The wedding took place three days later, just as the letter had promised.
But it was unlike what celebrations usually are.
There were no crowds, no drumming fingers beating joy on daff drums, no aunts whispering blessings or children peeking from under tables. There were no bright lanterns or feasting halls filled with the scent of cardamom and lamb. Only close family members. Five from his side which are his parents, two siblings and an uncle. and four from hers.
Instead, there was stillness. Sacred. Sharp. Unspoken.
Tariq bin Aslan stood at the edge of something he could not name, dressed in a thobe he had not sewn, led to a place he did not know, about to wed a woman he had never seen.
The driver who arrived at his home just before sunset said nothing. The ride black, pristine, tinted waited with quiet finality. The streets of Zafirah blurred past the windows as they drove through the old quarter, into roads unfamiliar even to someone born here.
Finally, they stopped before a set of gilded iron gates shaped like crescent moons. They opened without a word. The courtyard inside was wrapped in twilight, perfumed with jasmine and silence. Veiled figures moved like shadows, distant and reverent. A marbled garden stretched before him, lit by flickering oil lamps. At its heart stood the imam beside a low table, wrapped in silk the color of snow.
And beside him; his bride.
She stood motionless. Her entire figure was cloaked in red. Not bright scarlet, but a deep crimson that looked like a rose pressed between pages. Her veil trailed the floor, heavy with fine beads that shimmered like falling stars. She did not speak. She did not lift her head.
She was the embodiment of silence made flesh.
When the ceremony began, Tariq's breath slowed. He repeated the sacred words. So did she. Her voice was low—softer than the wind, steadier than he expected. There was pain in it, and grace. And when it was done, when the final "Qabiltu" left his lips, he turned to her slowly.
"May I...?" he asked, hand half-lifted toward her veil.
Before he could touch it, a gloved hand intervened; one of the attendants. She bowed her head respectfully.
"Not yet," she said gently. "Your place awaits inside."
The bride was led away, the brown of her veil trailing like a secret through the garden shadows.
The mansion was older than it looked.
Tariq was guided through a corridor of carved archways and perfumed wood. Moonlight filtered in through latticed windows, casting patterns across the stone. The walls whispered verses from the Qur'an, etched in gold, and the air was so still it felt as though the house itself was holding its breath.
He was shown to a reception hall where no one waited to greet him. A silver tray was placed on a pedestal. On it lay a note.
Your quarters have been prepared.
You are to feel free but not too free to move around in private places.
Please speak to no one beyond the designated attendants unless with utmost need.
Your wife will come to you when she is ready.
There was no signature. Only a crimson seal in the shape of a veil.
Tariq read the message twice. Then a third time.
He was married. But he was not yet a husband. He doesn't feel like one
Days passed like pages turning in a quiet book. One by one. No titles. No footnotes. Only mystery.
The estate was vast. His wing alone held more than he'd ever known. A private library with walls of old books. A prayer room with sunlight slicing through stained glass. A marble courtyard where the fountain had been shaped like a falcon in flight.
His meals arrived without request perfectly balanced, warm, always to his liking. He hadn't asked for anything, but nothing was missing.
Still, he felt like a guest. Or worse, a puzzle piece dropped in the wrong box.
He didn't see her. But he felt her.
He heard the soft tread of steps outside his garden after Fajr. Caught the scent of oud and rosewood where no one had stood. And at night, the notes began to arrive—folded slips of parchment, slid beneath his door.
Do you believe in destiny or choice?
What do you fear more: being forgotten or being misunderstood?
If love required patience, how long would you wait?
He wrote back.
I believe destiny opens doors, but we must choose to walk through.
I fear being misunderstood because that is loneliness with company.
If love is true, I would wait forever.
He left the replies on the rim of the fountain. By morning, they vanished.
Every answer felt like a prayer he hadn't meant to utter aloud.
And then, on the third night, the silence broke.
He was returning from prayer, steps soft on the marble floor, when he paused at the balcony corridor. She stood there, Zahra bint Az-Zubair, half in moonlight, half in shadow. Her veil now rested at her waist, her face turned toward the stars. Her hair remained hidden beneath silk, but her features were revealed at last.
She was not merely beautiful. She was dignified. Untouchable. Eternal. And His.
He stepped forward, unsure whether to speak. She turned.
"You're real," he breathed.
A small smile tugged at her lips. "So are you."
There was gravity in her eyes. The kind that held empires together.
"Why me?" he asked, his voice nearly a whisper.
"Because," she said, "you were the only man who looked at the world the way I did, like it owed you nothing, but still gave you chances worth protecting."
He longed to ask her name, to demand the truth behind the veil of secrecy and shadows. But something about her presence silenced him again.
"When will I know who you truly are?" he asked.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"When you stop asking."
And like smoke between lanterns, she vanished down the hallway, her footsteps swallowed by silence.
Tariq stood alone in the corridor, heart thudding, unsure if the woman he had seen was his bride or a figment of longing.
But she was real. Her presence lingered in the air like musk and mystery.
She was a queen and a vow. A stranger and sovereign.
And she was all his.
Cliffhanger
The next morning, Tariq found no note at his door but the fountain stone held a sealed envelope. This time, it bore his name.
Inside it, a message written in a bold hand:
> "Come to the east wing after Maghrib.
Alone.
Do not speak to anyone.
Tonight, the first truth will be unveiled."
And beneath the letter…
A single crimson petal.