The Crimson Weighing
For the first time since stepping into the intricate, veiled world of Zahra Al-Zubair, Tariq Aslan was formally summoned.
Not with a folded message slid beneath his chamber door. Not by the murmurs of an attendant in the corridor. But with a velvet envelope — dark, weighty — pressed into his hand by a steward dressed in the estate's deepest green. It bore the sigil of Zahra's house: the crimson veil, pressed in blood-red wax.
"You are invited to dine with the Al-Zubair Council. Your presence is required at the Hall of Lanterns, precisely after Maghrib."
Tariq stared at the invitation. It felt heavier than parchment should.
He knew this was no ordinary meal. This was not about hospitality. It was a test — wrapped in the silk of tradition, served on platters of gold. A room full of power meant to judge him in silence, to measure him like rare incense at a merchant's stall: weighed, examined, perhaps discarded.
The hour came too quickly.
He dressed in the garments prepared for him by Zahra's attendants — a tailored black thobe, edged with gold threading, and a deep crimson shawl draped over his shoulder, its color chosen not by accident. The color of their house. The color of war.
As he walked down the vast corridor leading to the Hall of Lanterns, the estate felt different. Gone were the tranquil gardens and muted footfalls. In their place: an air of ceremony, stiff and sharp, like perfume over spilled blood. Every wall seemed to watch him.
The grand doors parted.
A hush blanketed the chamber.
The Hall of Lanterns lived up to its name. Hundreds of suspended lanterns hung from the domed ceiling, casting pools of soft, golden light across the cedar floors and carved pillars. The long cedarwood table stretched across the center, set for ten.
Only one chair remained unoccupied.
His.
Eight council members were already seated, swathed in fabrics spun from old power: silks, brocades, and veils bearing lineage and legacy. Some were financiers, others scholars, a few rumoured to hold sway over mercenary fleets or legal systems in distant cities. And at their center sat Zahra.
She wore deep emerald tonight. A color that caught the lantern light and burned in her eyes like flame beneath her black silk veil. She didn't smile when he entered, but her eyes met his — steady, sure, unblinking.
He bowed, just slightly, then moved to sit beside her.
A breath passed — longer than necessary — before the eldest among them finally spoke.
A man with hair like bleached bone and a stare as sharp as a blade: Malik.
"So this is the husband."
The words weren't laced with contempt. But they carried weight.
Tariq inclined his head. "Yes."
A woman across from him, draped in ivory and diamonds that glittered like frozen tears, folded her hands.
"We don't often dine with strangers."
"I don't consider myself one," Tariq replied evenly, lifting his gaze. "At least, not anymore."
An eyebrow twitched. Someone shifted in their chair. Beneath the table, Zahra's hand brushed his leg — a whisper of reassurance. You're holding your ground.
The dinner began. One course after another — lamb draped in saffron, quail stuffed with pomegranate, fig preserves on silver spoons. But for Tariq, each bite was ash. The real feast was in the conversation.
And the blade of it was ceremonial.
They asked of his background. His lineage. His education. His work before the estate. Some questions were mere courtesies. Others were barbed and veiled.
"What exactly are your ambitions here?" a woman asked as she sliced into roasted quail, her bangles clinking softly.
"To be a good husband," Tariq answered.
"To Zahra?" Idris pressed, his voice low. "Or to her fortune?"
Tariq lifted his chin. "To her. Always her."
Silence fell. Not heavy — sharp.
Zahra spoke then, her voice cool and cutting.
"My husband has more honor than many men born to titles seated at this table."
The words struck like a stone cast into still water.
Tariq's gaze flicked to a younger man across the table — Al Salim, who had visited days before under the guise of courtesy.
Al Salim cleared his throat. "We've seen this before. Men marrying into power, only to disappear when the tides shift."
Tariq leaned forward, voice firm. "And I've seen men born into privilege who never learned loyalty because they never had to earn it."
Someone hissed. A sharp breath. Al Salim's jaw clenched.
Zahra's voice, low and final, cut through the tension.
"Enough."
She rose.
The table followed — an unspoken rule.
"I think it is only normal for me to make something clear to everyone here. I brought my husband here not for your approval," Zahra said, her voice echoing across polished stone, "but out of courtesy. Let that not be confused with permission."
The chamber fell into stone silence.
She extended her hand.
Tariq took it.
They left as they had come — side by side.
The sound of her heels echoed behind them, each step like thunder against the hush of old power.
Back in their wing, Zahra removed her veil and tossed it gently onto the nearest chair. Her hands trembled.
"You were brilliant," she whispered, facing him fully now, stripped of courtly distance.
"I was actually terrified," Tariq confessed.
"That makes two of us."
She stepped closer, drawn not by duty, but something deeper. Something personal.
"Tonight, you didn't just stand beside me. You carried me."
"And I always will,hayati" he murmured.
Her hand rose to his face, her thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
"I think I'm falling for you," she said, voice barely a breath.
Tariq froze — not from fear, but awe. And joy.
"Then fall," he whispered. "I'll catch you."
And for the first time since their marriage, they weren't bound by duty or alliance. They weren't tethered by legacy or political need.
They were simply two people.
Holding on.
To each other.
But beyond the thick curtains of the estate, the council's silence was not submission.
It was strategy.
And in the shadows of Nuradrah, something moved — silent, swift, and sharp.
A secret. A name.
A storm just beginning to stir.
Cliffhanger
Just when Tariq believes he has earned Zahra's full trust, a single name from her veiled past resurfaces — threatening to unravel everything they've built and unearth truths behind the empire buried long ago.