The late afternoon sun was fading, casting Baghdad in a warm, golden light. Al-Mu'tashim moved through the northern wing of the caliph's palace, his steps soft against polished marble. Outside, the streets were quiet; inside, the palace had its own measured rhythm—footfalls, murmured greetings, and distant laughter of children echoing in the halls.
In the antechamber, Zubaidah, the caliph's widow and his stepmother, waited. Her frame was slender now, fragile, silver streaking her hair, but her eyes retained the warmth that had long earned respect. She rose slightly as he approached, inclining her head with quiet grace.
"Ya Umm," he said with a slight bow. "Has your day been well?"
"Alhamdulillah, Ya Amir," she replied, voice soft, carrying both reverence and care. Her hands trembled slightly as they met, and a faint cough followed.
Al-Mu'tashim's gaze barely lingered. His mind was elsewhere, turned over the caliph's latest decision. Ali Ridha ibn Musa had been elevated as crown prince. The slight felt deliberate.
A loyal attendant stepped forward carefully. "Ya Amir… have you heard the news?"
"The caliph's decision is unjust," Al-Mu'tashim said, low, steady, edged with quiet intensity. His eyes swept the chamber, sharp and calculating. "To pass me over—a son of Harun al-Rashid—and favor Ali Ridha ibn Musa…" He let the words hang, savoring the bitterness. A dry chuckle escaped almost unnoticed.
The attendant stayed silent.
Al-Mu'tashim moved on, his cloak brushing the floor, past the faint scent of jasmine and incense, into his private chamber. There, Shuja, one of his concubines, waited. She stepped lightly, carrying a tray of tea and dates, but her eyes were careful, wary of his famously impenetrable gaze.
"Ya Amir," she said, inclining her head, "has your day been smooth?"
He nodded once, distant. "Leave me, Shuja," he said flatly, ignoring the tray.
From the far hall, the laughter of children drifted in, mingling with the fading light. Al-Mu'tashim remained unmoved. Duty, lineage, alliances—they all pressed on him. But one thought lingered: Ruqayyah.
Her calm defiance at the Majlis of Knowledge, her sharp observations, her courage—rare qualities among Baghdad's scholars.
Shuja hesitated. "Ya Amir… if there are instructions for tonight—"
He lifted a hand. "No need, Shuja. Tonight can wait." His fingers traced the carved surface of his desk, marking the weight of his thoughts. Perhaps… that girl deserved attention. A flicker of softness appeared, masked quickly by his usual sternness.
Shuja bowed and left quietly. Alone, Al-Mu'tashim's chamber, dimming with the sun, seemed to echo with possibilities. Ruqayyah had sparked curiosity, a quiet intrigue in a life ruled by calculation.
---
In House of Wazir al-Fadl
Ruqayyah stepped into the grand house of Wazir al-Fadl, loosening her veil and hanging it carefully beside the door. Incense lingered faintly in the air, mixed with cumin and the warm scent of bread from the kitchen—a calm after long hours at the Majlis al-'Ilm. Evening light spilled through the tall windows, casting stripes of gold across the carpets.
In the kitchen, servants and guards moved with quiet precision, preparing the table for ifṭār. Ruqayyah's eyes found her mother immediately. Salma sat by the window, composed, hands folded in her lap, waiting.
"Did your day go well, my daughter?" Salma asked softly, steady, with gentle affection.
Ruqayyah inclined her head, a faint smile. "It did, Mother. I learned much today."
For a moment, the house felt still, private. Muhammad remained in Marw with al-Faḍl ibn Sahl, leaving the house calm.
The table was modest: lentil soup kept warm, dates with pale raisins, fresh flatbread, tea steeped with cinnamon bark. Salma spread the cloth, and they raised hands in prayer. The room filled with their quiet words as they broke the fast.
Ruqayyah sipped first, then tasted a date. Relief spread through her. Even simple food felt rich after hours of restraint—the warmth of soup, the sweetness of dates, the subtle spice of tea. Her shoulders eased, breath deepened.
Then Salma paused. Her spoon hovered. Ruqayyah noticed immediately.
"Mother," she said softly, "is something wrong?"
Before Salma could answer, the system stirred, visible only to Ruqayyah.
[Host. Salma feels lonely. As the wife of a high official, she lives apart from her husband. And her daughter, once lively, has grown quiet.]
Ruqayyah's fingers gripped the edge of her plate. A small guilt settled in her chest. She had brought the joy of her day home, unaware of what remained unspoken.
She looked up, voice softening. "I am here, Mother. With you."
Salma returned her smile, though a trace of wistfulness lingered.
Later, Ruqayyah sat at the edge of her bed, facing the darkened window. An oil lamp burned nearby, steady and plain. She drew her knees close.
"My family…" she whispered. "I miss them."
Her voice trembled slightly. "God placed me in Aisha's body, but my heart came with me. And the heart…" She swallowed. "It carries much—joy, sorrow, attachment."
The system appeared again.
[Host. Do not grieve. You can return to your world.]
Ruqayyah shook her head. "You do not understand. Sometimes I wonder if returning is what I truly want."
[Why, Host?]
"I wish my soul to draw closer to God," she said. "This life… it feels heavy now."
[Host. I have information you must know.]
She looked up. "What is it?"
[On the night at the Bīmāristān, you were nearly attacked. The assassin was sent by Abbasid elites hostile to al-Faḍl ibn Sahl.]
Her breath caught.
[Fāris intervened. He confronted the assassin to protect you—most likely because you are the Wazir's daughter.]
A chill ran through her, then relief.
[His affinity toward you has risen to Like—30. Your care for his injury contributed.]
Ruqayyah stared at the window's dark glass. "That cannot be," she murmured. "He must not… I am not meant to stay here."
[Heh. Rising affinity may prove useful, Host.]
Her pulse quickened. "Useful? You mean… when I return, he will be confused by Aisha?"
[Affinity is only a measure. Your choices decide outcomes.]
She closed her eyes, recalling his restrained gratitude, the tension in his jaw, the brief softness. What once seemed fleeting now felt significant.
"I cannot allow him harm because of me," she said quietly. "I do not belong here… yet my heart is entangled."
[You are not alone. Many paths remain open.]
Ruqayyah rose and returned to the window. Moonlight spilled into the courtyard, pale and still. Somewhere beyond, Fāris patrolled the city—a young man she had helped, and who had protected her in return.
"Guide me, O God," she whispered. "Protect those I care for, even if I cannot remain with them. Grant me wisdom."
Behind her, the lamp flickered. Her reflection stared back—Aisha's face, her own heart.
[Ding! Side quest complete: Comfort and care for your family. Reward delivered to storage.]
Ruqayyah exhaled slowly. Far from home, she had found something fragile yet real—a place of warmth, responsibility, and bonds she could no longer ignore.