The imperial court of Fatehbad was not built for warmth.
Its domes reached the heavens like spears. Its floors were black marble, colder than steel, and its walls whispered only one thing: Power.
Emperor Zayyan Mirza sat on the central throne, unmoving. His robes were charcoal silk, simple but sharp. No jewels. No gold. He needed none. His presence alone demanded obedience.
Ministers spoke, generals bowed, petitions were laid at his feet—but his eyes remained elsewhere.
Distant.
Dangerous.
“The Rajputs grow restless,” his vizier said. “A show of strength is needed.”
Zayyan didn’t respond. Not immediately. His fingers tapped once, twice, on the armrest of his throne. Behind him, a falcon sat on its perch, watching with the same cold stillness as its master.
“Strength is easy,” Zayyan finally said. “Obedience is harder.”
The court fell silent. They had learned to listen when he spoke, for his silence often came before storms.
He wasn’t cruel for sport.
But mercy was a luxury he no longer believed in.
The scars on his back, the blood in his past, the betrayal of his own kin—it had taught him only one thing:
You survive by staying cold. And ruling by never needing anyone.
His palace was full of beauty—concubines with kohl-dark eyes, gardens perfumed with night jasmine, feasts of gold and spice. Yet Zayyan never touched any of it.
Desire was a weakness.
Love, a lie.
“We could secure the border without war,” the vizier added cautiously. “A royal marriage would tie the treaty. The princess of Devgarh is of age—”
Zayyan’s jaw tensed.
His gaze turned sharp.
“A pawn in silks won’t tame wolves,” he said flatly.
“Perhaps not. But she would be locked far from your path. Silent. Decorative. And useful.”
Zayyan leaned back in his throne. His falcon shifted.
“Then send word. I don’t want her name. I don’t want her face. Just obedience.”
He stood, the folds of his robe slicing through the air like shadow.
“And build her a wing on the far side of the palace,” he added as he walked away.
“Let her rot in gold.”
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