The heavy teak doors of the Sheesh Mahal bridal chamber boomed shut with a final, resounding thud that seemed to seal the fate of the night itself. The outside world, the distant shehnai, the drunken laughter of the men still lingering in the dining hall, the soft footsteps of servants, all faded into a muffled hush. Inside, the air hung heavy with the sweet, narcotic scent of attar of roses, smouldering loban, and the raw, electric crackle of two bodies that had waited far too long for this moment. A single diya flickered in a silver holder, its golden flame dancing across a thousand tiny mirrors embedded in the arched ceiling and walls. The reflections scattered like stars, illuminating every curve, every tremor, every bead of sweat on the trembling bride who stood frozen in the centre of the vast room.