Chapter 1: "The Throne of Time"

Scene 1: Awakening in Silk and Shadows

Murshidabad, Bengal – 1751

The first thing Saifullah-ud-Doula felt was the weight of the silk.

It clung to his skin like a second corpse—thick, brocaded layers of Mughal green and gold, stitched with verses from the Quran in silver thread. His fingers twitched against the marble floor, cold as the touch of a ghost. Above him, the palace ceiling swam into focus: arches carved with lotus flowers, their petals gilded in the faint dawn light.

Dhaka. Traffic. The smell of fried fuchka and diesel.

The memories struck like a dagger. A motorcycle swerving through rain-soaked streets. A university library, its shelves heavy with books titled The Rise and Fall of the Nawabs. The last thing he'd seen before the truck's headlights—

Allah, where am I?

A hand gripped his shoulder. "Nawab Saheb!"

The title jolted him upright. Around him, a dozen men in turbans and jeweled daggers knelt in a half-circle, their faces pale with fear. One, an elderly man with a henna-stained beard, pressed a damp cloth to Saifullah's forehead. "The shock of your father's passing has unbalanced your humors, Huzoor. Let us—"

Father?

The memories flooded in, foreign yet vivid. Alivardi Khan, the aging lion of Bengal, dead of a fever three days prior. A funeral procession winding through the Hooghly River, petals scattered on black water. And himself—Saifullah, the bookish eldest son, suddenly heir to a throne teetering on the edge of a knife.

But he was also Saif, a 28-year-old history student from Dhaka, his mind crammed with Wikipedia articles and YouTube documentaries.

1751. The British haven't even taken Calcutta yet. Siraj-ud-Daula is still a kid. And I'm… the Nawab?

He stood abruptly, the silk robe pooling at his feet. The courtiers gasped.

"Mirza," he said, the name slipping out instinctively. The henna-bearded man flinched. "Bring me a map of Bengal. And summon the Diwan—no, wait, the zamindars. The ones controlling the saltpeter mines."

Mirza blinked. "Saltpeter, Huzoor?"

Saifullah froze. Shit. Saltpeter's used for gunpowder. But do they know that yet?

Before he could reply, the doors of the Diwan-i-Khas burst open.

Scene 2: The Cousin with a Sword

A young man stormed into the hall, his scimitar unsheathed. Barely 18, with eyes like smoldering coal and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, he radiated fury. Behind him, two guards lay groaning on the floor.

"You dare crown him without me?" the boy roared.

Siraj-ud-Daula.

The name echoed in Saifullah's skull. In his past life, he'd written essays about this boy—the tragic nawab who'd lose Plassey, betrayed by his own general. But here, Siraj was alive, vibrating with rage, his blade aimed at Mirza's throat.

"The throne is mine by blood!" Siraj snarled. "My grandfather Alivardi named me his successor!"

Mirza stumbled back. "The council chose Saifullah-ud-Doula! His reforms for the treasury—"

"Reforms?" Siraj spat. "He's a poet, not a king! He'd sooner write couplets about the monsoon than lead an army!"

Saifullah's modern mind raced. Historically, Alivardi DID name Siraj as heir. But here, I've replaced him. Why?

Then he remembered—Alivardi's last words in this timeline, whispered to him alone: "You see the storm coming, my son. Save Bengal."

Stepping between Siraj and the trembling Mirza, Saifullah raised a hand. "Lower your sword, cousin."

Siraj's blade wavered. "Why? So you can hand Bengal to the Farangis like a coward?"

Farangis. The British.

Saifullah's lips curled. Coward? I've read about your fate, Siraj. You'll die in a dungeon, your body thrown to the dogs. But pity tempered his anger. This boy wasn't the failed nawab of history books yet—just a orphaned prince, desperate to prove himself.

"You want the throne?" Saifullah said softly. "Then tell me: How will you feed our people when the British drain our rice fields? How will you fight their guns when our cannons rust?"

Siraj hesitated. "We… we'll crush them with numbers! A million Bengalis against a thousand kaffirs!"

"Numbers didn't save the Aztecs from Cortés." The English name slipped out. Siraj frowned.

Damn. Cortés hasn't even happened here yet.

"Forget it," Saifullah said. "But answer this: What's the price of saltpeter in Madras right now?"

"Saltpeter? Who cares about—"

"Four rupees per maund," Saifullah interrupted. "But the East India Company sells it to Europe for twenty. They're stealing our land, our resources, and your future, Siraj. While you dream of battle glory, they're counting their coins."

The court murmured. Siraj's sword arm lowered an inch.

Saifullah pressed on. "You think I'm weak? Then let's settle this like men. A contest."

"What kind of contest?"

"Bring me the Company's latest trade agreement. Hidden in Robert Clive's desk in Calcutta. Steal it, and I'll abdicate."

Siraj's eyes narrowed. "And if I fail?"

"You serve as my Mir Bakshi. My right hand."

The court erupted. "Huzoor! He'll kill you!"

Siraj sheathed his sword, grinning. "You're madder than they say, cousin. But I accept. When I return with that paper, don't beg for mercy."

As he strode out, Saifullah allowed himself a smile. Clive's agreement is a trap. It'll prove the Company's plan to monopolize Bengal's textiles. And Siraj will learn firsthand who the real enemy is.

Scene 3: The Loom of Destiny

Four days later, the council convened in the throne room. Siraj had returned, his kurta torn and bloodied, clutching a leather-bound document.

"Read it," he growled, tossing it at Saifullah's feet.

The Nawab unsealed the parchment. Inside, clauses leapt out: "…the East India Company shall assume control of all textile exports… immunity from local taxation… rights to fortify Calcutta…"

Just like my history books, Saifullah thought. But aloud, he said: "They'll turn our weavers into slaves. Pay them a pittance while selling our muslin for gold in London."

Siraj crossed his arms. "So? Tear up the treaty and burn their factories!"

"And invite war? No. We'll beat them at their own game."

Clapping his hands, Saifullah signaled a servant. Moments later, four laborers wheeled in a hulking wooden contraption—a maze of gears, treadles, and spinning bobbins.

"What's that?" snapped a rotty zamindar. "A torture device?"

"A loom," Saifullah said. "But unlike any your weavers have used. Watch."

He nodded to a young boy, who fed a skein of raw cotton into the machine. As the child pedaled, the gears whirred to life. Spindles twisted thread; shuttles darted like silver fish. In minutes, a length of flawless muslin unfurled—a process that normally took hours.

The court exploded.

"Sorcery!"

"Jinnat!"

Siraj drew his dagger. "Destroy it!"

"Wait!" Saifullah blocked him. "This 'sorcery' will make Bengal richer than the Mughals ever dreamed. We'll produce ten times the cloth, undersell the British, and fund our army with the profits."

A bearded noble stepped forward, trembling. "Huzoor, the Quran forbids machines that steal men's livelihoods!"

"The Quran forbids injustice," Saifullah countered. "These looms will let children spin thread instead of breaking their backs in fields. We'll pay weavers triple wages to oversee them."

Murmurs of doubt rippled through the room.

Siraj stepped closer, his voice low. "This is your plan? Weaving our way to victory?"

Saifullah met his gaze. "The first step. Next: steel mills. Cannons. Ships. But I need your courage to protect them, cousin."

For a long moment, Siraj studied the loom. Then, to everyone's shock, he laughed.

"You're still a madman," he said. "But at least you're an interesting one." Kneeling, he placed his dagger at Saifullah's feet. "Nawab Saheb."

One by one, the nobles followed.

Scene 4: The Serpent's Letter

That night, Saifullah stood on the palace balcony, watching the Ganges shimmer under a crescent moon. Behind him, Siraj gulped wine from a jeweled cup.

"You should celebrate," Siraj said. "Even Uncle Shaukat's plotting how to profit from your loom now."

Saifullah smiled faintly. Shaukat. The uncle who'd called him a "mad pretender" at the council. Another problem for tomorrow.

A cough interrupted them. Mirza bowed, holding a lacquered box. "A gift, Huzoor. From the Farangis in Calcutta."

Inside, on a bed of crimson velvet, lay a folded letter sealed with crimson wax. The emblem: a lion and unicorn.

The British Royal Crest.

Saifullah broke the seal.

To His Highness, Saifullah-ud-Doula, Nawab of Bengal,

The East India Company congratulates Your Highness on your ascension. We trust our mutual interests may be aligned in matters of trade and governance. A delegation led by Mr. Robert Clive shall await your audience at Fort William at your convenience.

Yours in Service,

Charles Watson, Admiral of His Majesty's Fleet

Siraj snatched the letter. "Clive? That's the dog who tried to skewer me in Calcutta!"

"He's testing me," Saifullah murmured. "They expected a puppet like Mir Jafar. Now they're scrambling."

"Let me kill him. I'll ride at dawn—"

"No." Saifullah stared at the distant horizon, where storm clouds brewed. "Invite him here. Let him see the looms. The schools. Let him report to London that Bengal is no longer a prize to loot—but an empire rising."

Siraj grinned. "And when he tries to betray you?"

Saifullah's fingers brushed the Quran at his belt. "Then we'll teach him the price of greed."