Veil of the Emperor

The first thing I heard was screaming. Not mine—someone else’s. High-pitched, raw, animalistic. Then came the metallic clash of swords, the hiss of arrows cutting air, the wet sound of something heavy falling on mud.

And blood. The smell of it. Thick, iron-laced, suffocating.

I bolted upright, but the room I expected—my cluttered desk, glowing laptop, and the congratulatory email that had made me cry with joy last night—was gone. No white walls, no neon lights. Instead: dim oil lamps, smoke-stained ceilings, and voices shouting in Persian and Hindavi.

Just last night, I had been celebrating. Months of writing, rewriting, and editing my research paper had finally paid off. My inbox had pinged with the words every PhD student dream of: “We are pleased to inform you…” I had cried, laughed, and then, because sleep was impossible, devoured webnovel after webnovel until dawn threatened the sky.

Now, dawn had arrived in another world.

A hand yanked open a wooden door. A man in rough soldier’s garb burst in, blood streaked across his forehead. His voice was urgent, clipped:

“Shahzadeh ke lashkar aa gaye!” (The prince’s army has arrived!)

The words struck me like thunder, though I did not understand their full weight yet.

I stumbled out of bed—or rather, out of a pile of coarse cotton sheets that were not mine—and onto a floor that was uneven stone, cold against my bare feet. My body felt different too—lighter, smaller, draped in garments I had never worn before.

Outside, the world was chaos. Drums thundered. Horses shrieked. Men with spears ran past, their faces grim, dust and blood streaking their cheeks.

“Father—where is my father?” I gasped, though my voice felt strange in my throat.

And then, as if the universe wanted to mock me, someone answered.

“Your father is at court, girl. Mansabdar of two hundred zat and one hundred sawar under Shahzada Jalal-ud-din Muhammad Akbar himself. Hurry—this is no place for daughters to linger!”

I froze. The words cut sharper than the clash of blades.

Mansabdar. Court. Akbar.

The name struck me like a blow. Jalal-ud-din Muhammad Akbar—Akbar the Great, one of the most famous emperors in Indian history. A boy-king, barely a teenager, under the iron shadow of his regent Bairam Khan.

And if this soldier was telling the truth, my father served him.

The realization came like lightning—impossible, insane, yet undeniable. I was not home. I was not even in the same century.

The date floated into my mind like an alien vision:

Vikrami Sambat: Aitvaar, 23 Magh, 1612Hijri: al-Ahad, 6 Rabi I, 963

Both calendars pointed to the same reality: the winter of 1556 CE. The year of Humayun’s death. The year Akbar became emperor.

My breath caught. History books and webnovels had prepared me for many things. But not this.

The cries outside grew louder, closer. Somewhere, someone begged for mercy, voice cut short with a wet thunk.

I wanted to scream, to collapse, to wake up from this nightmare. But the air reeked of smoke and steel, the stones trembled beneath war drums, and my pulse hammered one truth into me over and over:

This was real.

And I, a modern woman who had only wanted one night of celebration and webnovel indulgence, was now the daughter of a Brahmin Mansabdar in Punjab, serving under the boy who would become Akbar the Great.

A place of history. A place of death. A place where one wrong step could mean my blood on the stones.

And the worst part? I had no time to digest it.

The world was already burning.