Several Months Later — Baghdad, Still 817 CE
A news arrived at the residence of the Governor of Baghdad.
It did not come as an official decree. It came like a whisper that suddenly hardened into a decision.
"We have received a proposal from the caliph for our daughter," Al-Hasan said to his wife, Rabiah.
Rabiah's eyes widened. "Is that true, my husband?"
"Yes."
"For Layla?"
"No. For Khadijah… Buran."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
Al-Hasan exhaled deeply. "I should be pleased with this. But… why Khadijah? Isn't Layla older?"
Rabiah shrugged. "You are right. But let it be. Isn't this good for your position?"
With that, Rabiah entered the chamber shared by Buran and Layla.
"No, Mother… she's still a child," Layla said quickly, her voice sharp with protest.
"Why?" Rabiah's tone snapped, the edge unmistakable. "Are you jealous that she is more fortunate than you? She will become a great empress in history. Not like you—who choose to burden your parents at home."
Layla lowered her head, devastated.
Buran, too young to understand, stared in silent confusion.
Rabiah stroked Buran's hair gently. "My dear… you will wear gowns embroidered with gold and rule a kingdom. Do not refuse this proposal."
Night slowly fell over Baghdad, bringing a quiet that never fully left Layla's heart.
That evening, Layla sat at a small table, pen trembling in her hands as tears smudged the parchment.
"Aisha… I am very sad. May we meet tomorrow?"
She entrusted the letter to one of her trusted guards, instructing him to deliver it in secret.
The letter traveled silently—through Baghdad's twisting alleys, into the hands of careful couriers, carrying prayers unspoken yet fervent.
At the house of Wazir Al-Fadl, Ruqayyah read it with a heavy heart.
"I never imagined I would witness such a moment… I don't know, Layla. God's decree will unfold. And according to the history I know… Buran will indeed marry the caliph."
Zahra entered, balancing a small tray. "My lady, here is your milk and supper. May I speak? These past months, you have seemed unusually calm… ever since the accident last year. What truly happened to you?"
Ruqayyah shook her head gently. "Nothing, Zahra. I just feel… as if I am living in a silent world. Like a game of life too vast for me to imagine. Sometimes, I just want to go home."
Zahra fell silent, not understanding.
Outside the window, Baghdad pulsed on—its streets alive and indifferent, untouched by the unrest of a single soul lost within another's destiny.
Before dawn, the caravan departed Baghdad, bound for Khurasan.
The city's lamps still flickered as the wheels rolled past the gates, and the call to the dawn prayer dissolved into the morning mist.
Ruqayyah sat quietly inside the carriage. The fabric curtains swayed gently whenever the desert wind brushed against the wooden sides.
The journey was long and exhausting—across endless deserts, jagged plains, and rolling hills. Cold winds nipped at the travelers, carrying the faint scent of distant lands.
One night, when the caravan halted at a small ribath, Ruqayyah stepped outside. She lifted her gaze to the Khurasan sky, glittering with countless stars.
Memories of a future she could not fully change flickered through her mind.
"Everything moves toward its appointed time," she whispered softly.
After several weeks, the cold air of Khurasan greeted them. A thin layer of snow dusted the rooftops, and the walls of the Palace of Marw towered above, its iron gates flanked by rows of soldiers holding long spears.
Inside the carriage, Ruqayyah drew a deep breath. She was still adjusting to her new life as the daughter of the Grand Vizier.
Muhammad, sitting across from her, observed the palace courtyard with sharp, careful eyes.
Al-Fadl ibn Sahl stepped forward, his thin smile measured and calm.
"Welcome to Marw," he said, glancing at Salma. "I have long wished to see my family within the palace."
The palace hall gleamed under the warm glow of oil lamps, their light reflecting off Persian carpets and silk curtains. Soft strains from the 'ud and rebab drifted through the air—not celebration, but the solemn hum of formal occasion.
In a quiet corner of the women's chamber, two young girls sat side by side: Layla bint al-Hasan and Ruqayyah.
Their brocade gowns rustled softly as they shifted, hair arranged in modest, courtly styles.
Layla's eyes never left the small figure across the hall—Khadijah Buran. Her tiny frame barely fit the ceremonial chair. Her feet dangled above the floor, and her face was almost hidden beneath a pearl-studded crown far too heavy for her age.
"She doesn't even understand what marriage is," Layla whispered, voice trembling.
"And tonight… her name will be bound to the Caliph," Ruqayyah added softly, weighing each word.
"This is just an akad, Layla," she continued. "Not life as a wife. Uncle al-Hasan would never hand Buran over without protection."
Layla exhaled shakily. "I know. But still… this world is cruel to children made into symbols."
"Relax… she still has eight years before she officially becomes the Caliph's wife," Ruqayyah added with a faint, comforting smile.
"You don't need to comfort me like that," Layla replied.
"Who can truly know what fate holds?" Ruqayyah murmured.
The music swelled—a sign that the ceremony was about to begin. Layla forced a small smile as a servant called them to accompany Buran.
When the last servant left, closing the door gently, Buran's chamber glowed under the flickering light of two oil lamps. Their warmth cast soft shadows across the silk-draped walls.
Buran perched at the edge of the grand bed, far too wide for her small frame. Her crown had been removed; her hair fell loose and uneven, and her heavy gown replaced with a thin sleeping robe. She yawned softly, gazing at her sister and cousin.
"Ukhti Layla… Ukhti Aisha… everyone said I looked beautiful today," she said innocently.
"But my legs hurt so much."
Layla smiled, concern lingering in her eyes.
"That's because you stood all day in heavy clothes. Tomorrow, I'll ask the servants to prepare softer cushions for you."
Ruqayyah smiled faintly.
"At least now, you're free from the crown."
Buran rubbed her legs gently.
"Why did everyone keep staring at me like that?"
Layla stroked her sister's hair. "Because your name matters to the adults now. But listen carefully, Buran. You're still a child. No one has the right to force you to grow up."
Buran blinked, not fully understanding, but a small spark of relief touched her eyes.