Aarifa's hands trembled as the golden thread slid through her fingertips. It had been hours since the sun dipped below the horizon, and still, she sat hunched over her loom in the small corner of her workshop, its dim light flickering from a lone oil lamp. The air smelled of incense and warm, dust-covered wood, the scent of Agra's ancient streets filtering in through the open window. The city was alive with its usual rhythm, the chaos of vendors calling to one another, the echo of the marketplace, but to Aarifa, there was only the hum of her loom, the rhythm of her thoughts as she wove.
There was a certain magic to her work, an eerie, undeniable power she could never quite explain. She didn't need to see the patterns before they formed—she felt them. Felt them in her bones, in her heart. Her hands moved swiftly, instinctively, almost as if the fabric was a living thing, pulling her toward a future she both craved and feared.
"Another night, another pattern," she whispered under her breath, the words barely leaving her lips before her gaze fell on the silk thread she was weaving. The shimmer of it under the lamp's light was mesmerizing, yet her stomach tightened. She had seen it. The future. The pattern she wove tonight was not just a design—it was a prophecy.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the intricate floral motif taking shape, the delicate spirals curling into one another. It was a vision of something she had feared, something she had hoped would never come to pass. A future full of blood and betrayal, a future tied to a man she had never met. The name of the prince echoed in her mind, as if her very hands knew what was coming long before she did.
Prince Khurram.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. There was no reason for him to appear in her dreams—or her loom. Yet, the thread twisted in such a way that she couldn't ignore the warning. Her hands trembled slightly, but she pushed forward. She would finish this piece. She always did.
Aarifa didn't know when she had become so attuned to the world that her very fingertips could sense the shape of things to come. She had been weaving since she was a child, watching her mother's graceful movements as she turned ordinary threads into objects of beauty. But something had changed in Aarifa's skill—something had shifted in her the day she wove the first pattern of the future.
She had been only thirteen when she first realized her gift. A simple swirl of gold and crimson in her fabric had suddenly come alive with meaning. She had seen her mother, the woman who taught her everything she knew, in danger. A day later, a falling beam in their home had crushed her mother to death. The vision had been clear, undeniable.
Since then, Aarifa had learned to keep her gift hidden. She wove for those who sought beauty, for the merchants who needed her fine work to make their goods appear more valuable. She crafted silk shawls and intricate tapestries, knowing that each piece held a whisper of the future that no one could understand.
But there was something about tonight that felt different. The looming presence of fate felt heavier, like a shadow stretching out just behind her. A shadow that had a name. Prince Khurram.
The door creaked open behind her, and Aarifa's fingers faltered for a moment. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Zahra's voice cut through the quiet, rich with concern. "You're still here? It's late, Aarifa."
Aarifa sighed but didn't answer. She didn't need to. Zahra always found her in these moments, always seemed to know when the weight of the future was pressing down on her. It was as if Zahra, her childhood friend, could see into her soul.
Zahra stepped closer, her presence filling the small room with warmth. "Aarifa," she whispered, "you're worrying again. I can see it. Your hands—they never stop, do they?"
Aarifa lowered her gaze, watching her hands, still moving in the delicate rhythm of the weave. "I have to finish this," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I'm close."
Zahra studied her, her dark eyes narrowing with quiet understanding. "Close to what, Aarifa? Another pattern? Another warning?"
The question hung in the air, both too heavy and too light at the same time. Aarifa clenched her fists, forcing the words out. "I saw him. Prince Khurram."
Zahra froze. For a moment, there was silence between them, the kind that was full of everything unspoken.
"The prince? The one who..." Zahra trailed off, her words faltering.
Aarifa nodded, though she didn't look at her. "I don't know what it means yet, but it's in the thread. I feel it."
Zahra reached for her hand, her touch gentle but firm. "You can't let this gift consume you, Aarifa. You've spent your whole life hiding it. Hiding from the world." She hesitated. "But you can't hide forever."
Aarifa shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest. "It's not that simple. You don't understand." She met Zahra's gaze, her voice quiet but fierce. "If I let it go too far, I'll lose control. I'll lose myself."
Zahra's eyes softened, but the concern was still there. "And what happens if you do nothing? If you ignore it? What happens if this is the one pattern you can't escape from?"
Aarifa bit her lip, her fingers pausing in their work. She didn't have an answer. The thread wove on, the future spinning itself into something dark and dangerous.
The world outside seemed to hold its breath as the moonlight filtered in, casting shadows across the room. Aarifa stared at the unfinished piece before her, knowing that the moment she finished it, the future would be set into motion. The future that could lead her into the arms of a prince—and perhaps, into the heart of the empire itself.
But what else would it cost her?
Zahra's words hung in the air like the scent of jasmine, tempting and dangerous. "You can't stay hidden forever, Aarifa. Not from the world. And not from your own heart."