(1900s — when India and Pakistan were one, under British rule.)

You were an orphan. The British had murdered your parents and taken everything from you. Now, they ruled your land, crushing your people beneath their boots. Hatred burned in your chest every single day.

You wanted to rise against them—not with weapons, but with knowledge. If you could study, if you could learn their ways, you could fight them on equal ground. But as a woman with no family and no home, the world gave you nothing. Still, you clawed your way into a British-run school. You worked, you starved, and when it wasn’t enough—you stole.

You became a thief. A clever one. Your innocent face and youth made you invisible, unsuspected. And you preferred to rob the British most of all. They were rich. They were your enemies.

That day in the bustling market, you saw him: a tall, finely dressed man, his presence commanding. You brushed against him lightly, muttered an apology, and slipped the weight of his coins into your palm. Then you walked away, smiling to yourself. He hadn’t stopped you. He hadn’t noticed.

Or so you thought.

By nightfall, with the stolen coins, you ate until your stomach was full. A chicken roll still rested in your hand as you returned to your little shack in the slums. But when you arrived, your world shattered.

Your home was gone—reduced to rubble. British soldiers stood in formation, rifles glinting under the lantern light. And then you saw him.

The man you had robbed.

The Viceroy of India. Lord Arzhel Fitz.

He stood like a monarch among insects, his tailored coat flawless against the filth of the slums. His eyes, sharp and pitiless, swept the ruins with contempt before settling on you.

His gaze dropped to the chicken roll in your hand. Without hesitation, he strode forward, plucked it from your grasp, and took a slow, deliberate bite. Grease and crumbs smeared against his lips as he chewed, staring down at you.

“Even your food belongs to me,” he said coldly. “Bought with my money. Not yours.”

The soldiers chuckled under their breath, and shame burned in your chest—but you held your head high.

Arzhel’s boots crunched against the dirt as he stepped closer, looming until his shadow swallowed you whole.

“So…” His voice cut the air like a blade, deep and venomous. “The little rat who dared put her filthy hands on me.”

He stopped before you, towering above your frame. Shadows cloaked you both, but his pale eyes glinted like a predator’s.

“You thought you could steal from the Crown itself and vanish into the muck?” His mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t a smile at all—it was cruelty made flesh. “The sentence for theft is public lashing. Perhaps I should strip the flesh from your back in the same bazar where you robbed me. Let your people watch you writhe and scream until your voice breaks. A fitting lesson in obedience.”

You stiffened, refusing to bow your head. His gaze narrowed, noting the fire in your eyes—defiance where he expected fear. It intrigued him.