The scent of jasmine clung to the palace like a ghost.
Laila sat at the dining table with hands folded in her lap, her untouched plate glinted under the glow of the lanterns. Across from her, Queen Noor e Kainat tore bread in slow, calculated motions, each rip echoing in the suffocating silence of the room.
"You don't eat much," came the Queen's soft voice.
Laila didn't look up, "I'm not hungry."
"Strange. I thought traitors would have thicker skin."
Laila flinched, lowering her gaze to her lap. She twisted her fingers until her knuckles turned white, stopping herself from reacting.
"Or perhaps it's guilt? Eating well must be difficult when your father's corpse stained these stones."
Laila swallowed the lump in her throat, the ache settling in her chest like something rotten.
"I hated him too." Laila's voice was barely a whisper.
The Queen laughed — quiet, cold.
"Hate is easy. Living with his blood in your veins? That must be unbearable."
Laila's fingers trembled in her lap. She wished she could disappear.
She thought of Kiyan — the way he used to stand beside her, how his presence alone once made her feel like she wasn't completely lost. But now he rarely even looked at her, and when he did, it was with a sadness she couldn't grasp.
Her only salvation, slipping further from her reach.
Queen Noor e Kainat tilted her head, "Do you think he regrets it?"
Laila froze. "Regrets what?"
The queen said with a mocking smile. "Saving you."
Laila's chest caved in. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
"He could have been a hero, you know. The king who avenged his father, united two kingdoms, and cleansed Noor-e-Shab of its filth."
She lifted her cup, fingers graceful against the porcelain.
"But instead, he married it."
The words struck like a blade. Laila's lungs burned, her heart pounding so loudly she thought Her Majesty might hear it. She wanted to scream, to fight back, to remind the queen that she never chose her father — that she never wanted to be born at all.
But she said nothing.
She only lowered her head, like the unwanted consort she was.
••
The palace corridors were deathly quiet at night. Kiyan's boots barely made a sound as he walked, but his heart hammered loud enough to fill the silence.
He stopped outside Laila's bedchamber.
The door stood closed, an immovable barrier between them.
He pressed his palm against the wood, fingers splayed like he could feel her presence through the door.
He couldn't.
Inside, Laila sat curled up on the edge of the diwan, she stared at the door, her pulse ticking like a clock against her throat.
She knew he was there.
He always came.
And he always left.
She started counting the seconds, her voice soundless but steady in her head.
One
Two
Three
Kiyan closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the doorframe. The weight of his sword dragged at his side, but it wasn't nearly as heavy as the burden he carried in his chest.
'Laila...'
Her breath caught, her fingers digging into the fabric of her gown. But she didn't move. Didn't speak. She only listened to the muffled echo of her name, her heart fracturing in slow, quiet beats.
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
He stayed longer this time.
Long enough for hope to hurt.
'I'm sorry.'
Her throat tightened. She pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob threatening to escape.
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Kiyan clenched his jaw and stepped back, his fingers trailing away from the door like he was afraid touching it too long might burn him. He turned on his heel, walking down the corridor, his footsteps fading with each step.
Sixty.
She lay down, curling into herself, her body trembling as she counted the phantom echoes of his retreat.
"I hate you"
But she didn't.
And that was the worst part.
••
The room smelled of old parchment and fading paint. A place where time stood still.
Portraits of kings lined the high walls, their faces frozen in regal solemnity. Gold-framed legacies of men who had ruled Noor-e-Shab with varying hands — some iron, some gentle. The newest portrait, freshly unveiled, was of Kiyan.
His likeness was strikingly lifelike, the artist having captured the quiet intensity in his eyes. The way his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, not as a threat, but as a promise to protect.
But Laila didn't look at Kiyan's portrait.
She stood before King Jafar's image instead, her heart pounding like a war drum.
His face was kind, lined with the wisdom of years, and his crown sat like a halo over obsidian hair. Her tutor used to speak of him with deep admiration— the king who had led with grace and strategy, who had been loved by his people like no other.
The king her father had murdered.
Her fingers clenched at her sides as she bowed her head.
"I'm sorry." She whispered to the frame.
The words tasted bitter. Ineffective.
"I know it means nothing. That I mean nothing. But I'm... I'm sorry." Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall.
She softly continued, "My teacher used to say you were the most beloved king Noor e Shab ever had. That you ruled with your heart in one hand and your sword in the other. He told me no one understood why you changed the kingdom's name to Noor-e-Shab... until now."
She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
"You changed it for her, didn't you? For Queen Noor e Kainat. You were going to lay the kingdom at her feet. And my father... he... he destroyed it all."
Her voice broke on the last word, her chest heaving with the weight of guilt she had carried like a shroud since the war.
The door creaked open behind her, but she didn't turn around. She didn't need to.
Noor e Kainat enters, "It is good that his portrait still watches over this room."
The queen regnant stood with her hands clasped in front of her, her posture regal even in stillness. The candlelight flickered across her face, casting shadows that made her beauty look almost ethereal. Like a ghost haunting the room.
Laila said quietly to herself, "I shouldn't be here."
"And yet you are."
The words weren't cruel, but they cut anyway. Laila's gaze dropped to the floor, shame twisting in her gut.
"I know what my father did. You don't have to remind me."
Her response was met with cruel remark from the Queen, "But you come here, don't you? To stand in front of Jafar's portrait and beg forgiveness from a man who can no longer hear you."
Laila's throat constricted.
"If you want forgiveness, Princess, perhaps you should try asking someone who is still alive."
Laila's hands trembled and she said with a sharp voice, "Would you ever forgive me?"
The question hung in the air like a blade between them. Noor Jahan's expression didn't change, her gaze unwavering.
"No."
Laila recoiled as if slapped. But she didn't look away. She couldn't.
The older woman continued, "My husband died with your father's dagger in his chest. I yearned for my child for more than two decades. My son nearly lost his throne trying to keep you alive. What forgiveness could I possibly have for you, Laila?"
Her voice wasn't raised, but the weight of it crushed Laila's chest. She wanted to scream, to defend herself, to remind Noor Jahan that she had suffered too. That she had hated her father more than anyone.
But the words wouldn't come.
Because Noor Jahan was right.
Laila lowered her gaze, her body folding inward like a wilted flower.
"I wish I had never been born."
The confession slipped out before she could stop it.
For the first time, Noor e Kainat's expression flickered. Not with pity, but with something quieter. Something closer to understanding.
But she said nothing.
And Laila, unable to bear the silence, turned and fled.
The door clicked shut, leaving the room steeped in heavy quiet. Noor e Kainat lingered in front of Jafar's portrait, her fingertips grazing the carved wooden frame. The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the marbled floor. The flicker of light softened Jafar's painted features — the strong jaw, the unwavering eyes, the faintest hint of a smile that only she had ever seen in life.
She exhaled slowly, her gaze lowering to the floor. Somewhere in the palace, footsteps echoed down distant halls, steady and deliberate. She recognized them immediately.
Kiyan entered quietly, his steps careful, as if he might disrupt the stillness by moving too fast.
"Mother."
"You've been out since dawn."
"I rode to the western border. There were concerns." Kiyan replied slowly.
"And?"
"People still whisper about rebellion. About her."
His mother's jaw tightened, but she didn't comment. She kept her eyes on Jafar's portrait, her silence as sharp as a blade.
Kiyan stepped closer, studying his father's face as if searching for traces of himself.
"He looks... different than I imagined."
Noor e Kainat finally turned her head slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. The evening sunlight caught the gold threading in his sleeves, the intricate patterns of his royal sash. He looked every inch a king, yet he stood before Jafar like a lost boy.
"How did you imagine him?"
He shrugged, "Bigger. Louder. He feels like a myth more than a man."
She let out a quiet breath, like a bitter laugh.
"He was not a myth. He snored louder than war drums and left his boots in the middle of the room for me to trip over."
Kiyan smiled faintly, but it faded almost as quickly as it appeared, "Was he... kind?"
The question was hesitant, heavy. The queen mother finally looked at her son, her gaze softening despite herself.
"Yes."
They stood there in silence, the weight of absence pressing down on them. Kiyan rubbed his face, exhaustion written in every line of his body.
"Do you think he'd be disappointed in me?"
Her breath hitched, but she masked it quickly, "Why would he be?"
"I killed a king."
"You executed a traitor."
"And married his daughter." He whispered.
The words lingered, heavy and sharp. She looked back at his portrait, her fingers curling against her palm.
The queen studied her son —the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. He carried the weight of two kingdoms, and it was slowly crushing him.
She then turned, leading him out of the portrait room to the balcony that overlooked the eastern courtyard.
The sun bleeds orange and gold over the stone walls of the palace. Mother and son stood on the balcony overlooking the garden. Below them, Laila sits by the fountain, her fingers tracing idle patterns in the water. Her hair spills down her back, unbraided and tangled, the hem of her dress soaked where it grazes the fountain's edge.
"She looks like a ghost." The queen whispered.
Kiyan says nothing, gripping the balcony railing until his knuckles turn white. Laila dips her hand into the water, watching the ripples distort her reflection. She looks away, shoulders curling inward, as if she's trying to make herself smaller.
She continues, "I've seen prisoners with more light in their eyes."
Kiyan swallows hard, his chest aching.
"She was never like this before."
They watch as Laila stands, her movements slow, almost fragile. She walks along the garden path, brushing her fingers against the roses as she passes. A thorn catches on her skin, and she flinches, but she doesn't pull away. She lets the thorn dig in, a bead of blood blooming against her pale hand.
She tilts her head not leaving a moment to say something mean, "She doesn't even care enough to bleed properly."
Ghazi stiffens, "that's cruel."
"Well It's true."
Laila finally pulls her hand back, staring at the blood. She presses her palm against her chest, as if trying to feel her own heartbeat, then slowly disappears into the palace's shadowed halls.
Kiyan sighs, "I shouldn't have married her."
"Perhaps not. But you did. And now she is your responsibility."
He looks at his mother, his jaw clenched. She meets his gaze, her expression unreadable.
"Go to her, Kiyan." She nudges.
"She doesn't want me."
"Maybe not. But she needs you."
He doesn't move, torn between guilt and the unbearable weight of their fractured relationship. She sighs, turning back to the horizon.
"She reminds me of myself, sometimes. After your father died. I used to wander the palace at night, hoping grief would kill me so I wouldn't have to do it myself."
He flinches, his eyes burning. "Mother-"
She softly said, "But no one came for me."
She places her hand over his, her touch gentle.
"Go to her, my son. Don't let her become what I was."
••
The room was dimly lit, Laila sat curled in the corner of the divan, her knees drawn to her chest, fingers picking at the embroidery on her sleeve until the threads unraveled like broken promises.
Her heart started counting before her mind did.
One
His footsteps echoed down the hallway. Slow. Heavy.
Two
He stopped outside her door. She heard the faint clink of his sword against the belt buckle as he shifted his weight.
Three
The silence stretched. She imagined him standing there, just like the night before. And the night before that. The king of two kingdoms, lingering outside the room of a woman who no longer belonged anywhere.
Four
"He won't come in," she told herself. He never did.
Five
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to feel nothing. To accept this as her life now, a queen in name only, a wife by mercy alone.
Six
But then the latch clicked.
Seven
The door creaked open.
Laila's eyes snapped wide, her breath catching in her throat as Kiyan stepped inside, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the hallway. He closed the door carefully, like he was afraid to wake a sleeping beast. He lingered near the entrance, fingers at his sides, as if unsure whether he was allowed to move closer.
They stared at each other in the low light, two people who had once been everything to each other and now didn't know how to speak without bleeding.
"You're still awake."
Laila almost laughed, but the sound died in her chest. Of course she was awake. How could she sleep when his ghost lingered outside her door every night like a phantom that refused to rest?
"You shouldn't be here."
Her voice came out brittle, like glass cracking under pressure. Kiyan stepped forward, cautiously, as if she might shatter completely.
"I thought maybe..."
He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked to her face, then away, as if even looking at her was a burden too heavy to carry.
The awkwardness seeped into the air, suffocating and thick. He finally sank onto a chair by the window, his posture rigid, hands clasped together like he was praying for something he couldn't name.
"How are you feeling?"
The question was absurd. Laila stared at him, disbelief knotting in her throat.
"How am I feeling?"
Her voice sharpened. He shifted, uncomfortable, but didn't look at her.
"I just... I worry."
"You worry.
She stood abruptly, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. The anger rose before she could stop it, a wildfire tearing through the fragile numbness she'd spent months building.
"You worry about me. The same way you worried when your guards tied my hands and dragged me to the gallows? When you let them shout for my head? When you stood there while they called me the daughter of a monster?"
He flinched, like she'd struck him.
"You know I didn't want that.
Her voice breaking, "I know. I know you married me to save me. I know you took pity on me. I know the crown on my head is just a shield so your nobles don't split me open in the streets."
Her chest heaved, her fingers trembling as she clenched them into fists.
"But what I don't know is why you keep pretending to care. Why you stand outside my door every night like you want to save me all over again."
Kiyan stood, his chair scraping against the stone. For the first time, he met her gaze head-on, and the look in his eyes made her knees buckle.
His voice hoarse, "Because I do care."
The words hung between them, fragile and raw. Laila shook her head, her voice sharp enough to cut through bone.
"No. You cared about the arrogant princess who used to order you around. The girl who teased you as a coping mechanism for her parents' toxic behaviour. The girl who dreamed of running away while you always stood beside her.
Her vision blurred, her chest aching so violently it felt like her ribs would crack apart.
"But that girl died on the day you married her with her father's blood on your hand."
Kiyan's face twisted with guilt, but he didn't try to argue. He just stood there, every inch of him heavy with regret.
"And the boy who loved her unconditionally died that day too. He used to look at her and wouldn't care if the world was ending."
The silence was deafening.
Laila sank back onto the divan, pressing her palms to her face as her shoulders shook. Ghazi didn't move closer. He didn't try to touch her or offer comfort she wouldn't accept. He just sat back down in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers lacing together like he was trying to hold himself together.
They stayed like that until the oil lamp burned out, two broken people breathing in the same ruined silence.
••
Laila woke up feeling heavier than she had in months.
The bed was cold beside her. The room smelled faintly of him, leather, smoke, and the earthy scent that clung to him after days in the training grounds. But he was gone.
Of course he was gone.
She sat up slowly, her head swimming, but she ignored the nausea that coiled in her stomach like a knot. She hadn't eaten properly in days or maybe weeks. It didn't matter.
She washed her face, dressed herself, and stepped into the sunlit corridor, determined to move through the day as if she weren't falling apart.
Queen Regnant of Zameen-e-Hunar stood by the rose archway, her fingers delicately brushing over the petals, dressed in a silk robe that shimmered like water.
Laila tried to walk past her, pretending she didn't feel the ground tilting beneath her feet. But then her vision blurred.
She staggered.
The last thing she saw was Noor e Kainat's figure rushing toward her before everything faded to black.
Laila lies in bed, her body fevered and frail. Queen mother stands by the door, watching as the physician tends to her.
"The queen consort refuses to eat. She'll waste away if this continues." The royal physician reports.
She says nothing, waiting until the physician leaves. Then she approaches the bed, looking down at Laila's pale face.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?
Laila swallowed, her throat dry.
"It's not on purpose."
"Starvation is rarely accidental." This time her voice was sharp, but not cruel.
Laila turned her face away, staring at the shadows on the wall, feeling like a child again.
"What does it matter?"
Noor e Kainat watched her for a long time, then stood and crossed the room to a small table. She picked up a silver bowl of fruit and brought it back, setting it on Laila's lap.
"Eat."
Laila stared at the fruit, her stomach twisting at the thought of food.
"I can't."
The lady at the chair, sat back, resting her hands in her lap.
"Do you know what my husband said to me the night he changed the kingdom's name?"
Laila blinked, caught off guard. She shook her head.
"He said, 'A kingdom means nothing to me if you're not in it.'"
Her voice softened, and for a moment, she looked smaller, a woman mourning a love that was stolen from her.
"I hated him for saying that. Because it meant I had to live."
Laila's throat tightened, and she looked away, her fingers trembling.
"You don't get to die, Laila. Not when someone was ready to give up his kingdoms to keep you breathing."
The words landed like a blow, and for the first time, Laila picked up a piece of fruit and forced herself to eat.
••
It was midnight, Laila could finally sit up without her limbs shaking. She wrapped herself in a shawl and wanted to roam the corridor outside her chambers, needing to escape the suffocating quiet of her room.
That's when she heard them.
Two servants, assigned to tend to her at night talking in whispers outside her chambers.
"Didn't he leave for the northern mountain foot before dawn?"
"He's not back yet. In this weather also he hasn't looked well for days..."
Laila stopped cold, her fingers digging into the fabric of her shawl.
Northern mountain foot.
Her chest constricted as the memory crashed into her.
The first time Kiyan went to the northern mountains, Laila had sent him there on purpose.
She had been fifteen — reckless and arrogant, furious at having a personal guard who never flinched at her cruelty. She wanted to break him, to make him hate her just as others did, his care felt foreign to her, so she demanded he bring her white berries that only grew at the mountain foot.
What she didn't tell him was that the mountains were dangerous. A nest of venomous creatures, enemy scouts, and landslides that swallowed entire caravans.
He left at sunrise and returned at midnight, covered in scratches, bleeding from his arm, and shivering from fever. But he brought her the berries.
He placed them in her hands without a word, bowed, and left the room and Laila had stared at the tiny, frostbitten fruit until she burst into tears.
She never made him fetch anything again.
Since then he became her most trusted and favourite guard.
••
Laila's body stilled, her breathing soft and shallow. Noor e Kainat stayed by her side, watching her with an unreadable expression.
Then Laila began to murmur.
"Don't go... not there..."
Her fingers twitched, gripping the sheets as her face twisted with distress.
"Don't go back to the mountains..."
Queen mother froze, leaning in closer.
"I can't watch you bleed again..."
Her voice cracked, so quiet it was barely audible.
"I can't... lose you..."
Tears welled beneath her closed eyelids, slipping silently down her face.
The lady sat back slowly, her chest tight.
She had thought Laila's love for Ghazi was shallow, a desperate clinging to the only person who didn't want her dead. But this wasn't desperation.
This was someone who had watched him suffer. Who had memorized his pain.
Laila knew him. The boy he used to be. The man he had become. The parts of him that even his mother had yet to understand.
She wiped the tears from Laila's face with a tenderness she didn't know she still possessed.
"Foolish girl."
Her voice broke.
"You love him more than I do."
She stayed by Laila's side through the night, brushing her hair back every time she stirred, her heart heavy with a sorrow she couldn't name.
••
The Queen Mother stood by the grand window, her silhouette sharp against the fading sun, overlooking the kingdom she bled for. Laila waited a few steps behind, her hands clasped so tightly the knuckles turned white. The air was suffocating, each breath heavy with the weight of unspoken words.
“The people are restless,” Noor e Kainat said, voice like ice splintering.
“I’ve heard the maids whispering...” Laila swallowed, her voice barely a thread. “They think I should be sent away.”
“Sent away?” The queen turned, her smile venomous. “No, dear. They want you executed.”
Laila stiffened, her chest constricting as if wrapped in iron. But she didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Noor e Kainat stepped closer, her gaze a blade pressing to Laila’s throat.
“Can you blame them?” she whispered. “They watched their king murdered by your father. They lost their families in wars he waged for greed and glory. And now they see you — his daughter — haunting these halls like a ghost of the man who ruined their lives.” Her voice sharpened. “And their new king? Vanished because he went to fetch something for his consort.”
The word consort dripped with disdain.
Laila bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. But she stayed silent. She didn’t know where Kiyan had gone — only that he was missing, and the palace buzzed with unrest. Guards scoured the mountains. Messengers returned with empty hands.
Two Days passed.
Laila paced the throne room like a caged animal, her heart beating against her ribs like war drums. Noor e Kainat stood tall by the window, hands folded behind her back.
“Why would he leave without a word?” Laila snapped, her voice brittle.
The queen didn’t turn. “My son isn’t careless. This is no accident.”
The word son carved into Laila like a jagged knife. Kiyan had been her protector. Her only constant. But now, he belonged to someone else.
“Then bring him back,” Laila’s voice cracked. “We can’t lose him.”
Noor e Kainat finally faced her, eyes burning like embers. “I lost his father. I won’t lose him too. But panicking doesn’t bring the lost back. Action does.”
For the first time, Laila saw a spark of something human beneath the queen’s cold exterior.
Then a scout staggered through the palace gates, blood spilling down his armor. He collapsed, his final breath rasping one word:
Shamsabad.
Laila’s blood turned to ice. She knew exactly what it meant.
Prince Chirag Malik. Her ex-betrothed. The man who had tried to force her into marriage by hunting her like prey. Kiyan had nearly killed him trying to saving her from him once.
“He took Kiyan,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “To punish me.”
Noor e Kainat’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Laila hesitated, but the queen's gaze was relentless. So she told her everything — Chirag’s obsession, the assault, how Kiyan had killed his guards to free her. She confessed it all, voice shaking, hands trembling.
When she finished, Noor e Kainat’s expression darkened.
“He dares to touch my family?” she whispered, her voice low and deadly.
For the first time, Laila saw something maternal in her — not just rage, but fierce, unbreakable protection.
Chirag demanded a trade: Kiyan for Laila.
The council erupted in fury, shouting over one another, but Laila silenced them with a single step forward.
“I’ll go,” she said, her voice a blade.
The queen stood, knuckles bone-white around her sword’s hilt. “You think you can walk into his den and come out alive?”
“If it saves Kiyan, I don’t care,” Laila whispered. “He’s the only one who ever cared for me.”
Noor e Kainat’s cold armor cracked. She saw herself in Laila — a woman willing to burn herself to ashes for the man she loved.
“You remind me of myself,” she admitted, voice quiet. “I would have razed kingdoms for Jafar. I understand your pain more than you think.”
The exchange took place in a desolate canyon, shadows stretching like claws. Kiyan, bloodied and barely conscious, was dragged forward. His eyes flared with panic when he saw Laila.
“No,” he rasped, struggling against his captors. “What are you doing?”
Laila smiled through her tears. “Saving you,” she whispered. “Just like you always saved me.”
Chirag, grinning like a predator, reached for Laila. But before he could touch her, Noor-e-Shab’s hidden archers loosed a storm of arrows from the cliffs.
The canyon exploded into war.
Laila fought like a woman possessed, cutting through soldiers like she was carving her way through fate itself. Noor e Kainat moved like death incarnate, her sword gleaming red, her gaze locked on Laila as she slaughtered enemy after enemy.
When Chirag fell, pierced through the chest, the queen wiped her blade clean and turned to Laila, breathing hard.
“You fought well,” she admitted, voice raw.
“I learned from the best,” Laila whispered, glancing at Kiyan’s broken body.
Back in the palace, Kiyan healed slowly. Noor e Kainat visited him every day, but one night, she lingered at Laila’s chamber door.
“You didn’t have to risk your life,” she said, voice softer than Laila had ever heard it.
“I did,” Laila whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “He’s the only love I’ve ever known.”
The queen hesitated, then stepped inside. She sat beside Laila, carefully placing her hand over Laila’s shaking fingers.
“I hated you,” she admitted. “Because you reminded me of what Nawaz took from me. But you didn’t choose your father.” She tightened her grip. “You chose my son.”
Laila broke. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her body wracked with the weight of everything she’d carried alone.
From that night on, their rivalry melted into something else — not love, not friendship, but a bond forged in shared pain.
And for the first time, Laila didn’t feel completely alone.
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