The conversation between Sultan Shahbaz Mirza, Begum Ruksana, and Maharaja Prithviraj Rathore had just turned toward Arav's military campaign when a sudden hush fell over the grand ballroom.
From the top of the marble staircase, Rajendra Prasad, Chief Minister of Sitapur, stepped forward, dressed in ceremonial white with a deep maroon angavastram.
Beside him stood Kavi Arjun, court poet and historian, in a layered beige kurta with black hand embroidery trailing down the collar.
His voice rang out clear and smooth, the kind that settled attention like a command.
"Presenting—the son of Sitapur, the storm of Ghazni, bearer of the ancestral shield— Arav Rathore."
He let the silence stretch, then added with a respectful pause:
"And beside him, victor of the western ridges, sheild of Sitapur—Raza Meer"
Every glass was stilled in hand. A breath seemed to suspend across the room.
From the top of the stairs, the two men descended.
Arav, six-foot-three, moved with quiet confidence. He wore a plain yet masterfully cut black silk achkan, fastened with silver buttons shaped like coins. A silver border ran along the collar, barely noticeable unless one looked close. His dark, wavy hair—tinged brown under the golden chandeliers—fell just above his collar. His grey eyes held the calm of a seasoned soldier, unreadable yet aware. His jaw was sharp,clean and sculpted like a statue's, and his arched brows gave him an edge of precision in expression.
At twenty-eight, he wore his victories not in medals but in presence. Still, there was something warm about his half-smile. Reassuring—but never naïve.
Raza, beside him, was a contrast.
In a deep bottle-green angrakha, tied crisply with black cords at the side, he looked every bit the hunter turned general. His frame was leaner, panther-like, and the way he moved—slow, deliberate, alert—carried quiet tension. His features were a blend of Eastern sharpness and Western symmetry. Light brown skin with a cooler undertone, clean-shaven, and with eyes that scanned like frost over glass. He, too, was twenty-eight. But there was no warmth in his gaze—only discipline.
They reached the last step.
Every guest—Sultans, British officers, diplomats, kings—raised their glasses in silent salute.
Kavi Arjun lifted his voice once more:
"And so, the sons of Sitapur return. Victorious. The Guri Ridge is ours again—after fifty-seven years. Reclaimed in alliance with the noble Shah Suri."
Almost on instinct, dozens of heads turned slightly toward Shah Suri, who, standing near the punch table with a cluster of British officers, acknowledged the moment with a slow, almost lazy nod.
Then all attention turned back to the two men walking through the crowd.
Raza offered brief nods. No smiles. His body language was closed, precise, like someone trained to expect a knife in handshakes.
Arav, though, exchanged a few simple greetings as he passed. A nod here, a hand on a shoulder there. Warm, but restrained.
They walked through the mosaic-floored hall, steps echoing with grace and intention.
As they neared the centre of the room, Maharaja Prithviraj, Sultan Shahbaz Mirza, and Begum Ruksana stood waiting. Arav's gaze briefly met his father's, then Shahbaz's. Then a short, respectful glance to the Begum, who tilted her head in acknowledgment.
Arav and Raza slowed, forming a half-circle with the elders.
Nothing needed to be said just yet.
But the air had shifted.