The moment the chamber was plunged into darkness, Aarifa's breath caught in her throat. For a second, there was nothing; only the echo of the door slamming shut and the rustle of robes. Then a hiss, the strike of flint, and a mashaal (wooden burning torch) blazed to life. Its flickering light cast shadows on the walls, stretching the figures into distorted silhouettes. The woman with the veiled face stepped closer, torch in hand, her eyes never leaving Aarifa.
"You are not the first to be called," she said, her voice low and sure. "But you may be the last."
Zahra stood beside Aarifa, stiff with fear but eyes sharp. "Who are you? What is this place?"
The woman raised the torch, revealing more of the chamber. Symbols lined the walls, carved deep into the stone—stars, moons, falcons, eyes, and threads.
"We are the Saanjh," she said. "Keepers of the Pattern. Guardians of the old looms and the voices they carry."
Aarifa felt the name ripple through her like an old memory. She had heard it once, whispered by her grandmother in a prayer long before she knew what a loom could do.
"But the Saanjh are a myth," she said. "A story for children."
The woman smiled beneath her veil. "Isn't everything… until it becomes truth?"
Aarifa stepped forward, ignoring Zahra's tug at her arm. "Why did you bring me here?"
"We didn't," the woman replied. "You followed the thread. And it led you to us, as it was always meant to."
The other hooded figures formed a circle around them. Some were women, some men. All silent. Watching.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" the woman asked. "The falcon. The blood. The fire."
Aarifa nodded. "In my weaving. And… in the loom here."
The woman looked at the old cloth still stretched across the ancient loom. "That pattern was begun by one of us. A generation ago. She died before it was finished. We waited for the one who would complete it."
Aarifa's voice caught. "You waited for me."
"Yes."
"But I don't understand what it means. The falcon… the throne in flames… Khurram…"
The woman stepped closer. "The falcon is not just a symbol. It is a fate. A bloodline. It carries ruin and rebirth in its wings."
Aarifa's fingers tightened around the satchel at her side. "Khurram gave me a jade falcon. He said it was meant for me."
The woman's gaze sharpened. "Then it has begun. The pattern is no longer a warning. It is a reckoning."
Zahra cut in, her voice trembling but resolute. "We don't want prophecy. We want safety."
The veiled woman turned to her. "Then you chose the wrong girl to follow."
Aarifa's voice wavered. "What do you want from me?"
"Not want. Need," the woman said. "The empire stands at the edge. The sons of Jahangir are sharpening their blades. And someone is manipulating the weavings; forcing threads into place. Trying to shape a war."
Aarifa swallowed. "I know. Someone planted a dagger beneath my loom. They want me blamed."
"Yes. Because your gift is feared. And your silence would be convenient."
The torches around the chamber were lit now, revealing a vast underground archive. Scrolls, broken statues, shattered remnants of looms. This had once been a sanctuary. A place of knowledge and creation. Now, it barely held on.
"You must finish the cloth," the woman said. "Only then will the full vision be revealed."
Aarifa hesitated. "What if I don't want to know?"
The woman tilted her head. "Then you will still live it."
Aarifa looked at Zahra. Her friend's face was pale, but determined. "We came this far," Zahra said. "We don't turn back now."
With trembling hands, Aarifa approached the loom. The half-woven fabric shimmered in the torchlight, threads frayed at the edges. She picked up the shuttle, its wood smooth from years of touch.
The moment her fingers brushed the weft, a pulse ran through her body. Not pain but something deep. As if the loom had a heartbeat.
She began to weave.
And the world tilted.
She was no longer in the chamber.
She stood in a marble courtyard under moonlight. Shadows danced across a carved jali screen. Voices rose in the distance—Khurram's, sharp and urgent. Another, cooler and clipped. A brother.
Then Mumtaz, kneeling in a garden, her hands covered in blood. A falcon circled overhead, dropping a sealed scroll into her lap.
Another flash.
A fire.
The Red Fort engulfed in flames. Screams in every direction. And at the center of it, a man crowned. Not Jahangir. Not Khurram.
Another prince.
Aarifa recoiled. The loom trembled.
"It's not just prophecy," she whispered. "It's memory."
The veiled woman nodded. "The loom carries what was and what will be. Your gift connects both."
Zahra moved closer. "What did you see?"
"War. But not just between brothers. A betrayal from within. Someone is feeding the future to the wrong hands."
She turned to the woman. "Can I stop it?"
There was silence.
Then the woman said, "Only if you finish the pattern. Only if you accept what you are."
Aarifa looked down at her hands. Thread-stained. Calloused. But steady.
"I will finish it," she said. "But not here."
The woman tilted her head. "Where, then?"
"In the light. Among people. In the court. Where it can't be hidden."
A murmur rippled through the circle.
"That is dangerous," the woman said.
"Hiding hasn't saved anyone," Aarifa replied. "If they want to twist the threads, they'll do it in the shadows. I won't."
The woman studied her for a long moment. Then stepped aside.
"Then go, Weaver. We will watch. But the choice is yours to carry."
They left before dawn, the sky still bruised with night. The shawl was folded carefully in Aarifa's satchel. The unfinished cloth from the secret loom lay beside it.
They did not speak much as they crossed the ruins.
But something had shifted.
Aarifa no longer walked with fear.
She walked with purpose.
Back toward the empire.
Back into its burning heart.
And far behind them, in the shadows of the Moon Gate, the veiled woman whispered to herself.
"She will either save them… or burn with them."