The road to Delhi was less a path and more a decision. Aarifa and Zahra traveled under heavy skies, clouds swollen and low, as if the heavens themselves were watching. They moved quickly, quietly, never staying long in one place. Word of unrest had begun to leak through the villages: murmurs of tension in the court, rumors of spies, soldiers moving like shadows.
But Aarifa didn't waver. The cloth was with her, wrapped tightly in layers of muslin, protected as best as it could be. She didn't touch it again after Agra. Not yet. Not until she could finish it where it needed to be seen.
Zahra rode beside her on a borrowed mule, constantly alert. "You still think this is a good idea?" she asked one night as they sat beside a modest fire.
"I don't think it matters," Aarifa said. "It's what I have to do."
Zahra exhaled, tossing twigs into the flames. "You've changed."
"I saw what's coming," Aarifa replied. "It changes you."
By the time Delhi's walls rose before them, they were dust-covered and worn. The city pulsed with life. Merchants hollered in narrow lanes, soldiers barked orders, and everywhere, the air shimmered with heat and tension.
They entered under the guise of traders, using coins from Zahra's hidden stash. No one questioned them. Not yet.
Inside the city, the palace loomed like a marble mirage. Imposing, pristine, and entirely unreachable for those without titles or names. Aarifa had neither.
But she had the cloth.
They found shelter in a small weaving quarter where Zahra once had distant family. A cramped room, but safe. That night, Aarifa unwrapped the fabric. Its colors had darkened, the reds deeper, the shadows more defined. The falcon's wings were nearly complete now, stretched wide across the length of the cloth, and beneath it, fire licked the edges of the throne. She ran her fingers across the unfinished threads. They itched to be woven.
"We'll need help," Zahra said. "You can't just walk into the court."
Aarifa nodded. "I know who we need."
It took two days to track her down—Mumtaz Mahal. Or rather, one of her handmaidens, a clever-eyed woman who remembered Aarifa from Agra. A note was passed. A meeting was arranged. Late at night, in a perfumed garden behind the harem quarters.
Mumtaz stood cloaked, her expression unreadable. "You're supposed to be hiding," she said without greeting.
"I was," Aarifa replied. "Now I'm ready."
Mumtaz's gaze fell to the bundle in Aarifa's arms. "You finished it?"
"Almost. I need to do the rest in the Diwan-i-Khas."
"In the court?" Mumtaz blinked. "Are you mad? You'd be killed."
"Not if they see it unfold."
The Empress looked at her a long time, eyes narrowing. "What you're asking is impossible."
"No," Aarifa said quietly. "It's necessary."
After a moment, Mumtaz said, "Khurram will not protect you."
"I'm not asking him to."
"Then what are you asking?"
"Let me speak. Let me weave. That's all."
Mumtaz hesitated. Then nodded once. "Be at the court by sunrise."
They didn't sleep that night. Zahra tightened the bindings around Aarifa's satchel. Aarifa's fingers stayed steady. No fear now. Only resolve.
At dawn, the palace gates opened.
The marble corridors shimmered with early light. She walked past men in silks, soldiers in polished armor, eunuchs who stared but did not speak. The cloth remained wrapped until she stood before the guards outside the hall of private audience.
"I have a weaving to present," Aarifa said. "A vision for the Emperor."
One of them laughed. "And who are you?"
"A weaver," she said simply. "But the threads don't lie."
Before they could respond, a voice called from within. Mumtaz.
"Let her through."
Aarifa stepped inside.
The Diwan-i-Khas was quiet, not yet filled with the bustle of morning deliberations. But Jahangir sat at the far end, already flanked by ministers. His eyes narrowed as she approached.
"Aarifa of Agra," he said. "I remember your red shawl."
She bowed. "I have something else to show you."
He raised an eyebrow. "You were warned once."
"I was," she said. "But I didn't listen."
He gestured. "Speak, then. Quickly."
She stepped forward and unwrapped the cloth.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
The falcon. The fire. The rising prince. All visible. All undeniable. The ministers leaned forward, their mouths parting. Jahangir's expression remained blank.
"What is this?" he asked coldly.
"A vision," Aarifa said. "It's not finished. I need to complete it here, in your presence. So none can claim it false."
Khurram entered then, his gaze catching hers.
He said nothing.
Jahangir looked from Aarifa to his son. "You're risking death, girl."
"I know," she said.
"And yet you come."
"I came because hiding doesn't stop war."
He stared at her a long time. Then waved a hand.
"Let her weave."
Aarifa stepped forward, knelt, and pulled the loom from her satchel; portable, small, just enough. She attached the cloth, lifted the shuttle.
And began to weave.
The hall fell into silence.
With each pass of thread, a new image began to emerge.
A dagger.
A veiled face.
A twin-headed falcon.
Gasps rose again.
But Aarifa didn't stop.
Because with every thread, the truth came closer.
And then, the doors slammed open.
A new figure strode in.
Clad in black.
Face uncovered.
And in his hand… a bloodstained jade falcon.
"Aarifa," he said. "Step away from the cloth."
She froze.
Khurram rose to his feet.
The Emperor stood.
Zahra cried out.
But Aarifa did not move.
Not yet.
Because the falcon in the stranger's hand… was hers.
She had left it hidden, tucked inside her satchel in Burhanpur.
How had he gotten it?
Who was he?
His eyes locked on hers. Calm. Knowing.
"You shouldn't have come here," he said, stepping closer. "You've shown them too much."
Khurram's voice rang across the hall. "Who are you to speak for fate?"
The stranger smiled.
"I don't speak for fate," he said softly. "I rewrite it."
And in that moment, Aarifa knew he wasn't just a threat.
He was the hand behind the loom… pulling threads she hadn't yet seen.