Threads of Gold

Six | چھ

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The garden's rustling shrubbery and whistling petals in the wind surrounded the shehzadi like a metal band would encircle its crowning jewel.

The subtle noise complemented the silence Sultan Arzam Hyderi left in his wake.

Zartasha was sitting in the centre of the rosy garden, if she was impoverished she may have even made the mistake of sitting on the ground like a peasant at that moment, but the Malka-to-be was instead perched on the cold marble ledge attached to the water fountain.

Her head was bent downwards and the Fahim heir was staring at the floor, thinking and thinking and, oh, she could not stop thinking. Her conversation with the Sultan was not something she expected. And it was not anything she needed as of now either.

Adding to the list of things she didn't need were the shahi council's elders rushing to the courtyard's mehal entrance with Nusrat in tow.

Zartasha rolled her eyes and stood up, then she bristled past the quartet before any of them could ask her useless questions and waste her time. She knew they were worried (to some extent) but one simply cannot bring themselves to cater to the feelings of those they don't deem worthy enough to matter.

They were all a nuisance if anything. And now she had another thorn in her back to worry about in the form of a greedy Kalthuran ruler.

Breezing through the mehal's hallways of sandstone on her way to rain hell on Sherqul's military head, Hashim, Zartasha was still in constant thought of the Sultan.

He had the power, the sway, and the respect that royalty truly deserved. He had all that Zartasha had ever wanted as a little girl. But the soon-to-be Malka was aware she would have to be twice as cruel to be taken half as seriously in this dunya that seemed to be biased against women from the start.

She had always been envious of Arzam, even though her knowledge of him was limited. It was learnt only through the tales of terror that were woven about him and whispered by the less fortunate.

Anyone who crossed his path was less fortunate in her opinion and now she would consider herself one of them, but not because she was scared. It was never fear of another that affected the shehzadi. It was her anger. Before her interaction with him, she was vaguely jealous of a tyrant's rule and admired his twisted hukmarani. Now, Zartasha was seething because she would have to guard Sherqul like a loyal dog before she could lay claim to its throne as the queen.

What she didn't know needed the most guarding was her cold heart.

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"Allahu Akbar," The Imam's loud takbeer resonated beyond the courtyard of Gulzaan's largest public mosque. The interior of the mosque was plain. The threaded carpets had a simple design; their thin patterns tapering perpendicularly to meet in the middle, guiding one towards the qibla. It was a modest and calm place of worship. At least that was what the council told the Gulzaani people when they wondered why their money wasn't enough to decorate their devotion and polish their prayers.

Noman would never admit to having used the funds for elevating the shahi prayer chamber's grandiosity instead. Even now, he was looking at the ground. In fact, all of the men had their heads bowed as they were praying. It was a solemn evening. Thirty of Sherqul's royal guards were being prayed for. It was their janazah.