The Mughal palace gardens were a kingdom of their own. By day, fountains danced under the golden sun, their spray catching the light like diamonds. Peacocks strutted proudly across marble paths, and cypress trees stretched tall as if guarding the secrets of the empire. But at night, the gardens belonged to silence, to shadows, and to those bold—or foolish—enough to seek them.
That night, the gardens glowed silver beneath the moon. Roses bent under the weight of dew, their scent heavy in the cool air. Fireflies blinked among the hedges, like tiny lanterns guiding lost souls. And in this ghostly quiet, Anarkali walked alone.
Her slippers made no sound against the polished stone, yet her heart pounded so loudly she feared even the night might hear it. She should not have been there. The rules of the palace were as sharp as swords: dancers were confined to their chambers after dusk. Yet sleep had abandoned her. The applause of the court still rang in her ears, but louder than that was the memory of a gaze.
His gaze.
Prince Saleem.
Anarkali stopped near a fountain. The marble pool shimmered with the reflection of the moon, fractured by ripples as she dipped her fingers into the water. She stared at her reflection—eyes too wide, lips too restless, a face no longer her own. Was this the girl who had dared to meet the prince's eyes in full court? Was this the woman who had faltered in her steps, not because of fear, but because of something far more dangerous?
She closed her eyes, whispering to herself, "You are a dancer, nothing more. A prince's eyes are not for you. Forget him, Anar. Forget."
"Restless, are we?"
The voice came like a blade through stillness. Anarkali gasped, spinning around. From the shadow of a cypress tree, a figure stepped forward. The moonlight revealed him—Prince Saleem, dressed not in the weight of royal emeralds, but in simple dark robes that did nothing to hide the quiet power in his stance.
Her body stiffened, instinct forcing her into a deep bow. "My prince—I did not know—"
"Rise." His voice was commanding, yet softened by something she had not expected. "Do you think I came here to demand your obedience?"
Hesitantly, she straightened, though her eyes remained lowered. "Forgive me, my lord. It is not my place to wander the gardens."
He moved closer, each step measured, deliberate, until the distance between them was but a breath. "And yet you did. Just as you faltered in your dance tonight—yet finished it flawlessly. Just as you looked at me when you should not have. Tell me, Anarkali, is disobedience your nature?"
Her heart leapt. She forced a fragile smile. "No, my prince. Fear rules me more than disobedience ever could."
Saleem's gaze sharpened. "Fear makes people bow." He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were a puzzle only he could solve. "But you—you looked at me as if I were not a prince at all. As if I were simply… a man."
The air left her lungs. For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the trickle of the fountain. She whispered, barely audible, "That was a mistake."
"Perhaps." His lips curved, though not into a smile. "Or perhaps it was the only honest moment I have been given in years."
Her chest tightened. She dared at last to lift her eyes, and what she saw unsettled her more than any threat could have. Behind the proud, imperial bearing was a man weighed down by expectation. A son crushed beneath the shadow of his father, a prince adored by courtiers yet starved of sincerity.
"My lord," she murmured, her voice trembling, "such honesty is dangerous."
He leaned closer, his words a whisper that brushed the air between them. "Then let it be dangerous. Let it be our secret."
The garden seemed to hold its breath. The night grew heavier, the roses bowing as though listening. Anarkali's pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to run, yet her feet refused to move. She wanted to speak, yet her lips faltered.
Finally, she found her voice. "I should leave. If the emperor knew—"
"If my father knew," Saleem interrupted, bitterness sharpening his tone, "he would remind me that a prince bows only to the crown. But tell me, Anarkali—should a crown forbid me from bowing to beauty?"
Her breath hitched. Never had words felt so reckless, so dangerous, so intoxicating. It was madness. It was ruin. And yet in that ruin, she felt a flame spark inside her.
She took a step back, clutching her veil. "You must not say such things."
"I already have," he answered simply, his eyes locked on hers. "And I will say them again."
Anarkali turned, her body trembling with the effort to leave. But his voice followed her, softer now, carrying something she had never heard from a prince before—plea.
"Tomorrow night," he said. "Meet me here. Let the crown command my days—but let the night belong to us."
She froze, her heart caught between fear and longing. Every warning she had ever known screamed within her. Dancers were admired, yes, but they were also disposable. The affection of a prince could elevate—or destroy. To step closer to him was to step closer to her own doom.
And yet… her heart betrayed her. It whispered of what could be, of love that was real and unshackled.
Without turning back, she whispered, "If fate allows." Then she slipped into the shadows, her figure vanishing into the labyrinth of hedges and moonlit paths.
Saleem stood by the fountain, watching her go. His hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger at his belt—not from anger, but from the unshakable knowledge that this was the beginning of a war. A war not of swords, but of wills. A war between duty and desire.
And for the first time in years, Prince Saleem smiled—not as a son, not as a subject, not as a prince. But as a man who had found something worth defying the world for.