<div>


    <div>


    The women and children had escaped, which was the only relief. But Leelavati, Kunwar, and the last handful of soldiers remained—exposed and outnumbered.


    This was supposed to be the day of her wedding. The day she would be adorned in silk and gold was promised to the Suryadityas in an alliance meant to secure their future. But fate had twisted cruelly. The only flames that burned now were not of sacred rituals but of her home reduced to ashes.


    The fortress was in ruins. Her marriage was meant to reshape Garudraj’s destiny. It had, but in a way, she had never foreseen.


    The Mughal chief had been watching her since the siege began, his gaze sharp, assessing. He knew. She and Kunwar were not just any survivors. They were royal blood.


    Hours passed as the Mughals plundered the palace, stripping it of its wealth. Finally, as they prepared to leave, the Mughal emperor mounted his horse and spoke, his voice cold and commanding.


    "I will gladly accept those who swear loyalty to the empire and serve under the Mughal banner."


    Silence followed. Then a lone Rajput soldier stepped forward.


    "Dying would be better than betraying our motherland. Jai Bhavani!"


    His sword flashed as he lunged at the Mughal chief—only to be struck down from behind. The clang of steel rang out. One death turned into a battle cry as the remaining Rajput warriors surged forward, preferring death over submission.


    Chaos erupted.


    Leelavati didn’t waste a second. She gripped Kunwar’s wrist and moved, her steps swift but deliberate. If they went unnoticed, escape was still possible. But if they were caught—if the Mughals realized where the others had fled—it would mean death not just for her, but for the women who had already escaped.


    Her body moved before her mind caught up, instinct pulling her toward the inner household. Somewhere behind them, the last warriors of Garudraj still fought, their cries piercing through the din of Mughal war horns.


    But this was no longer a battle—it was a massacre.


    She reached the aangan, the courtyard once filled with laughter and gossip. Now, it stood empty, cold. Dead.


    Bolting the door behind her, she turned to Kunwar. “We have to keep moving—”


    A sound made her freeze.


    The clatter of hooves.


    Through the dust and flickering firelight, a lone figure emerged on horseback.


    The Mughal Emperor


    Without a second thought, Leelavati lunged for the ceremonial sword displayed on the wall. The blade was heavier than she expected, but she tightened her grip, her heart pounding like a war drum.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    With a sharp breath, she charged.


    The Emperor barely had time to shift in his saddle before she swung the sword at his chest. He leaned back, the blade missing by a whisper, but she didn’t stop. She twisted on her heel and slashed again, aiming for his throat.


    Steel clashed against steel.


    In the blink of an eye, he had drawn his sword, effortlessly blocking her strike. The force of the impact sent a jolt up her arms, but she steadied herself, gritting her teeth.


    “Bold,” the Emperor mused, his voice calm, almost amused. “But reckless.”


    Leelavati didn’t respond. She pivoted, bringing the sword up in a fierce overhead strike, aiming to split his skull.


    He sidestepped, swift as a shadow.


    She stumbled forward slightly, but recovered, twisting mid-motion to swing at his side. This time, he caught her wrist mid-strike. Before she could react, he twisted sharply—forcing the sword from her grip.


    Pain shot through her arm as the weapon clattered to the ground.


    Leelavati gasped, trying to yank free, but his grip was unyielding—like iron shackles. He pulled her closer, forcing her to meet his gaze.


    "Bravery alone won’t save you," he murmured. "But I do admire it."


    Leelavati winced as the emperor’s grip on her wrist tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh like iron shackles. His dark eyes, unreadable and unyielding, settled on Kunwar, who stood frozen behind her.


    “I don’t need you,” the emperor said, his voice calm, detached. “You may live.”


    A flicker of relief sparked in her chest—until his next words cut through her like a blade.


    “But I cannot let that brother of yours walk away.”


    Leelavati’s breath hitched. The weight of his statement was suffocating. She knew what he meant. He had done this before—wiped out every last heir of his enemies. Not a single drop of royal blood was ever left behind when the Mughal army marched away. That was his way. His empire left no room for rivals.


    “No!” She surged forward, throwing herself in front of Kunwar, her arms stretched wide like a shield. “Please! He’s just a child!”


    The emperor merely tilted his head, unimpressed. “So were many before him.”


    Leelavati’s heart pounded wildly. “He’s no threat to you! He’s too young to fight—”


    “You underestimate the power of a royal lineage, Rajputani,” he cut her off. “A cub may be small, but it still grows into a lion.”


    She felt Kunwar tremble behind her, his little fingers gripping the back of her bloodstained dupatta. But before she could plead further, the emperor moved.


    With one swift motion, he unsheathed his sword and swung toward Kunwar.


    “No!” Leelavati lunged to block the attack. The blade sliced across her upper arm, searing pain erupting through her skin. She staggered back, her hand clutching the wound, but she refused to move away.


    The emperor let out a slow breath, irritated. And then, without hesitation, he shoved her aside.


    She hit the ground hard, the cold marble bruising her ribs. Dazed, she lifted her head just in time to see him strike.


    Kunwar let out a strangled gasp as the emperor’s sword cut across his chest.


    Lelavati’s scream tore through the aangan, raw and piercing, but the night was deaf to her grief.


    She scrambled toward Kunwar, her hands trembling as they pressed against his chest, trying to stop the blood from spilling. His breaths were shallow, his skin turning pale beneath the moonlight.


    “No, no, Kunwar, stay with me,” she whispered, her voice breaking, her vision blurred with tears. “You promised me—you promised you’d listen.”


    The Mughal emperor watched her with quiet amusement, wiping the blood off his sword with the hem of his robe. “You should be grateful, Rajkumari,” he mused. “I could have let him suffer longer.”


    Her shoulders shook as she cradled Kunwar’s head in her lap, rocking slightly, whispering words of comfort that were useless now. For the first time, she truly understood how powerless she was. No title, no alliances, no desperate prayers could have saved him.


    Tears blurred her vision as she ran trembling fingers through his hair, his body still warm, as if he were only asleep. But the stillness—the unnatural stillness—made her stomach twist in agony.


    She couldn’t breathe.


    What would she tell her father? How could she face him, knowing she had failed to protect the only piece of family she had left? The weight of it crushed her chest, a suffocating grief that no amount of sobbing could lessen.


    A shadow loomed over her.


    The emperor watched, his expression unreadable, his sword still dripping red. His grip on the hilt tightened, then loosened, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—pity? Or was it regret?


    But just as quickly, he exhaled sharply, as if shaking off the thought. Without another word, he turned on his heel, his dark cloak billowing behind him as he walked away, leaving her weeping in the blood-soaked dust.