"Your quarters will slow us," Ruqayyah replied, eyes flicking to the map. Boldly, she turned it around to face the general. "…and this route you've planned," she said, pointing, "…will lead us straight into the lion's mouth."
Al-Mu'tashim's temper flared. "You question my judgment? I have won more battles than you have combed your hair!"
"You excel at winning battles, Prince, but you are blind to the art of winning time," Ruqayyah said coolly. She tapped a precise point on the map. "If we march through Hamadan, spies of the rival faction will count every head. You will be occupied with minor skirmishes meant only to delay your arrival in Khurasan until it is too late."
Al-Mu'tashim fell silent. His instincts acknowledged the truth, though his pride bristled. "Then what is your solution?"
"Employ the Double-Envelope strategy," Ruqayyah said, invoking a tactical term that made the general frown. "Send the main force, with your banners, down the southern route. Let them serve as the noise that draws attention. Meanwhile, you, I, and a small elite cavalry unit will cut through the northern path, a narrow mountain pass."
"That path is absent from any official report," Al-Mu'tashim muttered sharply.
"Precisely. It is an ancient route, known only to the family of Wazir Al-Fadl," Ruqayyah's gaze met his, unwavering. "You need my mind to read a terrain unrecorded, and I need your sword to survive. Stop being stubborn, Prince."
Al-Mu'tashim studied her, the fire of battle still in his dark eyes, and yet a flicker of respect stirred beneath the surface. He realized that the girl before him, bold, cunning, and unafraid, was more than a mere obstacle; she was a force to reckon with.
Outside, the barracks hummed with the creak of harnesses and the shuffle of men preparing for the journey. The air was heavy with the mingled smells of leather, metal, and dust, as if Baghdad itself were holding its breath. The sun, a harsh overseer, climbed slowly, casting sharp shadows across the camp.
---
At dawn, beneath the dim arch of the palace's rear gate, the air hung taut as a drawn bowstring. Ruqayyah wore a coarse servant's cloak, its rough weave scratching at her skin, and veiled the lower half of her face with a strip of faded cloth. She kept her head bowed, merging with the line of guards as though she had always belonged among them. Yet their departure proved far less quiet than they had hoped.
A small procession emerged from the thinning dark.
Shuja stepped forward to bid his master farewell. Beside him stood an elderly man of grave bearing, his gaze sharp and glacial—Ibrahim ibn al-Mahdi, uncle to the Prince and rival claimant to the caliphate, a man whose disdain for the Persian faction was no secret in Baghdad.
Shuja's discerning eyes swept the ranks and halted upon Ruqayyah, who stood holding the reins of a bay mare.
"Wait," he called, halting Al-Mu'tashim with an upraised hand. "Since when do you travel with a servant of such delicate frame, Ya Amir? Those hands do not look accustomed to scrubbing soot from barrack walls."
Ruqayyah lowered her head further, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Ibrahim advanced a step. The heavy scent of costly agarwood clung to him, sweet and suffocating. A celebrated musician and poet, he possessed the sharpened instincts of a man trained to hear false notes in the faintest breath.
"Is she your newest favorite, I wonder?" Shuja added lightly, though his eyes watched for the smallest flicker of reaction.
"Guard your tongue, Shuja," Al-Mu'tashim said, his voice edged with command. Shuja fell silent at once, bowing.
Ibrahim drew nearer to Ruqayyah. His hand—veined, age-lined, yet steady—rose as if to snatch away her veil.
"Her movements are too refined for a common drudge," he observed coolly. "Are you smuggling a Persian spy into your ranks, Nephew?"
Before his fingers could brush the fabric, Al-Mu'tashim jerked his horse's reins. The animal reared and let out a sharp whinny between them, forcing Ibrahim to withdraw.
"Enough, Uncle," Al-Mu'tashim cut in, authority ringing in his tone. "My time is not a coin to be spent on idle curiosities. She is a logistics servant familiar with the administration of Khurasan. If you delay me further over the face of a slave, then you shall answer should our designs in the north unravel."
Ibrahim gave a dry laugh. His eyes narrowed upon his nephew, then shifted back to the bowed figure before him.
"Forgive me, O Exalted Caliph," Ruqayyah interjected in a hoarse, carefully altered voice. "This humble one is but an instrument of the Prince, sent to ensure that the stores in Khurasan fall into the hands of those who preserve the purity of the Abbasid cause, not into the grasp of the treacherous Sahl faction."
At the sound of the title—Caliph—Ibrahim's posture altered almost imperceptibly. Pride settled upon him like a cloak. He let his hand fall, evidently satisfied that even this veiled servant acknowledged his supremacy.
He bent slightly toward her nonetheless, his whisper edged like a blade.
"Good. Use that wit of yours to aid the Prince in breaking the House of Sahl. But remember this—if I discover you play both sides, or that you are one of those Persian rats in disguise, I shall see to your end myself. And I promise you, it will not be swift."
…
When Ibrahim and Shuja at last withdrew, Al-Mu'tashim signaled for departure. Once the gate fell behind them and the night swallowed the palace walls. Al-Mu'tashim drew nearer to Ruqayyah.
"You nearly cost us our heads," he said under his breath. "How did you know he thirsts for the title of 'Caliph' so badly?"
Ruqayyah had not expected such candor. So he had been feigning loyalty all along.
A faint, knowing smile touched her lips beneath the veil.
"Because a ruler's pride is often greater than his reason, Ya Amir," she replied. "We must ride swiftly now. Ibrahim will surely dispatch spies to ensure that this 'servant' proves worthy of his confidence."
[System: Relationship with Al-Mu'tashim increased to 'Comrade in Secret'.]
[Reward: Item 'Shadow Veil' activated — conceals your presence from spies for 6 hours.]
"Mount," Al-Mu'tashim ordered, gesturing toward a waiting litter.
Ruqayyah frowned. "No, my lord. A servant borne in a litter invites questions. It would slow us."
Al-Mu'tashim regarded her, puzzled.
Without further word, she grasped the saddle and swung herself onto a nearby horse.
"Allow me to ride."
Al-Mu'tashim's brows lifted. "You can ride?"
She inclined her head. I can now. Praise be that Layla taught me, she thought.
Al-Mu'tashim studied her in the paling light of dawn. The girl he had once considered a political burden now sat straight-backed in the saddle, steady as any young soldier awaiting orders.
"You are a treasury of surprises," he murmured.
With a flick of his hand, Al-Mu'tashim signaled the small company forward. "Remain at my side. If any man asks, you are my personal courier."
Hoofbeats broke the cold hush of the desert. The air cut sharp against Ruqayyah's face, carrying the dry scent of earth and distant tamarisk. Though her muscles protested the unfamiliar strain of long riding, she forced her posture to remain firm.
[Status Update: Stamina -15% | Skill 'Horsemanship' (Level 1) Active]
After several miles, Al-Mu'tashim steered his mount closer until their knees brushed.
"You invoked Ibrahim as 'Caliph.' Clever—and perilous. If Al-Ma'mun Caliph in Baghdad were to hear of it, you could be accused of sedition."
Ruqayyah glanced at Al-Mu'tashim, her eyes glinting behind the veil.
"In this world, Ya Amir, survival belongs to the one who knows whose blade rests at her throat. At the gate, that blade was in your uncle's hand—not in your brother."
A short laugh escaped Al-Mu'tasim-—rare and unguarded.
"You are no ordinary woman, Aisha," Al-Mu'tashim said quietly. "Refusing the litter spared us the scrutiny of watching eyes. There are always eyes in the dawn."
"No… I am Ruqayyah, not Aisha," Ruqayyah thought to herself, steadying her resolve.