Qasim writhed in pain as he ripped something off the horse and tightly wrapped it around his own hand, trying to stop the bleeding. His breath was heavy, eyes burning with urgency. As he looked ahead, he saw Yousif too—struggling, trembling in agony—but Qasim didn't stop for him.
Ignoring Yousif's pain, he rushed toward the Shehzadi. Droplets of water trembled in his hands as he gently let them fall upon her face, trying to bring her back to consciousness. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open—confused, dazed. She had no idea what had happened… or where she even was.
Qasim helped her sit up carefully and brought water to her lips. She drank slowly, trying to gather herself. Then, leaving her resting against a rock, Qasim walked over to Yousif.
Yousif's hand trembled as he reached to stop Qasim from removing the mask off his face.
"Don't even think about it…" Yousif whispered through clenched teeth, struggling against the pain. "Just give me water… I'm fine. I'm only thirsty. We'll continue the journey—we have to. We can't leave the Shehzadi behind, not like this. We don't know what… that thing was. But if they attack again… we won't be able to protect her. Or ourselves."
Qasim nodded, his jaw clenched. "Alright… hold on. I'll get water."
He hurried off and came back moments later with a small amount. They all paused for a short while, gathering what little strength they had left. Then, despite the pain, they managed to mount the horses and resume the journey toward Baghdad.
But Yousif couldn't hold on for long.
As the horse galloped forward, his grip loosened, and he collapsed with a cry—unable to control the reins any longer.
Seeing this, the Shehzadi quickly turned back. "You come ride with me," she said firmly. "You're injured. If something happens to you, I won't make it safely to Baghdad. I have to reach my father… I have to go home. And even Akbar is wounded."
Yousif hesitated, but then nodded, trusting her. He climbed onto her horse. Akbar guided Yousif's horse alongside his own. They were moving fast now. Too fast. The urgency of the moment filled every heartbeat. They all knew… if the bleeding didn't stop soon, Yousif might not survive.
Especially not him.
Akbar's mind was spinning with questions. What was that? he thought. Some magic? A curse? A spirit? Or… a man? And that letter… what secrets does it hide?
I have to get home quickly, he resolved, I must use that thing again—whatever it is.
They rode like the wind. The Shehzadi's focus was unshaken. She gripped the reins tighter and urged the horse faster. Yousif watched her in awe from behind.
"You ride like a warrior," he said weakly. "Where did you learn to control horses like this?"
Without turning, she replied, "I learned from my father… when I was a child."
"The King taught you?" he asked, surprised.
"Yes," she answered, her voice low but strong.
Yousif's eyes wandered to her neck. A small mole rested there, something strangely familiar. Her wind-blown hair, her sharp eyes, her serious yet shaken expression… it was impossible to look away.
"Did you always live in Kabul?" he asked suddenly.
"No," she replied quickly. "I only came there to study. Now I'm going back. That's all."
Then her voice grew firm.
"Don't ask me more questions. Be quiet. You're hurt. Speaking will only worsen your condition."
Yousif smiled faintly. "You're right," he said.
He pressed a hand over his wound. Blood still trickled through his fingers. The pain made him want to scream—but he held it in. He looked at her again.
Strange, he thought. She always asks so many questions. But now… she doesn't want to answer even one.
My wildcat… now you're the one making me meow in silence.
They had been riding hard for what felt like hours, rushing toward Baghdad with relentless urgency. The sound of hooves pounding against the earth echoed fiercely through the desolate land, like thunder rolling over the ground. Qasim, wounded but determined, was deep in thought. He wondered, "Was that strange feeling I had about something bad happening... was it about me, or was it because someone I care about is in danger?"
Nayab's POV
She was quietly standing by the rooftop, gazing out at the view, lost in thought. The wind played with her hair gently, the sky above heavy and silent. Suddenly, without a single sound or warning, someone approached her from behind — footsteps so silent, so calculated — and in one swift motion, pushed her violently off the ledge.
Shehzadi Nayab screamed out loud as her body was flung downwards. Her voice echoed into the open air. She landed hard in the patch of grass near the stable. Dazed, she thought for a moment, "Thank God... I survived." But just as relief began to settle in her chest, she slipped again, tumbling down further, her body hitting rough ground.
Her head struck hard — blood began trickling from her scalp. Her hand twisted awkwardly under her, bleeding heavily. She was badly injured. The man who had pushed her? He had already vanished into the palace shadows, disappearing without a trace.
A nearby royal guard happened to witness something — he saw Shehzadi Nayab lying unconscious, bleeding.
He panicked and ran instantly to summon Abdullah.
"Sir! Sir!" he called, breathless.
Abdullah, confused and annoyed, barked, "What happened? You cursed fool, how dare you barge in without permission?"
But the soldier, trembling, gulped and stammered, "It's Shehzadi Nayab… She's... she's bleeding! She's lying there—please come quickly!"
Abdullah's face turned pale. "What happened to my daughter?!"
The soldier, now terrified, said nothing more.
Without another word, Abdullah rushed out, shouting, "Where is she?! And what are you doing here, standing like a fool? You should've taken her for treatment already, idiot!"
He bolted through the palace, and soon saw Shehzadi Nayab lying unconscious, blood seeping from her head, her face lifeless. Abdullah fell to his knees beside her, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he wept.
"My child… what happened to you?" His voice trembled with pain. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he gently touched her face. "I can't bear to see you like this... I haven't even allowed myself to lay a finger on you in anger… and now look at you."
He turned to the soldier with urgency. "Take her immediately for treatment. Don't just stand here! Go!"
As the chaos unfolded, the man who had pushed her stood at a distance, smirking as he watched it all happen.
"So now they feel the pain," he muttered, amused. "When it's your own blood, the pain finally makes sense." With that cruel smile, he vanished into the shadows — unnoticed, unseen. All attention was now on the wounded Shehzadi.
She was taken to the palace infirmary in haste.
The healer, after inspecting her condition, looked grave. "Her condition is very serious. Pray to Allah. We'll do everything we can, but now, it's in His hands."
Those words shattered Abdullah's heart. He broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. "Don't touch my daughter!" he cried out. "She is a pure, sacred woman. Bring another woman to help treat her. No man should lay a hand on her. Do you understand?!"
The healer replied respectfully, "Yes, sir, I understand. And I have no intention of touching her myself. My wife will assist me — she knows what to do."
Abdullah, eyes filled with pain, nodded. "Good. Then call her now. Understand me clearly."
"Yes, sir," the man replied solemnly. "I understand exactly what you've said."
Question For readers Who was That Person?
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Written by
Sabir Ali
Thanks For reading