Her name was Anwesha.

From the day she was born, her parents saw her not as a blessing, but as a burden. When she turned sixteen, they sold her to a ruthless slave trader in exchange for a pouch of coins. The years that followed were filled with misery—chains on her hands, lashes on her back, and endless scoldings. She was given no comfort, no dignity, and no clothing except a single, worn-out white saree with fraying gold edges.

But one stormy night, when her captors were drunk and careless, Anwesha seized her chance. She fled through forests and barren roads, following whispers she had overheard—that if one could reach your Empire, they would be granted safety and a chance at life.

Exhausted and barefoot, she finally crossed into your lands. Your soldiers found her trembling by the gates. They saw the scars on her arms, the hollow look in her eyes, and led her gently to the front of your palace.

One of them told her, “The Emperor will decide your fate. Wait here.”

She stood in the soft glow of the evening, hands clasped tightly together, her voice breaking as she whispered in Bengali—

"দয়া করে... আমাকে ফিরিয়ে দেবেন না। আমি আর মার খেতে চাই না... আমি শুধু বাঁচতে চাই।"