The morning after the council dinner dawned quieter than usual, cloaking the estate in a silence that felt less like peace and more like pause—like the world was holding its breath.
Tariq rose before the first call to prayer, long before the maids began sweeping the corridors or the scent of cardamom and bread filled the kitchen halls. His sleep had been shallow, fractured by images of Zahra—her voice, her fierce defense of him, the delicate weight of her hand resting in his, and the tremble in her whisper: "I think I'm falling for you."
Yet beneath the warmth of those words, something unsettled stirred. A whisper he couldn't name. A quiet shift in the air, like the hush before a storm that changes everything.
He moved through the eastern wing slowly, his bare feet brushing the cold marble. The ornate windows, etched with geometric vines, cast honeyed light across the hallway, but it felt dim to him—muted.The usually calming scent of sandalwood now mingled with something sharper. An edge.
By the time he reached the breakfast salon, a familiar attendant was already laying the morning spread: sun-dried apricots, figs soaked in rosewater, and warm saffron bread. Yet it wasn't the food that caught Tariq's eye.
It was the envelope resting neatly on his tray.
Deep forest green. No seal. No crest. Only his name inked in fine, deliberate strokes.
Tariq picked it up, instincts on high alert. He unfolded the paper, his eyes narrowing as he read the brief, cryptic message:
> There is something you deserve to know.
Ask her about Harith.
No signature. No return address. No explanation.
Just a single name. Harith.
It struck like flint—sparking unease and confusion. Who? Why now?
Tariq stared at the note, then refolded it with meticulous care and set it back on the silver tray untouched by breakfast. The attendant offered tea. He declined it.
Instead, he walked.
He needed space. Movement. Air.
Through the corridor of arched pillars, past the peacock mosaic, across the garden's narrow stone bridge—he wandered without purpose except to outrun the questions galloping in his mind.
Who was Harith? Why would someone send this? Was it a warning? A trap?
When he reached the Falcon Fountain, he paused.
She was already there.
Zahra stood in serene stillness beside the water, her pale blue abaya catching the morning light. Her veil was loosely draped today, as if she too had risen with thoughts too heavy to anchor. Her hands were clasped before her, motionless. Too motionless.
"You knew I'd come," he said gently.
She nodded without turning.
Tariq stepped closer, the stone beneath his sandals cool and damp with dew. For a moment, he said nothing. The splashing of water from the bronze falcon's beak was the only sound.
Then softly, he asked, "Who is Harith?"
The name seemed to freeze the air between them.
Zahra's breath hitched. Her eyes, which had been focused on the rippling water, did not shift for several heartbeats. But when she finally spoke, her voice was a fragile tether, drawn tight.
"He was my second husband."
Tariq's heart faltered.
"The one who disappeared?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes," she murmured. "But not in the way they told you."
At last, she turned to him. There were no tears in her eyes—but there was something deeper. A weathered truth. The kind carried for too long in silence.
"They said he left because I was cold. Because I was distant. Because I couldn't give him what he needed." She let out a bitter laugh—soft and hollow. "The tale they fed the council was one of inconvenience. Of a young widow who couldn't be loved twice."
Tariq remained quiet, his eyes fixed on hers, letting her speak without interruption.
"But the truth," Zahra said slowly, "is far less poetic."
She looked away again, her gaze drifting to the carved marble edge of the fountain.
"Harith came for power. Not love. Not partnership. He wanted control—of the estate, of my inheritance, of me. At first, he was gentle. Charmed even my aunt, who said he reminded her of my father. But it was all calculation. A mask."
She exhaled, her hands beginning to tremble at her sides.
"Over time, he began cutting off my access to the council. Redirecting financial matters without consulting me. He forged signatures. Discredited my voice. And slowly, he made me feel like a guest in my own home."
Tariq's jaw clenched. His fists curled at his sides.
"One night," Zahra said, her voice cracking slightly, "I found undeniable proof. Bank records. Property transferred to a name I didn't recognize. I confronted him."
Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with the fire of long-held rage.
"He laughed in my face. Told me no one would believe me. That the council saw me as ornamental—a girl wrapped in silks and titles. He said I'd be discarded like a flawed jewel if I dared speak."
Tariq's chest heaved.
"What happened then?"
Zahra paused. Her gaze found the falcon's eyes, as if drawing strength from its stone gaze.
"I told the council. Or at least, I tried. Some believed me. Others didn't. But in the end... he left. Or was made to. It was handled quietly. Silenced for the sake of honor."
"And you?" Tariq asked softly.
"I was told to be quiet. That scandal would destroy what my father built. That silence was strength." She drew a sharp breath. "So I obeyed. And I buried it."
A long silence stretched between them, the kind that only grows when pain is layered deep.
"But now?" he asked.
Now her eyes turned toward him, unflinching and clear. "Now, I'm tired of silence."
Tariq stepped forward, his hand reaching out—not in pity, but in solidarity. She didn't flinch. Instead, her fingers slipped into his, anchoring in their warmth.
"I don't care who he was," he said, his voice steady. "Only who you are now. And what you choose to be tomorrow."
Zahra's grip tightened.
"I choose truth," she whispered, as if making an oath. "Even if it shakes everything."
The sun broke fully over the estate then, casting golden light over the two of them—standing hand in hand before the fountain that had once been just a meeting place.
Now, it was the beginning of something more.
A veil had lifted—not from her face, but from the truths that once caged her. And for the first time, Tariq saw her not just as the heiress of a legacy—but the rightful ruler of it.
Yet, even as warmth settled between them, far beyond the estate walls, in a quiet corner of Zahirah's underworld, a call was placed.
A whisper traced across a secure line.
And somewhere in the dark—
Harith whispered back.
Whispers of Loyalty
In the quiet shade of the palace's lower courtyard, a group of maids gathered, their hands busily folding linens while their voices fluttered like birdsong.
"I saw her again with Master Tariq," one whispered, a trace of excitement in her eyes. "He actually slowed his steps to walk beside her."
"Of course he did," another giggled. "If you saw her without the veil—Subhana ALLAH—her skin like fresh cream, and those eyes..." She placed a hand over her heart.
"She carries herself like royalty. Even before the marriage is official," said a third. "But not the arrogant kind. She once thanked me for trimming her hem—me!"
One of the older maids nodded thoughtfully. "They call her cold, but I say that woman has warmth, just quiet. Not one of us has ever gone to sleep hungry under her roof. And no girl has been slapped in that household—not once."
"I wish I could see her smile more often," the younger maid murmured. "I feel like... her smile would be soft. Sincere."
The women laughed quietly, but before their talk could drift further, a soft but firm voice rose behind them.
"Back to work, girls."
They turned quickly to see Salma, the head of the household maids, standing by the archway with her usual composed expression. She wasn't scolding, not even frowning—just calmly watching them as she adjusted the folds of her ivory scarf.
"Yes, Salma," they chorused, rising and gathering their baskets and folded cloths.
As they bustled off toward their duties, Salma lingered a moment longer, her gaze trailing after them.
A small, rare smile touched her lips—brief and private.
Because in all their chatter, they had not spoken a single ill word of her mistress. And in a palace where whispers often twisted truth into poison, that, to Salma, was something rare... and deeply reassuring.
From above, leaning quietly against the railing of the upper balcony, Tariq Aslan had caught only the tail end of their words.
He did not interrupt.
Instead, he remained still, eyes following the swirl of maidservants below as they scattered back to their chores.
His chest rose with a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Not out of relief—but pride.
Not every empire was won on battlefields. Some were earned in the hearts of the unseen.
And Zahra had already begun to conquer hers.
---
Cliffhanger
Just when Zahra believes the past has been sealed, it reopens—not as me
mory, but as a living presence walking the streets of Zahirah. And this time, the ghosts have names and voices. Can Tariq stand between her and the truth she most fears?