The Whisper Beneath the Stone

The silence after Khurram left was unbearable.

Aarifa stood there, the flickering oil lamp casting long shadows on the walls, the ancient shawl draped across her arms like a warning passed down through time. The jade falcon lay on her table, unmoving, but her eyes kept darting to it as if it would suddenly lift its wings and speak.

She had barely slept since the night he vanished into smoke.

And now he returned with fire.

She touched the real dagger he had left behind, the cool steel biting into her palm. The imperial crest on the hilt glinted faintly, too clean to be ancient. It was new. It was recent. And it had been placed beneath her loom, waiting to be found. Waiting to brand her as a traitor.

Her breath quickened.

Someone wanted her silenced. Or worse, used.

She turned toward the woven shawl from Emperor Jahangir, still resting beside her. The thread work shimmered in the lamplight, and she felt it call to her again.

A legacy.

A warning.

And now, perhaps… a map.

She pulled her fingers through the threads, almost absently, trying to understand what connected it all.

Two weavers. Two prophecies. Two betrayals.

What if this was a cycle repeating itself?

What if she was never meant to change anything?

But something had shifted within her since Jahangir's words. He was no longer just a distant figure at the head of the empire. He was a man teetering on the edge, with sons poised like blades at his back.

And Khurram…

She didn't know what frightened her more.

That he might be lying. Or that he might be telling the truth.

Zahra entered quietly, holding a bundle of cloth and a waterskin. "The caravan leaves before sunrise. I packed what I could."

Aarifa looked up, startled. "You believe I should go?"

"I believe you should stay alive," Zahra said, her voice taut. "That man may care for you, but he is a prince. And princes belong to power more than they belong to people."

Aarifa nodded slowly.

She reached out, took Zahra's hand. "If I go will you come with me?"

Zahra's eyes flickered with surprise. "You would want me there?"

"You are all I have," Aarifa whispered.

Zahra's jaw trembled, just slightly. Then she nodded. "Then we go."

The night air was sharp when they slipped out through the servant's path behind the weaving quarters. Aarifa wore a plain cotton shawl over her head, the jade falcon tucked in her satchel, the ancient shawl folded tightly beneath it.

No sign of Khurram.

She wasn't sure if she was relieved.

The courtyard was eerily quiet. Even the guards near the stables looked distracted, as if the fire earlier had unsettled more than just the kitchens. They passed unnoticed, hidden by shadow and the worn confidence of Zahra's steps.

But just as they reached the outer wall, Aarifa stopped.

Something felt wrong.

Too still.

Too easy.

She turned and saw him.

A man standing in the shadows near the well. Not Khurram. Broader, cloaked, face hidden. But she saw the glint of steel beneath his robe. Not ceremonial.

Real.

Zahra grabbed her arm. "Run."

They bolted.

The man gave chase.

Their feet pounded against the stone, echoing through the narrow passage that led to the outer gate. The guards didn't stop them…they didn't even move. And that was when Aarifa understood.

They weren't there to stop the man.

They were there to let him through.

The palace wanted her gone.

Or dead.

She stumbled on a loose stone, almost falling. Zahra caught her, yanked her forward. They reached the waiting caravan just as the first call to prayer echoed faintly from the mosque domes in the distance.

Aarifa clambered into one of the carts, breathless, heart racing. Zahra jumped in after, pulled the cloth flap down behind them.

The caravan moved.

And the palace vanished into the mists of dawn.

The hills rose ahead like the curve of sleeping beasts, quiet and ancient. For hours, they traveled in near silence. Aarifa kept her eyes on the road, trying not to look back.

When they stopped at a riverbank to rest the animals, Zahra went to fetch water.

Aarifa stayed behind, fingers brushing the edge of the satchel, her mind spinning.

She pulled out the old shawl again.

There was something beneath the weave. A stitch... not wrong, but different. Almost hidden. She traced it, followed the pattern. It wasn't just a motif.

It was a message.

She unraveled one thread, then another. Beneath the top layer of embroidery, another image revealed itself.

Not a dagger.

Not a crown.

A doorway.

And beside it, a crescent moon etched above an arch.

She recognized that symbol.

The Moon Gate of Burhanpur.

Where Mumtaz had been born.

Where rumors said a hidden archive of Sufi scrolls had once been buried, containing forbidden knowledge: secrets of fate, the stars, the power of names.

No one had found it in years.

Some said it never existed.

But why would a shawl from thirty years ago hide this?

She turned it over in her hands.

Perhaps the truth was never meant to be worn but followed.

When Zahra returned, Aarifa held the shawl up. "We're not running."

Zahra stared. "What?"

"We're going to Burhanpur."

"Aarifa, we need to disappear. Not get caught digging up legends."

But Aarifa's voice was steady. "Someone is using my weavings. But if there's a place where this all began, it's there. I need to know why the thread speaks. I need to know what it wants."

Zahra hesitated and then nodded.

They veered off from the caravan at the next fork. Slipped away before anyone noticed. Took a path through the valley that curved eastward, toward Burhanpur.

It took two days.

The rains came, soft and insistent, turning the roads to mud. But they pressed on.

And on the third night, they reached it.

The Moon Gate.

A ruined arch at the edge of the old city, half buried in vines and stone. The crescent moon still visible, carved faintly into the top.

Aarifa's heart raced.

The shawl's pattern had led them here.

They stepped beneath the gate.

At first—nothing.

Just cracked earth and overgrown moss.

But Zahra spotted it.

A slab of stone, loosened at one end.

They pushed it aside.

Steps led downward into the dark.

They lit a lamp and descended.

The air was thick with damp and dust. But the further they went, the cooler it grew. The silence was total.

At the bottom, there was a chamber.

Shelves carved from the rock. Empty scroll racks. Collapsed wooden tables. But on one wall, a single inscription remained.

A verse in Persian.

Aarifa read it aloud, her voice trembling.

"He who names the pattern shall be bound to it. He who sees the pattern shall be changed by it. But she who weaves it… shall rewrite fate."

They stared at the wall.

"What does it mean?" Zahra whispered.

Aarifa didn't answer.

Instead, she crossed the chamber, drawn to the far corner where something glinted in the light.

Another loom.

Abandoned. Old. But intact.

And something lay on it.

A half-woven cloth. Faded with time.

She touched it, and her body jolted as if struck.

A pattern shimmered on the old fabric.

Not finished. Not yet clear.

But she could see the edge of it forming.

A woman.

A falcon.

A river of blood.

And behind them, a throne in flames.

Then, a voice.

Soft. Feminine.

Not hers. Not Zahra's.

You are the last.

Aarifa gasped.

Zahra turned. "What is it?"

But Aarifa didn't answer.

Because the loom was shifting beneath her hand.

The thread moving again.

And from the shadows behind them… footsteps.

Not one.

Many.

She turned, heart thudding.

Figures were entering the chamber. Hooded. Silent. One by one.

Surrounding them.

And in the center, a woman stepped forward.

Her face veiled.

Her voice like wind through stone.

"You've come far, Weaver. But do you know what you've truly inherited?"

Aarifa opened her mouth to speak…

But the chamber doors slammed shut behind them.

And the flame in the lamp flickered out.