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The Diwan-e-Khas glittered with golden chandeliers, their flames flickering against the marble walls, casting long shadows that moved like restless spirits of the past. The Mughal court was alive with music, with whispers, with the intoxicating blend of authority and fear that surrounded Emperor Akbar's throne.
Anarkali stood at the center of it all—draped in a crimson attire, her anklets chiming softly as she moved, every step carrying grace, every twirl echoing silent rebellion. Her beauty was not just in her face or figure, but in the fire of her eyes—an untamed flame that even the walls of a palace could not contain.
But in the corner of the grand hall, hidden behind the heavy pillars, Saleem watched. His heart pounded with every beat of the tabla, but it was not the rhythm of the music that consumed him—it was her.
"Anarkali…" he whispered under his breath, as though even her name was too fragile to be spoken aloud in the emperor's presence.
Her gaze lifted, just once, just for a heartbeat—and found him.
The world stilled.
In that single stolen glance, they conversed in silence. His longing. Her fear. His rebellion. Her surrender. Words were unnecessary; their souls had already written the dialogue.
But Akbar's sharp eyes missed nothing. The Emperor leaned forward slightly on his throne, his heavy crown glinting under the lights, his voice sharp as the clash of steel.
"Dance, Anarkali," he commanded. "Dance as though every step is an offering to your Sultan."
And she danced. Oh, how she danced—every movement hiding her trembling heart, every turn concealing the tears threatening to fall. She was no longer a courtesan performing for the court. She was a woman shielding her love with the armor of her art.
Saleem's fists tightened. He wanted to storm forward, to take her hand, to declare before the world that she was his. But one look at Akbar's gaze—cold, calculating, heavy with unspoken threat—and Saleem knew. His father's wrath was not a storm to be underestimated.
The music reached its crescendo. Anarkali spun one last time, her dupatta flowing like a flame in the air, before falling into a delicate bow. Applause thundered in the hall, but it was hollow, empty—except for the deafening silence that passed between her and the prince.
When the court was dismissed, Saleem found her in the dim corridors behind the Diwan-e-Khas. The world outside was drowning in night, but here, only the soft glow of oil lamps lit their secret.
"Anarkali," he breathed, reaching for her wrist before she could slip away.
She turned, eyes wide, breath trembling. "Shehzaday… if someone sees—"
"I do not care," he cut her off, his voice rough with desperation. "Let them see. Let the world know. I will not watch you burn yourself in silence while my father cages you in gold."
Her lips parted, but no words came. Instead, tears welled up, glistening under the lamp's glow. "Do not tempt destiny, Shehzaday. You know what path this fire leads to."
He stepped closer, so close that her back touched the cold wall. His hand rose, trembling, to brush away her tears. "Destiny?" he whispered, his forehead leaning against hers. "If destiny is written by the stars, then let me burn every star from the sky. If destiny is a cage, then I will shatter it, even if it costs me my crown."
Her breath hitched. Her heart screamed to believe him. But the shadow of Akbar loomed too large in her soul.
"Saleem…" she finally spoke, her voice breaking. "Your love is a sword. It can cut through anything. But what if, one day, that very sword cuts me?"
For the first time, silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Saleem closed his eyes, his grip tightening on her hand. "Then I will hold you so close that no blade— not even my father's wrath—will touch you."
A whisper of a smile touched her lips, trembling but real. And in that narrow, lamp-lit corridor, they sealed their fate with silence. No kiss, no touch of lips—only the desperate intertwining of fingers, trembling yet unyielding.
But unknown to them, shadows moved at the far end of the corridor. A soldier, cloaked in the emperor's authority, had seen everything.
And as Anarkali finally slipped away into the darkness, Saleem's heart ached with both triumph and dread. Love had won the night, but the storm was coming.
The dance of shadows had only just begun.
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