The Threads Between were not silent.
They whispered like looms in motion, threads brushing against each other in a hush that felt like breath. The air shimmered, and the ground beneath Aarifa's feet seemed to ripple with every step. She wasn't walking anymore but she was drifting, guided not by direction but by emotion. Fear. Curiosity. Longing.
Everywhere, there were weavings. Patterns blooming midair and then fading. Pieces of cloth fluttering like ghosts between unseen hands. Some bore the falcon, some fire, others unfamiliar signs she couldn't name yet felt in her bones.
She moved through a corridor of silk, walls pulsing with memory. And then, like breath on glass, mirrors began to appear.
Not ordinary mirrors. These showed her versions of herself; fragmented truths, perhaps, or lies whispered just loud enough to echo.
In one, she stood beside Khurram, her hand resting on his chest, her eyes alight with defiance and love. In another, she sat on a throne woven entirely from threads of gold and blood. One mirror held her image crumpled beside Zahra's lifeless form. And one... showed her holding a child.
Aarifa reached out, her fingers brushing the cold surface. The glass rippled like water and a voice came through.
"You are more than the loom."
She stepped back. Her reflection did not move.
"You are the thread itself."
Then, from behind her, a voice. Real. Warm.
"Aarifa."
She turned sharply.
Azar stood in the space between mirrors, his silhouette glowing faintly, like someone remembered in a dream. He looked older here, or perhaps just wiser. His eyes held something unspoken—pain, and awe, and a longing so clear it pressed into her skin.
"How are you here?" she asked, voice low.
"I followed the pattern. I saw what you wove."
"You shouldn't be here. This place..." she shook her head, "...this place isn't meant for either of us."
Azar stepped closer. "Then why do I feel like I belong here? With you?"
She wanted to answer, but the world shifted again. The mirrors flickered. Some dissolved. One remained. It glowed softly, and within it stood Mumtaz Mahal.
Not as Aarifa remembered her. This version wore no jewelry, no silks. Her hair was unbound. Her eyes were watchful and sharp.
"You are not a danger to the Empire, Aarifa," the reflection said. "But you may be its undoing if you do not choose carefully."
Aarifa frowned. "You said you wanted to protect me."
"I did. I do," the reflection replied. "But not for your sake."
Then the mirror cracked, splintering like ice.
Azar's hand found hers.
"What does she want from me?" Aarifa whispered.
Azar's thumb brushed over her knuckles. "Power frightens people who think they already have it. You were meant to be silent, obedient. Instead, you became something no one can predict."
The air shifted again. The labyrinth of mirrors melted into a single corridor which was long and dark, lit only by threads strung across like a web. Aarifa took a step, and the threads began to hum.
They responded to her presence.
Each thread vibrated with a different memory. Her father's laughter. Zahra's tears. Khurram's lips on hers. Azar's voice in the moonlight.
She didn't know if they were memories or futures.
Suddenly, one thread tightened. Then another. Then another.
Until a figure stepped from the shadows.
He was tall. Unfamiliar. Draped in green silk that trailed like smoke. His face was beautiful in a terrible way: sharp angles, eyes the color of embers, and a mouth that smiled without kindness.
"You are the one who sews fate," he said.
Aarifa did not speak.
He reached out, dragging a burnt piece of thread between his fingers. "You have touched too many lives. The pattern is fraying."
Azar moved to stand between them, but the man only chuckled.
"You think you can protect her?" he asked. "From me?"
"I don't need protection," Aarifa said. Her voice didn't shake.
The man's smile vanished. "No. You need to choose."
"What choice?" she asked.
He gestured, and two tapestries unfurled from the sky.
In one, Aarifa stood beside Khurram, crowned and revered, her eyes dimmed by duty. In the other, she walked with Azar, barefoot in a field of torn silk, her hands calloused, her loom beside her but her eyes sparkled with fire.
"You can live in love... or in legacy," the man said. "You cannot have both."
Behind her, Azar's breath caught. Ahead, the tapestry with Khurram began to burn.
Aarifa stepped forward, heart thundering. "You're wrong."
The man tilted his head.
She lifted her hand, and the space between the tapestries began to shimmer.
"I choose neither," she said. "Not yet."
With a flick of her fingers, she pulled her own thread.
A third tapestry began to form. Unfinished. Strange. Shifting with every heartbeat.
The man's eyes narrowed.
"You are dangerous," he whispered.
Then the ground beneath her began to tremble.
A sound echoed; a voice calling her name, but distorted, distant.
"Aarifa..."
Not Azar. Not the man in green.
Someone else.
The world fractured.
Silk peeled away.
The Threads Between collapsed into light.
And just before she fell, Aarifa saw a fourth mirror hidden behind all the others.
In it stood Mumtaz Mahal. Smiling.
But this time... there was blood on her hands.
Aarifa's breath caught in her throat as the world fell away.
The blood on Mumtaz Mahal's hands wasn't dripping. It shimmered. Like rubies melted into silk. It could have been a trick of light, but Aarifa had learned not to ignore signs. Especially not here. Especially not when the very threads of this place responded to thought, to fear, to desire.
She landed not on the hard ground, but into Azar's arms. He had leapt forward just in time. His chest rose and fell against hers, his grip tightening as he steadied her.
"You saw her, didn't you?" he asked softly, not demanding but knowing.
Aarifa didn't speak. Her fingers curled into his tunic. The heat of him. The steadiness. She hadn't realized how cold she had grown.
"I think," she said finally, "she's not here to protect me. She's here to shape me into something she can use."
Azar tilted her chin gently. "Do you think you're easy to shape?"
"No," she whispered. "But she's patient."