Threads of Gold

Twelve | بارہ

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There was persistence in the lore that once darkness falls after a day has died, depravity becomes a part of the air and the moon hangs low enough to cut its beholders. Sometimes it is whole and round, like the Sultan's belly after tasting blood. Sometimes it is new and hollow, like the Sultan's eyes after tasting solitude.

When it came down to the marrow of nightfall itself, the reflective pearl in the sky did not matter nor did the amorality insinuated with twilight because one's fear ruled over them above all until dawn. Fear of the dark's savagery ruled them every time, their minds only being awarded relief when the sun rose to chase away their nightmares.

Arzam's reign over Kalthura was similar yet different in its base essence because his nightmarish hukmarani knew no end. There was no hope to be held out for an illuminating vessel lending its light, no hope to be held out for a burning vessel to chase away the terror. Finding cover from Sultan Arzam Hyderi's wrath was a futile attempt and the body lying limply across the back of a surrounded mare knew it well.

His time had come.

The worn man was not as afraid of death in name as he was afraid of death at the Sultan's hands.

The newcomer was encircled by many a mare and rider. Around him was the remaining half of the troop Arzam had taken with him to Gulzaan for subjugation. The intention of laying siege to the capital and having fear spread like a wildfire across Sherquli horizons never drifted away from the Sultan's mind until he had caught sight of the Malka-to-be. It was then that his plans had to change, take on a different shape. To ensure he would always wear the face of victory, Sultan Hyderi had left half of his men unassumingly roaming the streets of the other mulk after he was done with his deliberate slaughter of Zartasha's guards.

The aim was to have plenty of eyes and ears and enforcers within Gulzaan, most importantly around the shahi mehal, for his soldiers would not let a baghi breath escape their Sultan's notice. Arzam ordered it so, as a way to shift his attention onto a more precious ensnarement. The Sherquli shehzadi had become a marker of his madness, the immobile man soon realized after the Sultan had commanded his men to take a closer look into the inner workings of Sherqul.

There, the middle-aged man became careless with his loose lips and keen ears. He came into contact with Sherquli talks that would do well with Arzam but instead he chose to withhold the whispers he heard.

What he had forgotten about having fellow warriors roaming the same outskirts as he was that even he was not spared from their scrutiny, from being watched and heard.

On a warm evening in Gulzaan, Owais found him plastered to a cracking wall of brownstone, overhearing a foreign conversation that criticized their Sultan's way of ruling. Kalthura's spymaster and head of militiamen knew not to be quick in questioning his comrade, Adnan, for he wanted to see how the man would reiterate what he had heard.

Dusk turned to dawn, then came the new day. The following dawn turned to dusk, then came the next night. After three days' worth of time, Owais understood that Adnan would not utter a word about what he had lent ears to but instead, he asked the spymaster a question.

"Have you ever thought about going against the Sultan?"

Owais briefly shut his eyes and let out a firm, "No."

Adnan, in turn, did not recount the conversation he had heard to Owais. His silence became his biggest mistake and mistakes were given the darjah of grave sins in Kalthura.