One rainy season a hawk landed on the highest, most barren branch. Its eyes were sharp and old as mountains. For days the other birds kept distance; even Akbar felt a tug—admiration braided with something like fear. The hawk did not eat the scattered grain. Instead it watched, and its presence changed the songs. Mynahs shortened their phrases; doves hushed; even the sunbird paused mid-hover. The courtyard grew a little quieter, as if giving space to a different kind of music.