The palace bustled with dawn's first light. Courtiers hurried through corridors, scrolls and petitions clutched in anxious hands. The sound of conch shells from the temples mingled with the azaan from the mosques, painting the empire's vastness in every breath of the morning. Yet in the heart of Agra, one soul was restless.
Prince Saleem.
His chamber was still heavy with the fragrance of roses he had brushed past in the garden the night before. He paced, unable to still his thoughts. Anarkali's trembling words echoed in him: This road leads only to ruin. And yet her hand had lingered in his, refusing to let go.
He touched his chest as if her heartbeat still pulsed within him. "If ruin it is," he whispered to himself, "then let ruin come."
But the walls of the palace had ears. A figure stood beyond the carved screen of his chamber door, listening intently. One of Akbar's spies. With silent steps, the man disappeared down the corridor, carrying with him whispers that could change destinies.
---
Meanwhile, Anarkali sat before a small bronze mirror in her modest chamber within the zenana. The kohl she traced beneath her eyes only deepened their turmoil. She tried to steady her trembling hand, but the memory of the prince's touch refused to leave her.
Her friend and fellow dancer, Nargis, entered quietly. "You did not sleep."
Anarkali lowered the mirror. "How can one sleep, when dreams walk in daylight?"
Nargis frowned. "You risk too much. I heard the emperor's tone in court yesterday—sharp as a blade. He already watches the prince. If your name ever reaches his ears…" She shivered, unable to finish.
Anarkali forced a smile, though her heart quaked. "Names are like petals in the wind, Nargis. Perhaps mine will be lost before it reaches him."
But deep inside, she knew petals could be crushed just as easily.
---
That evening, the prince sought her once more. The gardens were too dangerous now, their walls too crowded with watchful eyes. Instead, he found her in the old library, where forgotten manuscripts gathered dust and silence cloaked every shelf.
When Anarkali saw him step from the shadows, her breath caught. "You should not be here."
"And yet I am," he replied, closing the distance between them. "Every moment without you feels like exile. Do you know what it is to be surrounded by hundreds, yet feel utterly alone?"
She looked down, her hands clutching the folds of her sari. "Alone is safer than seen. If we are seen…"
He lifted her chin gently. "Then let them see. Let the whole world see."
Her eyes widened. "Saleem, you do not understand. A crown can shield you, but it will crush me."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then he leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think I love you as a prince? No. I love you as a man who has finally found his truth. If I could burn this crown to ash, I would, only to keep you safe."
Her lips parted, words lost. His conviction burned through her fear, warming the cold corners of her soul. But before she could answer, the sound of footsteps shattered the stillness.
They froze.
The heavy doors creaked open, and a figure entered—a servant, carrying scrolls. He glanced around, bowing quickly, oblivious to the shadows that concealed them. When he left, the silence returned, but the spell had broken.
Anarkali pulled away, her heart racing. "You see? Even a servant's step can undo us."
Saleem reached for her hand again, desperate. "I cannot—will not—let you go."
She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. "Then prepare to lose everything else."
---
Far across the palace, Akbar stood in his private chambers, listening as his spy knelt before him. The man spoke carefully, his voice low.
"My emperor, I have seen the prince in the gardens… in the library… with a woman. A dancer of the court."
Akbar's face darkened, his jaw tightening like a drawn bow. "Her name."
The spy hesitated. "Anarkali."
The emperor rose, the golden tassels of his robe swaying. His gaze turned toward the horizon, where the Yamuna River glimmered beneath fading light. His empire stretched wider than the eye could see, but even empires could crumble if their heirs were weak.
"So," Akbar murmured, his voice like ice, "the fire has already begun."
---
That night, Anarkali dreamt of chains. Not the heavy iron of dungeons, but chains made of roses, soft yet unbreakable. They wrapped around her wrists, pulling her toward a throne blazing with fire. On it sat Saleem, his crown burning, his eyes filled with anguish. She reached for him, but the roses tightened, cutting her skin.
She woke with a cry, sweat dampening her brow. And though it was only a dream, she knew it was also a warning.
Love had become their chain. And chains, sooner or later, would break.
---