The moon hung high in the night sky — a glowing circle of pale sadness. Its light spread over the domes and hallways of the palace like a ghost's soft touch, quiet and silver. The haveli seemed calm on the outside, but deep within its marble walls, something old had begun to move.

Inside Mehrunisa’s room, all the candles had been put out. She sat in complete darkness, wearing a plain white dress. Her dupatta lay on the edge of the divan, like a forgotten piece of innocence. Her long hair flowed freely over her shoulders, gently moving with the breeze coming through the carved windows. Her hands were tightly locked in her lap — as if she was holding herself together.

There was no sleep in her eyes.
Only waiting.
A silent understanding.
Tonight was the night.

Ever since that dream — the terrible one — where Chand Sultana had laughed with cruel joy and promised to return in the Eastern Wing… Mehrunisa had known. She had felt it all day, like a cold feeling running down her back.
And now, the moon was watching.

She stood up slowly, barefoot, stepping across the cool marble floor. Her bangles didn’t sing tonight. Even they were afraid.

Outside, the wind had begun to howl low through the palace corridors, as if whispering warnings in an ancient tongue. The shadows in the corners seemed to move ever so slightly. A strange silence filled the world. Not a bird cried. Not a leaf rustled.

Then it came.

A soft call — like her name carried by the wind.

“Mehrunisa…”

She turned her head sharply. The voice wasn’t from outside.
It was inside her.

She stepped out of her chamber.

The corridor stretched before her like a dream. Lamps that usually lit the passage had flickered out. The only light guiding her steps was the moonlight pouring in from the windows.

She walked, almost in a trance — not asleep, not awake. Somewhere in between.

As she reached the grand hall, the doors of the Eastern Wing stood ajar.

No one had opened them.

They hadn’t been opened in decades.

Her breath caught in her throat. The air felt heavier now. Like she was walking into water.

Her steps slowed, then stopped altogether at the threshold. A strange fog seemed to be swirling inside the Eastern Wing, and beyond it — darkness. Complete and absolute.

And then… she saw her.

A figure emerging from within.

Chand Sultana.

She wore a blood-stained bridal dress, her hair a black river behind her, eyes hollow with centuries of betrayal. Her face, once beautiful, was torn between the grace of a royal bride and the horror of a woman buried alive. Her mouth curved in a smile that was not a smile.

“You came,” the spirit said softly.
Mehrunisa’s lips trembled.

“I knew you would.”

And before she could scream, run, or move — the fog rose and pulled her in.

The doors shut behind them with a thunderous boom.

---

Meanwhile, in the outer corridor, Saliha had been heading toward Mehrunisa’s chamber with a tray of warm milk. But the empty room — the open doors — stopped her in her tracks.

She looked around, heart thudding.

“Queen Mehrunisa?” she called gently.

No answer.

She placed the tray down, her hands trembling now. A cold sweat broke over her brow. Her eyes caught the swaying dupatta on the floor. She picked it up slowly.

And then she turned toward the corridor.

A draft blew by.
A whisper.
A sensation in the air.

Her throat closed with dread.

She ran.
---
His breaths grew louder, sharper — as if the truth had cracked something deep inside him. Bibi Sarwat.
The woman who’d once cradled him like a son, who had been his family’s most trusted shadow.
The architect of it all.

The ancient letters, the alliances with their enemies, the deceits cloaked in silk and prayer beads — the evidence had been there all along, in her own hand.

Kaif's body was aflame with rage. His chest rose and fell like a tempest.

“Where is she?” he growled, storming through her chambers.

She was gone.

Vanished, just like the woman she’d betrayed centuries ago.

Kaif’s fists crashed onto the side table, shattering its glass vase — his knuckles bled, but he didn’t stop.
He spun on his heel, eyes burning, steps thundering toward the exit when —

The moonlight.

A flash of silver light filtered through the high corridor windows.

He froze.

His eyes widened.

“The full moon….!”

It hit him like a dagger. His heart dropped to his stomach.

Tonight was the night.

The very night the curse thrived upon — the night Bibi Sarwat had subtly kept him distracted from, misleading him with half-truths and riddles.
Tonight was the night the spirit of Chand Sultana would rise at her full power.

And Mehrunisa—

“No…” he whispered. Then louder.
“No.”

He turned and ran.

The palace blurred around him. His boots thundered across ancient stone. Past startled guards, through empty halls where the wind whispered secrets.

He reached Mehrunisa’s corridor. The lamps were dimmed. The silence was haunting.

Her door — half open.

Kaif didn’t knock. He barged in.

“Mehrunisa!”

No answer.

His eyes scanned the room — the scattered rose petals on the floor, the undone bed, the pitcher of water still full. A book half-open on the rug.

And there — her dupatta, caught between the door and the floor. As if snatched in haste.

His fingers gripped the cloth, trembling.

“Mehrunisa…”

He stumbled backward.

Then he noticed — the air was colder here.

As if the warmth had been drained out with her.

He raced to the window — looking toward the Eastern Wing.
A pale mist crawled toward that part of the palace.

Kaif didn’t think. He ran.

He reached the Eastern corridor — breath ragged, heart shattering.

The doors — wide open. Something they hadn’t been in years.

And from within…

A soft, haunting lullaby hummed in an ancient tongue. It floated out like incense.

He stepped closer — but a gust of unnatural wind burst forth, throwing him back like a paper doll. He hit the pillar, his back cracking against it.

He groaned, forcing himself up.

Inside, shadows danced. Candles lit themselves along the long-forgotten walls. A mist, silver and unnatural, crept across the ground.

And faintly… almost like a fading dream…

He saw her.

Mehrunisa — dressed in a pale white, her hair untied, barefoot, being led into the darkness by a figure draped in antique jewels and grief.

Chand Sultana.

Their eyes met for just a second.

Mehrunisa turned her face toward Kaif, lips parted — wanting to say something —
but the spirit pulled her farther in, into the endless dark.

“No… NO!” Kaif shouted, running forward.

The wind screamed again, pushing him back. This time it burned — a cold fire lashing against his skin, his soul.

He fell to his knees.

And she was gone.
------

The moon had long risen above the cursed palace, full and silver, casting ghostlight over its trembling walls.

Kaif ran — cloak flying behind him, breath sharp, heart wild — until he turned the corridor outside Mehrunisa’s chamber.

“Saliha!” he called, and stopped cold.

The girl was sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall, sobbing — hair disheveled, dupatta slipping. Her hands trembled as she raised her tear-soaked face to him.

“She’s gone…” she choked.

Kaif’s world tipped on its axis.

He stepped forward, placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing himself to steady.

“Go to the southern wing. Stay there with the others. Lock the doors. Don’t come out until I send for you.”

Saliha nodded through her sobs and ran.

Kaif didn’t.

He turned and walked the opposite way — toward the mosque within the palace, the small domed space lined with ancient Persian calligraphy, now silent as the grave.

There, he fell to his knees, his forehead touching the carpet.

He said nothing for a long moment — not even words of a formal dua.
Only a whisper.

"Ya Allah... I have no strength left. You are the only one who knows what lies in hearts. You know the truth of what I feel for her. I can’t reach her, and I fear she will be lost. Show me the path. I will walk it. But don’t let me fail her.”

Tears slipped from his closed eyes.

And then — a hand touched his shoulder gently.

He turned. Molvi Kareem.

The elderly man looked like he hadn’t slept for nights, his eyes swollen with prayer and worry.

“I was coming to speak to you,” the molvi said. “It was not a dream, was it, what happened tonight?”

Kaif slowly stood. “She’s gone. The spirit has taken her. I don’t know where.”

Molvi Kareem’s brows furrowed. “The eastern wind… it changed tonight. I felt it during Maghrib. The air is heavier. Something… old is stirring.”

He paused.

Then his eyes sharpened. “There is one place — a doorway. Locked centuries ago. I don’t go near it. But… there’s a verse carved above it. When I was a child, an old mujawar said to me: This door leads to what was buried alive — both sin and sorrow. It can only be opened when the soul calling from within belongs to you.”

Kaif stilled.

“Where is it?”

Molvi Kareem nodded toward the East.

“Behind the qasr’s oldest marble arch — where no light ever falls. But beware, Kaif… the place is not meant for the living.”

Kaif turned and walked.

He did not run.

He did not tremble.

He only burned — with faith, with fury, with love.

----------

He reached the marble arch. A heavy silence wrapped the air, as if the stones themselves were holding their breath.

An old iron door stood ahead — sealed shut with rusted Qur’anic verses etched in forgotten script.
Kaif raised his hand and touched the calligraphy with reverence.

“Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.( In the name of Allah who's most Gracious and most Merciful).”

The wind groaned.

The lock broke.

The door creaked open — and blackness rushed forward like a tidal wave.
---

Inside, the hall was wide and low-ceilinged. Smoke clung to the air like breath from a dying flame. Strange markings burned faintly on the walls — remnants of curses past.

And then he saw her.

Mehrunisa.

Suspended — not by rope, but by invisible threads of smoke, her arms spread outward, head tilted down, eyes closed, lips trembling as if whispering a prayer, her hair waving like it belonged to the wind.

Kaif froze, then rushed forward.

But the wind turned wild.

A storm rose from the ground, slamming against him. He staggered back, shielding his eyes. The smoke thickened — coiling, shifting — and then it laughed.

A laugh that didn’t belong to any living woman.

Chand Sultana.

Her voice echoed through the walls, as if the stones remembered her rage.

“You come too late, heir of the cursed throne. She is mine now. She belongs to this pain — as I once did.”

Kaif gritted his teeth and fought against the wind, step by step.

"She is not yours,” he roared, his voice breaking through the storm. “Her soul is not yours to claim!”

Chand Sultana’s voice hissed like fire through a crack.

“She is bound to me… as long as your bloodline walks this earth. And you— Kaif uz-Zaman — you carry the weight of betrayal that began it all.”

Kaif pushed forward. The closer he got, the stronger the wind became.

But he didn’t stop.

He would not stop.

Not even if his lungs burst. Not even if the storm broke his bones.

“Ya Allah… give me strength. Let me touch her. Let me pull her back.”

One more step.

Two.

His hand reached out, trembling — and touched hers.

Her fingers were ice.

But they moved.

Her lashes fluttered.

And just for a breath, the storm paused.

His hand grasped hers.

And in that fleeting moment, the storm hesitated.

A stillness bloomed in the air, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

Kaif clung to Mehrunisa’s hand with everything he had. His knees scraped the jagged stone beneath, his arm burned with the pull of the wind — but he didn’t let go.

“Mehrunisa…” his voice cracked, raw from dust and emotion. “I’m here. You’re not alone. You were never alone.”

Her eyes opened.

Slow.

Unfocused.

Dark lashes trembling as they lifted — and then her gaze found his.

“Kaif…?”

That single word left her lips like the breath of a dying rose.
The smoky tendrils around her waist jerked in fury. Chand Sultana’s voice pierced through the vault of stone:

“No! She is mine! You cannot break what is bound by vengeance!”

Kaif shielded Mehrunisa’s body with his own, anchoring her against his chest.

“We are bound too, Chand Sultana! Not by blood — but by prayer. By nikah. By the mercy of Allah, which no curse can overcome.”

The spirit shrieked.

The wind rose again — slashing through the chamber like knives.

Smoke formed into a distorted face above them — Chand Sultana’s twisted image, her once-beautiful eyes now black pits of agony.

“Then feel what I felt!” she howled. “Let your soul tear in half as mine did! Let your love drown in sorrow as mine was burned!”

"Your bloodline didn't betrayed you but your best friend. I've proof." He shouted and she screamed more dangerously.

But Kaif bowed his head — not to her, but to the Divine.

His arms around Mehrunisa tightened.

“Ya Hayyu, Ya Qayyum… I ask nothing but Your help. No saint, no sultan can intercede — only You.”

The smoke thrashed violently.

Mehrunisa whispered under her breath, her lips moving against his shoulder.

"Ya Rab help…”

Suddenly — the markings on the walls flared white.

The demonic sigils that bound Chand Sultana — the very ones that trapped generations in this cursed lineage — began to unravel.

One.

By.

One.

“No…!” Chand Sultana screamed. “No, not yet — not while pain remains!”

But pain was no longer queen in that room.

The light grew.

And with it came warmth. A stillness. As if the palace itself exhaled a sigh it had held for centuries.

The final chain of smoke coiling around Mehrunisa snapped and turned to ash.

The wind died.

The voice vanished.

And the room fell silent.

Kaif collapsed to his knees, still holding Mehrunisa.

She was trembling, weak… but free.

They stayed like that for a long time — wrapped in silence, in breath, in a storm that had finally passed.

And then, softly, she said:

“You came for me.”

Kaif lowered his forehead to hers, eyes closed.

“Always.”

Author's Note.
Assalam-o-Alaikum readers.

How did you find this chapter?
Only 3 to 4 more chapters to go now — we’re getting so close to the end! 🥺✨

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Much love,
Your Author.