The court was unusually quiet that day.
Siyamika noticed it in the way servants averted their eyes, the way Meera's voice wavered when she spoke, the way her mother kept sending her away—not now, later, go rest, child.
Something was wrong.
She could feel it in the hush behind the walls.
In the whispers of her father's guards.
In the hollow echo of the palace that once felt like a cradle, now cold like a crypt.
She tried to ignore it.
She practiced her sitar. She read poetry. She walked through her garden like usual. But even the flowers looked dimmer, their colors muted like the palace was holding its breath.
By sunset, she couldn't take the silence anymore.
She slipped into the old war room, where she wasn't meant to go—her sandals silent, her dupatta tucked tightly around her. The carved wooden doors were slightly open.
And inside, she heard it.
"He'll take her. The emperor has agreed."
Her father's voice.
Firm. Sharp.
Unapologetic.
"She's young, yes. But the marriage means peace. Devgarh will be safe."
"But do you understand what you're trading?" another man asked. "Zayyan Mirza is no ordinary king. He's known for his cruelty. His conquests. They say he burns entire provinces for a single betrayal."
"He won't touch her," her father said simply. "That's the point. He doesn't want her. That's why it's perfect. She'll be a symbol, not a bride."
"And if he tires of her?"
"Then let her fade in gold. She was never meant for more."
Siyamika couldn't breathe.
The room spun—full of maps and treats and men deciding the ruin of her life like a trade of spices. She stumbled away, fists clenched in the folds of her anarkali, tears she didn't let fall clouding her vision.
She ran through the corridors.
Through the fading jasmine air of the zenana.
Back to her room, her sanctuary.
And slammed the door shut.
---
Later that night, Meera found her sitting by the jharokha, pale and frozen.
"You heard, didn't you?" she whispered.
Siyamika didn't nod. She didn't speak. Her voice was buried under a mountain of silence.
“They say the emperor has no heart,” Meera continued quietly. “That he looks at queens like statues. That he once executed a wife for speaking out of turn…”
"What if he hurts me?" Siyamika finally whispered.
It was the first thing she'd said in hours. Her voice cracked like old glass.
"What if he cages me? What if I become nothing?"
Meera took her hand, but even her comfort was trembled.
"He doesn't know you, Siya," she said. "And maybe... maybe that's what will save you."
But Siyamika wasn't thinking about being saved.
She was thinking about him. The faceless
, heartless shadow who would soon be
her husband .
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