"There he is."
Without waiting for protocol or pause, Maharaja Prithviraj Rathore moved across the ballroom, his stride confident yet composed. Rich silk swayed around his ankles, golden embroidery glinting against the candlelight. He had the easy bearing of a man who had ruled long and lived longer.
The crowd instinctively made way. As he passed, nobles dipped their heads, and English officers offered subtle nods—but the Maharaja acknowledged none. His eyes were locked ahead.
Near a column wrapped in marigold garlands stood Sultan Shahbaz Mirza, his black achkan tailored to precise perfection. A finely woven Kashmiri shawl, ivory with crimson borders, was folded neatly over one shoulder. Beside him, Begum Ruksana wore a midnight-blue jamawar, its silver vines trailing along her sleeves. Her posture was regal, but her smile was soft—like moonlight.
With them stood King Shah Suri, towering and broad, dressed in a clay-colored woolen robe layered over a faded red tunic. The texture of the frontier clung to him—weather-beaten boots, sun-darkened hands, and an unmistakable war-seasoned sharpness in his gaze.
The three were engaged in relaxed, warm conversation—gestures animated, eyes gleaming with amusement.
As Prithviraj approached, he caught a familiar phrase from Shahbaz.
"—and then the camel spat straight at his face! Right in front of the envoy!"
Begum Ruksana laughed, covering her mouth.
Shah Suri smirked. "That envoy didn't return for days. Said he 'fell ill'—I think he meant 'humiliated.'"
The Maharaja chuckled, stepping in.
"Forgive me, but am I interrupting a diplomatic disaster or the rehearsal of a play?"
"Prithvi!" Sultan Shahbaz turned, delighted. He extended a hand, gripping the Maharaja's wrist. "You're just in time. We were reliving old victories and older embarrassments."
"And who better to bear witness than the king who's caused both," Suri added with a half-grin.
"Ah, a fine welcome," Prithviraj said dryly. "But I came to steal my friends away, not be mocked by old comrades."
Ruksana raised a brow. "Steal us? From whom?"
The Maharaja turned to Shah Suri and bowed slightly.
"From this mountain of a king before he recruits you both into another expedition to the north."
Suri let out a warm laugh. "You wound me, Maharaja. But if I may delay your thievery for a moment…" He glanced at Shahbaz. "We were speaking of the Ghazni campaign. Your son led like a soldier twice his age. Ruthless in the march, clever with the terrain. He turned my siege into a celebration."
Prithviraj paused.
The air seemed to still for a second.
Then he smiled—not wide, not proud. Something quieter.
"He has his mother's fire. And perhaps, too much of mine."
Suri nodded. "A good mixture. It wins wars."
There was a short silence.
Then Prithviraj leaned toward Shahbaz. "Speaking of fire… your daughter. Noor Jahan. Not seen her yet."
Ruksana glanced at her husband with a faint smirk. Shahbaz only shrugged.
"She comes when she's ready. Always has."
"And leaves when no one has," Ruksana added, voice amused.
Prithviraj shook his head with mock exasperation. "Trouble, that one. But the room always waits for her. Whether it knows it or not."
Suri, already half-turned to greet another officer approaching from the side, glanced back.
"With that temperament? She's fire. Just like the your young prince."
The Maharaja's eyes glinted. "Let's hope the storm and the fire don't collide."