The mist curled around Aarifa's ankles as she followed him, her steps slow and unsure.
She had no name for him yet, no reason to trust him, but something in the way he moved, graceful and certain, made her feet obey before her mind could catch up.
Behind her, the loom faded into nothingness, threads snapping like dry twigs.
"What is this place really?" she asked, her voice small against the endless mist.
He glanced over his shoulder, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "It is what it has always been. A place between what is written and what is broken."
She frowned. "That is no answer."
He smiled slightly, the curve of his mouth both kind and dangerous. "It is the only one that matters."
They walked deeper into the mist. Strange shapes loomed and melted away. Some looked like broken palaces, others like shattered mirrors reflecting faces she almost recognized.
"Who are you?" she pressed, stepping closer. "Why were you waiting?"
He slowed until they walked side by side.
"I am someone who remembers," he said softly. "And you... you are someone who was forgotten. Until now."
The words prickled against her skin. She should have been afraid. Zahra would have shouted for her to run. Khurram would have drawn his sword.
But Aarifa only felt an aching kind of curiosity, a pull stronger than fear.
They came upon a clearing where the mist thinned.
Above them, threads hung in the sky like stars strung on invisible hooks. Some burned silver. Others flickered red. Some were torn, frayed at the ends.
In the center of the clearing stood another loom, larger and older than any Aarifa had ever seen. Its frame was carved from a wood so dark it seemed to swallow the light.
"This is the true loom," the man said, his voice reverent. "The one that writes the endings."
She stepped forward, heart thundering. "Is that why you brought me here? To finish what I started?"
"No," he said, so quietly that she almost missed it. "To unmake what was never meant to be."
Aarifa turned to him, suspicion creeping in. "You know about the falcon. About the war."
"I know more than that," he said. His eyes caught hers, and for a moment, the world shrank until it was just them and the humming of unseen threads. "I know that your weaving was only a beginning."
She shook her head. "I did not choose to see those visions. I only wove what the threads showed me."
"And now you can choose to stop it," he said, stepping closer.
The air between them buzzed with an energy she could not name.
"Or," he continued, "you can weave a new fate. One that belongs to you alone."
Aarifa's throat tightened. "And what if I refuse?"
His smile was slow, almost sad. "Then you will return to your world. To Khurram. To war. To death."
He said the prince's name without mockery, but it hit Aarifa like a slap.
"You know about him," she said.
"I know what he will become," he said. "A king. A lover. A betrayer."
She flinched.
"You weave futures," he said, his voice softer now. "But you never wove your own."
Silence stretched between them.
Above, one of the silver threads snapped with a soft sigh. Aarifa watched it drift down like a feather and vanish into the mist.
The man extended his hand. Palm open. Waiting.
"Let me show you," he said. "Let me teach you how to weave your own life."
For a heartbeat, Aarifa stood frozen.
Khurram's face flashed before her mind. His hands. His voice. His promises, half-whispered in the dark.
But so did the image of the falcon, wings spread in warning.
And this man... this stranger... he felt like a thread she had not yet dared to touch.
Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand in his.
Warmth rushed up her arm, and for a moment, she thought she saw a hundred visions at once: cities burning, rivers turning to gold, her own face crowned in stars.
She gasped and staggered, but he caught her easily, pulling her close enough to hear his heartbeat.
"Do not be afraid," he murmured into her hair. "You are stronger than you were taught to believe."
He led her to the loom.
"This time," he said, "you will choose the first thread."
Aarifa stared at the vast array of colors stretched before her. Gold, crimson, silver, black, colors she had no names for.
Her fingers trembled as she reached out.
Before she could grasp one, the ground shuddered beneath them.
The mist recoiled like a living thing.
Aarifa stumbled back. The man turned sharply, his face hardening.
From the mist, shadows began to emerge.
Figures.
Not like the veiled woman from before. These figures were darker, less human. Their bodies were stitched together from broken threads, their mouths sewn shut.
They moved with jerky, unnatural steps, advancing toward the loom.
"What are they?" Aarifa whispered, heart pounding.
"The Guardians," he said grimly. "They protect the old weavings."
The first of the stitched figures lunged.
The man pushed Aarifa behind him and raised his hand. Threads of pure light lanced from his fingers, slicing through the shadow creature.
It shrieked without a mouth and dissolved into mist.
"Go," he said sharply to Aarifa. "Choose a thread. Now."
"But—"
He turned to her, eyes burning. "If they reach the loom before you do, you will lose your chance."
Another shadow leaped. He caught it midair, tearing it apart with a twist of his hand.
Aarifa turned back to the loom.
The threads blurred before her, every color vibrating, every choice a song she did not yet know how to sing.
Her hand hovered.
Gold?
Crimson?
Silver?
The ground shook again. A Guardian slammed into the side of the loom, and cracks spiderwebbed through the ancient frame.
Hurry, her heart screamed.
Her fingers closed around a thread.
It burned against her skin.
The man fought behind her, his voice calling warnings she barely heard.
She tugged the thread free.
The world exploded in light.
The loom shattered.
The mist howled like a dying beast.
Aarifa was thrown backward, landing hard against the mist-softened ground.
When she opened her eyes, the Guardians were gone.
The mist was thinner now, revealing more of the Threads Between.
And the man...
The man knelt by the broken loom, breathing hard, blood trickling from a cut on his brow.
Aarifa crawled toward him.
"What did I do?" she whispered.
He lifted his head.
And smiled.
"Exactly what I hoped."
Before she could ask what he meant, footsteps echoed from the mist.
Not shadows this time.
Real ones.
A group of men and women dressed in silver robes, their faces hidden behind blank masks.
At their center walked a woman in scarlet, her eyes sharp as knives.
The man stiffened. His hand found Aarifa's wrist again.
"You must run," he said urgently.
"Who are they?"
"Those who want to bind you to the old ways," he said. "If they catch you now, you will never weave your own fate again."
The scarlet woman raised her hand.
Threads lashed out like whips, striking the ground near Aarifa's feet.
She jumped back, heart hammering.
The mist behind her parted.
A path opened.
Not the way she had come.
Not back to Delhi.
Somewhere new.
Somewhere she had not yet dared to dream of.
The man squeezed her hand once.
"Trust me," he said. "Run."
For a second, she hesitated.
And then the threads snapped again, closer this time.
She ran.
Not knowing where the path would lead.
Only that if she stayed, she would lose herself forever.
Behind her, the scarlet woman's laughter rang through the Threads Between, sharp as broken glass.