Alauddin descends into the gloom. He stares into the flames. His face, for the first time, is not hungry or cruel. It is empty. He came for Padmavati. He wanted to touch her hair, to hear her scream, to lock her in his harem as the ultimate trophy.
Instead, he is left with a pit of cinders.
A single ember rises from the pyre, floats past his face, and vanishes into the dark.
She is dressed in her bridal red. Gold whispers at her wrists and throat. Her face is calm, lit from within by a resolve sharper than any sword. Behind her, in a long, silent procession, move the other women of the fort: young and old, queens and servants, mothers with infants at their breasts. Each one wears red. Each one carries a vessel of ghee or a handful of fragrant sandalwood.
She steps into the pit.
This is jauhar . Not suicide. Sacrament.
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