POV Ruqayyah
They settled onto the cushions. Ruqayyah bit into a soft date and a crisp almond sweet, then reached for a piece of warm bread, fresh from the oven. The flavors were rich, the spices fragrant, each bite coaxing a small smile. The quiet comfort of the household, its warmth and generosity, brought a fleeting sense of peace.
Ruqayyah gazed down at her plate, now heaped with delicacies, and murmured softly, "Such moments… rare, yet precious," savoring the calm that lingered in this noble residence.
That afternoon, as they returned from the hot baths along the Tigris, the sun leaned westward, casting a golden wash over the courtyard of Wazir al‑Fadl's residence. Ruqayyah stepped lightly from the carriage beside Salma, the lingering scent of steam and river water clinging to her skin.
Guards stood at the gate in rigid formation, their armor catching the dying light, spears upright, faces calm—dutiful, untroubled. Among them, Zahra balanced a tray of sweets, her gentle smile unwavering. Salma paused, her gaze softening with a sudden pang of guilt.
"Ah… it seems you have been properly attended to," she said quietly. "I almost forgot that you, too, have families. Forgive me." Zahra bowed her head immediately. "It is nothing, my lady. We are grateful for the care shown." Her eyes flicked toward the guards, hesitant. "We only… took a small meal, without formal leave." Salma's lips curved in a faint smile. "That is no sin. Go on."
----
Elsewhere, the city seethed with a far darker energy. Anger boiled through the streets like a river threatening to burst its banks. Torches flared against the night sky, casting flickering shadows along narrow alleys. Takbīr rang out, colliding with angry cries, and the air itself shivered with long-suppressed hatred. Smoke, sweat, and dust stung the nostrils, mingling with the coppery tang of blood from skirmishes already unfolding on the outskirts.
At the center of the throng stood Ibrahim ibn al‑Mahdi, a human storm. His face glowed in torchlight, flushed with fury, his voice rolling over the crowd like thunder across the plains. "The appointment of ʿAli al‑Ridā as heir is an insult!" he bellowed. "A betrayal of Abbasid blood—of Baghdad itself!"
The crowd erupted. Shouts and ululations ricocheted off mud-brick walls, rattling windows and startling camels tethered nearby. Men surged forward, weapons clashing, shields scraping, boots pounding in rhythm—a heartbeat of rebellion across the city.
Harun, one of Ibrahim's trusted lieutenants, broke from the mass, his cloak torn at the shoulders, eyes burning with fanatical energy. "My lord! Word has reached us that the wife of al‑Fadl and his daughter are in his house, here in Baghdad!"
Ibrahim's lips twisted into a bitter laugh. "The fool al‑Fadl," he sneered. "He has sent his family into the lion's den—into the jaws of his enemies."
Harun's fist clenched, knuckles white in the torchlight. "Then we strike, Ya Amir! Burn their gates! Let the smell of fire remind Baghdad of the Persian poison he has brought into our city!"
"Long live Ibrahim ibn al‑Mahdi!" someone shouted. The cry echoed, repeated like a chorus of wrath and loyalty. "Long live the rival caliph of Baghdad!"
Amid the chaos, al‑Muʿtasim moved carefully through the crowd, eyes narrowed, taking in the mayhem. He felt the heat of the torches, the uneven clamor of boots and shields, the acrid smoke that burned his throat.
This is madness, he thought. Not rage—but calculation. Baghdad teetered on the edge, its streets rivers of fury. If I do not act tonight, the Arab factions may be lost entirely. Every shout, every clash of metal, every hiss of flame demanded allegiance, whether he willed it or not. Conscience would wait; politics would not.
The crowd surged forward like a living tide, carrying Ibrahim and Harun, firebrands, rocks, and the raw anger of generations who felt betrayed. Al‑Muʿtasim slipped between bodies, measuring each step, each gesture, knowing one wrong move could tip the scales of power—or death.
Their destination was clear: the house of al‑Fadl. Night itself pulsed with the promise of violence.
"Daughter of Wazir al‑Fadl! Come out at once!" a voice shouted.
Ruqayyah froze. Then—a sharp, cold sound rang inside her head.
[EMERGENCY ALERT!! Host in extreme danger. The residence of Wazir al‑Fadl is under attack by the Arab faction rebels of Baghdad]
"What…?" Her breath caught. "That can't be right. The Wazir is respected—feared, even—"
[RESPONSE! Negative, Host. Wazir al‑Fadl ibn Sahl is deeply despised by Arab Abbasid factions]
"And the guards…" Her voice trembled. "There are many of them below. They can hold them off—buy time—"
[Updated analisis : the guards will not endure. Cause: delayed-effect poison distributed throughout their bodies. No survival probability detected]
Ruqayyah blinked, stunned. "Poison…?" The afternoon flashed in her mind—Zahra, the tray, the smile, the sweets.
[Confirmation poison source identified: sweets distributed by Zahra. Zahra classified as traitor]
Ruqayyah covered her mouth, chest tightening. "Zahra…?"
Another memory struck—Aisha's head slammed down, blood, darkness… then transmigration.
"Why didn't Aisha ever say—?"
[Respone traumatic memory fragmentation detected. Subject Aisha lost critical details. Host, this is not the time to investigate. You must survive first]
Below, the front doors were struck again, harder. The shouts were closer.
Ruqayyah shook. "What should I do…?"
[Good news! Host, you possess a gift: concealment from hostile entities. Activate now?]
"Yes," she whispered, panic threading her voice. "Activate. Now."
[GIFT ACTIVATED! Concealment Mode: ACTIVE. Duration: 20 minutes]
The world rippled. Her body faded. She vanished.
Ruqayyah ran down the stairs. In the courtyard, her chest felt as if struck by a hammer. Her mother—Salma—was being held roughly, face drained of color, hands trembling.
"If you do not come out," someone shouted, "we will kill your mother!"
Silent tears slid down Ruqayyah's face. She isn't truly my mother… so why does it hurt this much?
[These emotions originate from the original host body. Move. Do not stop. Escape immediately]
It is clear that Ruqayyah is full of human compassion. In the 21st century, she was deeply moved by the suffering of civilians in countries under attack. Now, centuries earlier, she felt that same ache in her chest—an almost physical weight—watching a woman being struck, surrounded by a throng of rebellious men. Her heart tightened with sorrow, and a surge of helplessness washed over her, yet she could not look away.
[WARNING! Remaining concealment time: 17 minutes. Recommended destination: the residence of the Governor of Baghdad, al‑Hasan ibn Sahl]
"I can't," she whispered. "My mother is still here."
She moved among them—unseen. Close enough to smell iron and sour sweat on the rebels' bodies.
And then she saw him. Al‑Mu'tasim.
"He…?"
[This is not the time for doubt, Host. Save yourself]
Ruqayyah clenched her fists. Time was slipping away. The choice before her—would change everything.