The Royal Audience

Asher's mind buzzed with a whirlwind of thoughts. The Sikh Empire was at its peak, a formidable force with its borders secured and its people flourishing. Under Maharaja Ranjit Singh's rule, all religions and ethnicities thrived in harmony, creating a united and prosperous land. The British, once a looming threat, were now forced to stay on the other side of the Sutlej River. The economy was thriving, with one rupee equivalent to 11 pounds sterling, a testament to the empire's wealth. Life in Punjab was unparalleled; the lifestyle of even the common folk rivalled that of nobility in other lands. A labourer's daily wage was equivalent to half a tola1 of gold, a staggering amount that made crime almost non-existent. The greatest punishment was banishment from Punjab—a testament to the respect and loyalty that the citizens had for their empire.

Asher knew his knowledge of the future was his greatest weapon, yet the uncertainty of his new identity weighed heavily on him. As the tenth son of the great ruler, his status could either be his greatest strength or a deadly liability. Meeting the Maharaja could determine which it would be. The stakes were high; his connection to his father was a mystery, and the upcoming wedding of Naunihal Singh—the grandest event in the empire's history—posed its own set of challenges. The wedding, 20 times more expensive than Anamt Akhani's in modern times, would be a celebration like no other, but it would also lead to the absence of key military forces at Jamrud, a crucial battleground. Asher knew he needed to act fast to save General Hari Singh Nalwa, the empire's most formidable warrior, and ensure the fort was protected.

The next morning, Asher found himself walking through the grand corridors of the Maharaja's palace. The walls were adorned with exquisite frescoes depicting scenes of battles and victories. Large chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal pendants catching the sunlight streaming through tall, arched windows. The floor was a mosaic of polished marble, intricately designed with patterns of flowers and geometric shapes that gleamed under the soft glow of the lamps. Rich tapestries and silk drapes in vibrant hues of red, gold, and green lined the walls, reflecting the empire's wealth and artistic prowess. Each step Asher took echoed in the vast space, a reminder of the power and history contained within these walls.

Asher's attire had been carefully chosen—a regal outfit befitting his status as a prince. He wore a deep blue sherwani embroidered with gold thread that shimmered under the light, paired with a white churidar and black leather mojari shoes adorned with small golden motifs. A turban of royal blue, decorated with a jewelled brooch, sat atop his head, signifying his princely status. His heart raced as he approached the Darbar Hall, the throne room where the Maharaja held court.

Inside the Darbar Hall, the room was alive with vibrant colours and the low murmur of voices. The architecture was breathtaking; towering columns supported a high ceiling painted with intricate floral patterns and scenes of Punjabi folklore. Rich red carpets covered the floor, and golden banners hung from the walls, displaying the lion emblem of the empire. The throne itself was a masterpiece—a massive structure carved from ivory and inlaid with precious stones, sitting atop a raised platform. It was draped with velvet cushions in royal purple, and above it hung a canopy adorned with pearls and embroidered silk, symbolizing the power of the Lion of Punjab.

Maharaja Ranjit Singh sat on his throne, his presence commanding and regal. He was dressed in a resplendent outfit of gold and green, a silk kurta with elaborate threadwork, a sash of emerald draped across his chest, and a turban topped with an ornate aigrette feather and the greatest diamond In history tied to his arm. Despite his age, his eyes were sharp and filled with an indomitable spirit. His beard, now mostly white, was neatly groomed, and his posture, though slightly hunched, still exuded the aura of a warrior king.

In the audience, Asher spotted the Dogra brothers—trusted ministers of the Maharaja but notorious for their treacherous ways. They were dressed in elegant but understated attire, their eyes sharp and calculating, always watching, always scheming. Asher knew these were the men who would betray the empire, and their presence only heightened his resolve.

A courtier announced loudly, "Now comes the 10th in line of succession, Prince Kunwar Singh, son of the great Emperor Ranjit Singh!"

Asher stepped forward, keeping his posture straight and his expression respectful but confident. His eyes briefly met those of the Maharaja, and he bowed deeply. "Greetings, Your Majesty," Asher said, his voice steady, masking the whirlwind of thoughts running through his mind.

Maharaja Ranjit Singh's gaze lingered on Asher, his expression unreadable. "At ease," the Maharaja said, his voice deep and commanding, yet not without warmth. "I am glad that you came here on my invitation."

Asher noted the mix of foreign dignitaries and nobles in the room. Europeans with tailored suits mingled with Punjabi nobles in vibrant silks. Ranjit Singh, always open to new ideas, had welcomed people from all over, but Asher knew that some of these guests had dangerous motives. His eyes flicked to the Dogra brothers, and he suppressed a surge of anger.

"As you know, our precious Naunihal is getting married, and I request you to forget everything and return to the palace to celebrate with us," Maharaja Ranjit Singh continued, his tone slightly softer when mentioning his beloved grandson.

Asher's mind raced. He needed to tread carefully. This was a test of his loyalty and his place in the family. "Please forgive me, Your Grace!" Asher replied, his voice tinged with the right amount of hesitation and resolve. "It isn't easy for me to forget everything so quickly, and I cannot take part in the celebration events. However, if you truly wish for me to forget all past grievances, I have but one request. Are you willing to fulfill it?"

The court fell silent, eyes turning to the Maharaja. Ranjit Singh raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the young prince's boldness. "As long as it is good for the citizens and the empire, yes, I can fulfill your request," he replied, his tone cautious but open.

Asher took a deep breath, his eyes meeting the Maharaja's. "I wish to learn martial arts and war techniques from General Hari Singh Nalwa," he declared, his voice steady and clear.

The room erupted in murmurs, some voices expressing surprise, others approving. The Maharaja leaned back, considering the request. Asher could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Training under Nalwa was not just a privilege—it was a strategic move, a request that spoke of ambition and a desire to serve the empire in its most crucial capacity.

Maharaja Ranjit Singh nodded slowly, a faint smile appearing on his lips. "It seems you have not lost your spirit. Very well, I will speak to General Nalwa. Your training shall begin soon."

Asher bowed again, hiding the triumphant smile that threatened to break across his face. He had taken the first step towards his goal. But as he straightened, his eyes flicked back to the Dogra brothers, who watched him with thinly veiled suspicion. He knew the path ahead would be treacherous, filled with politics, betrayal, and battles. But he also knew one thing for certain—he would not let the history of the Sikh Empire repeat itself.