The morning sun fell pale and thin through the jharokhas (ornate overhanging windows), brushing the stone corridors with trembling gold. Aarifa sat at her loom, but her hands refused to obey. The shuttle trembled between her fingers like it carried weight not its own. She had not slept. Not truly.
Khurram's kiss still burned against her lips. Not just a memory, but a mark. A question she could not answer, a thread she could not sever.
And beneath it all… the dagger remained.
Not in her hand. Not in his. But in the cloth she had woven the night before. Still stretched across the loom, blood-red silk catching the light like spilled secrets.
There, etched in golden threads too precise to be accidental, was the pattern. A cracked crown, and beneath it, a dagger. Elegant. Stark. Unmistakable.
Aarifa's breath hitched every time her eyes found it. The blade wasn't curved or ornate. It was clean. Quiet. The kind of thing that didn't scream; it waited. A shape meant to be noticed only once it had already cut.
She hadn't meant to weave it.
But something deeper than intention had taken her hand that night.
Something that knew.
Zahra entered with a quiet knock, bearing a tray of rosewater and cardamom-sweet bread. She paused when she saw Aarifa's face.
"You didn't sleep," Zahra said, placing the tray down. "You dreamed with your eyes open again, didn't you?"
Aarifa said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the woven cloth, her fingers hovering over the dagger as if afraid to touch it.
Zahra followed her gaze and stilled.
"Is that—" she began, but didn't finish.
"Yes," Aarifa said, voice barely above a whisper. "It was in the pattern before I even knew what I was weaving."
Zahra stepped closer, staring at the cloth with the wary reverence of someone gazing at a curse.
"You saw the crown last time," she murmured. "Now this."
Aarifa nodded.
"And you think it's about him?"
Aarifa didn't answer. She didn't need to.
The cloth had already spoken.
By midday, the summons arrived.
She was to attend the Diwan-e-Khas (the Hall of Private Audience) in the royal palace. Not for a poetry gathering or an invitation from Mumtaz Mahal. This time, the Emperor himself would be present.
Aarifa's chest tightened.
Zahra stood behind her as she dressed, braiding her hair with solemn hands.
"Wear the green angarkha," she said referring to a long, robe-like tunic. "Green keeps the heart calm."
But no cloth, however fine, could silence what had already been stitched into her.
The dagger was in her mind now. A part of her. She saw it in the shadows cast by pillars, in the tilt of a courtesan's smile, in the flicker of doubt in Mumtaz's eyes when she greeted her in the marble garden.
"You're trembling," the future Empress observed softly as they walked together toward the hall.
"I'm not afraid," Aarifa replied.
Mumtaz smiled, unreadable. "It's not fear I smell on you, little flame. It's prophecy."
Aarifa nodded. "I did not mean to. It came through me, as if it had waited a long time."
"The broken crown," Mumtaz murmured. "And the dagger?"
"Yes."
The Empress looked up, finally meeting her gaze. "It is not just fate you are weaving, Aarifa. It is danger."
Aarifa stepped forward, her voice steady despite the shaking of her hands. "Then tell me what I must do."
Mumtaz studied her for a long time. "The Emperor returns to court today. You will present your shawl to him. The red one."
"The one with the dagger?"
"Yes," Mumtaz replied. "Wrapped. Folded in such a way that the design reveals itself only if one knows what to look for."
Aarifa's eyes widened. "Why?"
"Because he must know," Mumtaz said. "There are forces moving against him. And against Khurram."
The wind shifted, brushing the hem of Aarifa's robes against her ankles. "You want me to deliver a message. But wrapped in silk."
"Yes," Mumtaz replied. "Because words are too dangerous now. Only thread is safe."
The Diwan-e-Khas was ablaze with light, hundreds of tiny lamps dancing on marble walls in reflection. Courtiers stood in tight circles, their murmurs hushed as the Emperor entered, flanked by guards and Viziers. Shah Jahan, still regal despite the weariness etched into his face, moved with a presence that silenced the room.
Aarifa stood at the edge of the chamber, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. The shawl lay across her arms, folded precisely as instructed. She caught a glimpse of Khurram standing at the far side of the court, his gaze already on her.
She stepped forward.
At first, the Emperor did not notice her. But as she bowed and held the shawl aloft, he paused, then raised a hand. Silence fell.
"She is the weaver the Empress spoke of," one of the attendants said softly in his ear.
The Emperor stepped down from his dais and walked toward her, the train of his robe sweeping over petals scattered on the floor.
"You wove this?" he asked.
Aarifa nodded. "Yes, Jahanpanah." (An honorific meaning "King of the World")
He unfolded the shawl slowly, his fingers practiced in the way of textiles. As he revealed the blood-red silk, the gold embroidery caught the light, and for the briefest moment, Aarifa saw his expression change.
Only slightly. But enough.
He looked up at her, his voice unreadable. "What is your name?"
"Aarifa, Highness."
His eyes held hers. "I have seen this motif before. Long ago, on a piece of cloth left outside a shrine. Do you know what it means?"
"No," she said. "Only what the thread showed me."
He nodded once. Then turned, motioning for one of his advisors to take the shawl.
Aarifa stepped back, trembling. Her eyes found Khurram's once more. His expression was unreadable. But his gaze lingered.
Later, after the court dispersed, a message was brought to her chambers. A folded piece of parchment, sealed with the Empress's crest. Inside, in a careful hand, was written:
"The Emperor has seen. The game has changed. Guard your loom."
That night, sleep eluded Aarifa. She stood at the edge of her chamber's small balcony, looking out over the dark gardens of the zenana. The moon was full, casting everything in silver light.
She felt something shifting again.
The shawl was no longer hers. The message had been sent. But the dagger still haunted her thoughts. Why had it appeared? What did it mean?
A sound behind her made her turn.
Khurram.
Again.
He stepped into the room, quieter than before, his robe ink-black and lined with silver. His eyes found hers at once.
"I saw the shawl," he said. "So did my father."
Aarifa nodded. "I don't know what it means. Only that it's coming."
He took a step closer. "You're changing."
"I'm unraveling," she whispered.
"No," he said. "You're becoming something more."
They stood in silence, the air between them thick with things unsaid.
"You came here again," she said finally. "Why?"
"Because I can't stop," he admitted. "Even if I know it will destroy us both."
Aarifa stepped closer, drawn by something she couldn't name. "Then let it destroy us. But let it be real."
He reached for her, but this time, she caught his wrist instead.
"No lies," she said. "No masks."
He nodded.
And then he kissed her.
Not with hunger. Not with urgency. But with something softer. Truer. As if trying to memorize her into his bones.
When they parted, his breath ghosted against her cheek.
"You will not be safe for long," he murmured.
"I never was," she replied.
Khurram reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a pendant; a small falcon carved from jade.
"This belonged to my mother," he said. "She gave it to me the night before she died. She said it would fly again, when the time was right."
He placed it in Aarifa's hand.
"Then maybe it's time," she whispered.
He stepped back, disappearing into the shadows once more.
Aarifa held the falcon close.
And far in the distance, thunder rolled over the Yamuna.
A storm was coming.
And she was no longer afraid.