The Diwan-i-Khas fell into a stunned silence. The stranger's presence, with the bloodstained jade falcon in hand, disrupted the court's equilibrium. Aarifa's heart pounded, her fingers still clutching the shuttle mid-weave. The threads on her loom trembled, mirroring the tension in the air.
Emperor Jahangir's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting between the stranger and the half-finished tapestry. "Who are you to interrupt the court?" he demanded, his voice echoing through the marble hall.
The stranger stepped forward, unflinching. "I am but a messenger," he replied, his voice calm yet commanding. "A bearer of truths woven in blood and silk."
Khurram's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, but Mumtaz Mahal's subtle shake of the head stayed his action. The court watched, breath held, as the stranger approached Aarifa.
"This falcon," he said, raising the jade artifact, "was meant to remain hidden. Yet here it is, unveiled before the empire. What secrets have you unraveled, weaver?"
Aarifa met his gaze, her voice steady. "Only those that the threads reveal. I weave what is, not what I wish."
The stranger's eyes flicked to the tapestry, where the twin-headed falcon now loomed over a burning throne. "Then let us see what fate you have spun."
He reached out, fingers brushing the fabric. Aarifa flinched, but he merely traced the threads, his expression unreadable.
Suddenly, the tapestry shimmered, the images shifting. The falcon's wings beat, flames flickering more fiercely. Gasps erupted from the courtiers as the woven scene came alive, a spectacle of magic and prophecy.
Jahangir stood, his face pale. "What sorcery is this?"
The stranger turned to him, bowing slightly. "Not sorcery, Majesty. Truth made visible."
Aarifa's hands moved instinctively, continuing the weave. Each pass of the shuttle added depth to the living image. A veiled figure emerged, holding a dagger dripping with blood. The court murmured, recognizing the emblem on the figure's robe—the mark of the Saanjh.
Zahra, standing at the edge of the hall, stepped forward. "This is a warning," she said, her voice clear. "Aarifa's visions have always been warnings."
The stranger nodded. "Indeed. And now, the time to heed them has come."
He turned to Aarifa, his expression softening. "The threads you weave are powerful. But power without guidance can unravel the world."
Aarifa paused, the shuttle in her hand. "Then guide me. Help me finish this."
He extended his hand, and together, they wove. The tapestry responded, the images clarifying. A new figure appeared—a child with eyes like stars, standing between the falcon and the throne.
Jahangir stepped closer, his voice hushed. "What does this mean?"
The stranger looked at him, then at Khurram and Mumtaz. "It means that the future is not set. That choices made now will shape what is to come."
Suddenly, the hall's doors burst open again. A soldier rushed in, bloodied and breathless. "Majesty, the southern gates have been breached. Rebels are within the city."
Chaos erupted. Courtiers scattered, guards drew weapons, and the Emperor barked orders. Amidst the turmoil, Aarifa and the stranger continued to weave, the tapestry now depicting the city under siege, flames consuming the skyline.
Zahra reached Aarifa's side. "We must go. It's not safe here."
Aarifa looked at the tapestry, then at the stranger. "I can't leave it unfinished."
He placed a hand on hers. "Sometimes, the threads must be cut to begin anew."
Reluctantly, Aarifa stood, the tapestry glowing behind her. As they turned to leave, a shadow detached from the columns; a figure cloaked in darkness, eyes gleaming with malice.
"Going so soon?" the figure hissed, stepping into the light. In his hand, he held a blade identical to the one in the tapestry.
The stranger stepped protectively in front of Aarifa. "You."
The figure smiled coldly. "The threads have been tangled long enough. It's time to sever them."
With a swift motion, he lunged. The hall echoed with the clash of steel and the cries of destiny being rewritten.
Aarifa's breath hitched. Her fingers remained on the loom, trembling, caught between terror and defiance.
The hall erupted. Ministers surged to their feet, voices overlapping: some shouting for guards, others for clarity. But the Emperor raised a single hand, and the room fell still.
The stranger stepped closer, his boots echoing across marble. The jade falcon glinted red beneath the torchlight. "You left this behind," he said, holding it out. "A careless move. But maybe… deliberate?"
Aarifa's voice was barely a whisper. "How did you get that?"
His eyes gleamed. "You gave it to me. You just don't remember yet."
Khurram moved first. His sword rasped free of its sheath, the sound sharp in the silence. He positioned himself between the stranger and Aarifa, his stance that of a trained warrior. "Enough riddles. Who are you?"
The man tilted his head. "Does the name Aslan mean nothing to you?"
A murmur ran through the ministers. Jahangir's gaze sharpened. "Aslan?" he repeated. "That name is banned in this court. He died a traitor's death."
"Did he?" Aslan smiled faintly. "Or did he simply vanish when it was no longer convenient to know the truth?"
Aarifa stared at him. His features were unfamiliar, but something in his voice tugged at a hidden memory like the echo of a dream she had forgotten long ago. "What do you want?"
"I want the cloth," Aslan said. "It doesn't belong to you. It never did."
Aarifa rose slowly, her fingers tightening around the loom's frame. "I saw it. I wove it. And I'll finish it."
He shook his head. "You're playing with forces you don't understand. You've opened a gate that cannot be closed."
"You speak like you own fate."
"I weave fate," he said.
The Emperor stood now, his tone razor-sharp. "If you claim to be a Saanjh, then you know you have no right to force another weaver's hand."
"Unless that weaver endangers us all," Aslan replied. "She's seen too much. She's shown too much. That cloth… it will incite rebellion."
Jahangir's voice was cold. "Then perhaps rebellion was already in the air."
Aslan's eyes flicked to him, then back to Aarifa. "If you finish that cloth, kingdoms will fall. Blood will drown the thrones of men. Are you ready for that weight?"
Aarifa stepped forward. "No one else has to carry it. I will."
For a beat, everything was silent.
Then Aslan moved.
So fast that no one saw the blade until it flashed a curved dagger pulled from his robes, aimed not at Aarifa, but at the loom.
Khurram blocked him.
Steel clashed, ringing like a bell across the chamber. The force of the blow sent both men staggering. Aslan recovered first, spinning, blade in hand, moving with the fluid grace of someone who had killed before.
Guards surged in, but Jahangir held up a hand again. "No one interferes."
Khurram lunged, their blades locking once more. "You won't silence her."
"I'm not silencing her," Aslan snarled. "I'm saving her from herself."
Aarifa stood frozen beside her loom, watching the threads flutter in the still air. The cloth was alive. It shimmered now, its patterns shifting. As if it too felt the danger in the room.
Then she saw it.
A flicker.
New shapes emerging beneath the falcon's wings. The fire had spread. A throne cracked. A face she didn't recognize, crowned and bloodied. And beside it… a hand extended. Not in violence, but in mercy.
Her hands moved before she could stop them.
She reached for the shuttle.
And began to weave.
The duel raged behind her, blades singing through the air. Cries echoed. Zahra stood at the edge of the hall, fists clenched, eyes darting between Aarifa and the chaos unfolding.
Aslan saw what she was doing.
He broke away from Khurram, slashing a guard aside, sprinting toward the loom.
"No!" he shouted. "Do not finish it!"
But it was too late.
Aarifa's shuttle moved with unearthly speed, her hands a blur. Thread slid through fingers like wind, the pattern racing ahead, desperate to reveal what must be seen.
And then, a flash.
The cloth burst with light. Not fire, not heat. But a sudden, searing brilliance that engulfed the hall.
Everyone shielded their eyes.
And when it faded, Aarifa was gone.
Only the loom remained.
And in its place… a single, final thread. Dangling.
Uncut.