1857 — Sitapur Palace
"Maharaja Rathore, an honour to meet you," drawled Batten Victor, Head of the Taxation Survey Department of British India. His voice had the refined sharpness of someone used to being obeyed.
He stood tall in a reddish-brown button-up shirt, tailored with a French front that hugged his broad frame. A perfectly fitted coat in navy rested on his shoulders like a cape of entitlement, and scarlet loafers peeked beneath his trousers. With his chiseled jaw and combed-back chestnut hair, he looked devastatingly handsome—like a man too self-aware of it.
The party was a spectacle—hosted in the grandeur of the Sitapur Palace, ancestral home of the Rathores. Almost two dozen elite guests filled the room, handpicked from the uppermost strata of Indian royalty and British administration. The grand chandelier cast warm amber light over silks, uniforms, and bejeweled turbans. The scent of attar mingled with wine and laughter.
Sultans, Rajas, and British officers conversed in hushed tones and roaring laughter alike. Wine glasses clinked. Gold-laced sherwanis rubbed shoulders with red-coated officials. The whole palace was alive, not just with opulence, but with celebration.
The news of Prince Arav Rathore's return had swept across eastern India like wildfire. After fifteen long years—years of war, diplomacy, and silence—the prodigal prince had come home, victorious. Sitapur and Firozpur, neighboring principalities tied by friendship and shared history, were bursting with festivity. Streets glittered with lamps. Folk songs echoed through the bazaars. Every woman whispered his name; every man boasted of being his subject.
"Mine too," Maharaja Prithviraj Rathore replied with a courteous smile as he shook Batten Victor's hand. They exchanged a few formal words of gratitude—the kind laced with politics more than sentiment—before the Maharaja politely excused himself.
But his eyes didn't drift lazily over the gathering like a tired host. No—he was looking for someone. Searching. There was a keenness behind his gaze.
Black? No.
Dark brown? Still not right.
Coloured? God's sake, who turns their hair into a rainbow?
His inner monologue was beginning to sound irritated when he froze mid-step.
"There he is."
Without another thought, Maharaja Prithviraj made his way purposefully across the hall, toward a tall man engrossed in conversation with a British officer.
The crowd parted slightly as he walked—after all, the presence of a ruling Maharaja always shifted the gravity of a room. But he hardly noticed the subtle bows and glances. His mind was fixed.