They stood like that for a breath, the world still shimmering around them. Then Aarifa stepped away, slowly. She turned to the mirror where Mumtaz's image had been. It was gone now, replaced by fabric swirling like a storm, a weave that resisted order.
She remembered how Mumtaz had spoken in the past. Gentle encouragement, soft warnings, the illusion of choice. And yet… Aarifa now understood. The Empress had never wanted her silenced. She had wanted her pointed.
Used.
Weaponized.
For what?
Azar's voice broke the silence. "She's playing a longer game. Maybe she wants you to predict a war so she can stop it. Or start it on her terms."
"And Khurram..." Aarifa's voice faltered.
Azar's shoulders tensed. "You still love him."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even said with anger. Just sadness.
"I don't know what I feel anymore," Aarifa admitted, her voice cracking. "When I think of him, my hands ache. I see fire and jasmine. I feel safe… and then I remember the betrayal. The silence. The way he pulled away when I needed truth most."
She paused. Her eyes lifted to Azar. "And then I see you."
Azar held her gaze. "And what do you see?"
She hesitated. "Hope. The kind that doesn't burn. The kind that waits."
Azar moved closer, slowly, so she could step away if she wanted. She didn't.
"I would never ask you to forget him," he said. "But I'll stay, even when your heart is uncertain. Even if it breaks me."
Aarifa's eyes filled. The silence between them thickened until it hummed like the loom.
"I want to learn what this place is," she said. "Truly. I think the answers are here. And not just about me."
"Then we stay," Azar said.
They walked together into the maze again, and the world reshaped itself.
This time, it wasn't mirrors or corridors of silk. It was a courtyard.
Familiar.
Burhanpur.
Except it floated, suspended in light. Threads wove the architecture together, as if memory had stitched this place from longing.
Aarifa moved forward, her fingers brushing a pillar. It held firm. Real and unreal all at once.
Then, a whisper. Faint.
Khurram's voice.
She spun, her heart in her throat. But there was no one there.
Far from the Threads Between, in the mortal world, Prince Khurram stood in his private chamber, every candle extinguished save for one. Before him lay a scrap of cloth—a piece of the tapestry Aarifa had begun weaving in the court before vanishing.
He stared at it as if it might speak.
Around him, his spies moved like shadows. One knelt at his feet now.
"We traced the trail to Burhanpur. But she is no longer there."
"Where is she?" Khurram's voice was raw.
"We don't know."
He closed his eyes. Pain lanced through his chest. The falcon she had hidden had reappeared. Bloodstained. A message. A warning. Or a trick.
"I should never have let her go alone," he murmured.
"Shall we send riders east? Into the desert?"
He shook his head. "No. She would not go forward. She would go within."
The court, the veil, the shawl… her weaving had always been prophecy. But it was never just about events. It was emotional. Intimate. She followed the pattern of her heart.
Khurram touched the scrap of cloth again. "If she's inside the Threads Between, no soldier will reach her."
The spy hesitated. "Then who can?"
Khurram's jaw clenched. "Someone who knows how to follow a thread without unraveling it."
He looked up. "Find Mumtaz Mahal. Now."
Back in the Threads, Aarifa and Azar approached the loom.
Not her loom. But another.
Ancient. Half-broken. And yet, the threads vibrated with recent touch.
"It's like someone else has been here," Aarifa said.
Azar nodded slowly. "What if... she's guiding you here? Mumtaz."
"Why?"
"I think," Azar said carefully, "that she's not just protecting the Empire. I think she's preparing for the end of it."
Aarifa stepped closer to the loom. It was incomplete. But in the loose threads, she could already see an outline.
A throne. A woman seated, her face hidden. In her lap, a child with a mark shaped like a falcon.
Her breath caught.
"This is a future not yet written," she whispered.
"And someone wants you to weave it into truth," Azar said.
"But who is the woman?"
She touched the threads again. As she did, the scene shimmered.
And then—
Her own face stared back.
She gasped and stepped back.
"No," she whispered. "That can't be me."
Azar didn't move. He just watched. Waiting.
The loom trembled.
And behind them, someone else entered the courtyard.
They turned.
It wasn't Mumtaz.
It wasn't Khurram.
It was the man in green silk again.
But this time, he wore a crown.
And the air around him hissed with power.
"You refused to choose before," he said. "Now I offer you no choice."
He raised his hand, and threads snapped in the air like lightning.
Azar moved to shield her.
The man's eyes burned.
"You are not just the weaver anymore, Aarifa. You are the pattern. And if I control the thread..."
He closed his fingers into a fist.
"...I control you."
Aarifa reached for the loom, her fingers trembling.
It began to glow.
The pattern shimmered.
And just as she touched the center, a scream tore the air.
Not hers.
Azar's.
The man in green had disappeared.
And Azar—was fading.
"No," Aarifa gasped, lunging toward him.
His form wavered like mist caught in wind.
"Aarifa..."
His voice cracked.
"Choose... the right thread..."
And then he was gone.
The Threads Between went silent.
She was alone.
Again.
And then the loom behind her moved on its own.
The shuttle slid through the threads with a hiss, weaving a single symbol into the cloth: a falcon pierced by a golden needle.
Aarifa froze.
She had never seen that pattern before.
But her heart knew exactly what it meant.
Someone else was weaving.
The light around her dimmed. The mirrored walls rippled. Another presence was here; unseen, patient, and terrifyingly close.
She reached for the loom.
And it pulled back from her touch.