POV Ruqayyah
In the Grand House of al-Fadl
Ruqayyah brushed her hair in the warm morning light, the strands catching the sun like threads of spun gold, when the system's familiar chime startled her.
[Ding! Host, congratulations! You have completed the previous side quest:
Quest: Assist at the Bimaristan
Reward: Permanent body fragrance pill]
Ruqayyah raised a brow, suppressing a laugh. "A permanent body fragrance pill? Are you trying to get me into trouble, huh? It is still fasting hours. My stomach is far too delicate for strong scents."
[Do not worry, Host. You may adjust the fragrance to your liking.]
Her expression softened into one of quiet amusement. "Impressive," she murmured, letting out a soft chuckle as she resumed combing her hair, the sunlight dancing along each strand.
Ruqayyah paused, the comb suspended midair. "Very well. I must be cautious with Zafira—everyone nearly suffered from her recklessness."
[Yes, Host. I will continue assisting you to the best of my ability.]
"Thank you," she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Truly, I am grateful—to God, and to you, my system. Without you, I would be terribly lonely, endlessly longing for home."
[Host, do not be sad. There are still other side quests. Completing them will help open doors back to your original world.]
Ruqayyah allowed herself a faint smile.
[Side Quest: Prepare iftar for the al-Fadl family
Reward: A set of fine silks and a personal herbal apothecary, useful for a noblewoman of the ninth century]
"Oh? That is delightful news. Thank you, System. I shall do it."
She rose and stepped into the vast kitchen of the Grand House of al-Fadl ibn Sahl. The space seemed lifted from a dream: smooth limestone walls gleaming softly in the lamplight, towering agarwood shelves burdened with gleaming copper pots, and the heady aroma of cumin, cardamom, and coriander that clung stubbornly to the air.
Ruqayyah rolled up her sleeves and began kneading bread dough. Her hands moved with the ease of long practice, pressing and folding the soft mass rhythmically, letting the tactile rhythm calm her spirit. She felt a rare sense of belonging here—helping the servants prepare food for iftar, just as she had once assisted her mother at home.
The female servants exchanged cautious glances, hesitant to speak. Salma lingered in the doorway, brows furrowed in disbelief at her daughter's focused movements.
"My daughter… what are you doing in here?" she asked gently, a note of astonishment threading her voice.
Moments later, Al-Fadl returned from Marw, stopping briefly in Baghdad to break the fast with his family. Upon hearing the whispers of the servants, he entered the kitchen and froze.
"Aisha…" he murmured under his breath, taking in the sight of her at work—holding a mortar, chopping vegetables, tasting soups alongside the servants—not to criticize them, but to guide the flavors.
"I wish to help the servants prepare something for iftar. May I?" she said softly, scattering fresh coriander into a simmering clay pot. The scent of herbs and spices seemed to lift the very air in the kitchen. She inhaled deeply, the warm, spice-laden air mingling with the aroma of simmering meat and baking bread, and felt a rare sense of peace settle in her chest.
Salma exchanged a glance with her husband. "Since when can she cut onions without shedding tears?"
Al-Fadl shook his head slowly, a faint, amused smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps… this is part of her spiritual transformation," he murmured, attempting to reassure himself, though the astonishment lingered in his tone.
Suddenly, the kitchen door burst open with a clatter.
"By all the spices of Basra—have I entered the wrong house?!"
The voice ricocheted off the limestone walls. Ruqayyah turned sharply. Layla stood in the doorway, half-laughing, half-stunned, clad in a purple gown embroidered with threads of gold—and absurdly, still wearing wooden sandals.
"Aisha bint al-Fadl… cooking?" Layla fluttered her lashes dramatically, then collapsed onto a bench, laughter spilling like water across the tiles. "Is Baghdad under a jinn invasion? Or have you been replaced by a Khurasani double?"
She leaned over a steaming pot and inhaled sharply. "MashaAllah—and it is not even burnt! You did not burn the kitchen! Subhanallah, angels preserve us—record this as the miracle of the ninth century!"
Salma smiled faintly. "She is… strange today, Layla. But… I like this strangeness."
Al-Fadl muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "If tomorrow she claims she wishes to open a public kitchen for the poor, I shall retire immediately."
Layla, ever playful, dabbed a streak of dough across Aisha's nose. "Tell me—who are you really? You are not the Aisha I know. The Aisha I know cannot tell salt from sugar."
Ruqayyah suppressed a laugh, the sound threatening to escape. Days had blurred past in endless lessons, chores, and recitations, yet now a new excitement thrummed through the household, mingling with the fragrant steam rising from the simmering pots.
As Maghrib approached, the call to prayer drifted across the Tigris, blending with the sizzle of onions in copper pans, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, and the occasional clatter of rolling pins. The scents of fresh bread, turmeric, cinnamon, and simmering stews filled every corner of the house, wrapping the family in a cocoon of warmth and sustenance.
When the al-Fadl family finally gathered to break their fast, the atmosphere brimmed with laughter and the rich aroma of cumin, cardamom, and freshly baked bread. The broth simmered gently, and the warmth of food mingled with the warmth of kinship, forming a small sanctuary amid the bustle of Baghdad.
And in her heart, Ruqayyah whispered softly as the system chimed once more:
[Ding! Congratulations, Host!
Mission: Prepare iftar for the al-Fadl family—completed.
Reward: A set of fine silks and a personal herbal apothecary have been delivered to your system storage.]
Ruqayyah smiled, a quiet, joyful curve of her lips. For the first time that morning, amidst the laughter, the fragrant spices, and the gentle warmth of her family, she felt a profound sense of belonging—a bridge between the life she had left behind and the world she now inhabited.