would trade an empire for a woman," he said coldly.
The spy bowed lower, waiting.
"Leave me," Akbar ordered.
The emperor sat alone, his thoughts a storm. He admired his son's courage, but courage without wisdom was a blade that cut its own hand. Could love truly destroy the heir he had shaped with such care?
Chains of desire, Akbar thought grimly. They bind even the strongest men.
That night, unaware of the emperor's knowledge, Anarkali returned to the gardens. Saleem found her there, her veil brushing the roses.
"I fear your father knows," she whispered.
Saleem cupped her face in his hands. "Let him know. Let the world know. I will not hide you in shadows, Anarkali. If my love is a crime, let them build my gallows. I will walk to it with your name on my lips."
Her tears broke into sobs as she leaned into him. His embrace was both fire and shield, reckless and tender. They kissed again, beneath the stars, while the emperor's shadow grew ever closer.
For though love burned brightly, shadows moved faster.
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