The stifling, weighted atmosphere of the room was finally shattered by the sharp click of the light switch. As the golden glow flooded the space, the trance they were all held in evaporated like mist.
Daim's breath hitched. His eyes sharp, and frantic, locked onto Almara's wrist. The skin was raw, a jagged contrast against her pale complexion. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he circled her wrist with feather-light pressure.
"What happened here?" The question wasn't just asked; it was ripped out of him, a volatile mix of simmering anger and sharp pain.
Almara stared at the wound as if it belonged to someone else. Her voice was a mere whisper, lost in the shadows of her mind. "I... I don't know."
Shehriyar was already moving. He retrieved the first aid box with practiced urgency, his face pale. "Sit," he commanded gently, guided her to the edge of the bed. The rest of them didn't scatter; they sank onto the carpet around her, forming a protective circle of unspoken fear and shared secrets.
As Daim unscrewed the tube of ointment, the pungent medicinal scent filled the air. The moment the cool cream touched her skin, Almara flinched, pulling her hand back instinctively. "No... It stings!"
Shehriyar's heart tightened. He looked at the angry red mark, his voice thick with regret. "We are never going back there. Never. Look at what it did to you." He took her other hand, squeezing it to anchor her. "Just a little more pain, Almara. It'll be okay. I promise."
Almara didn't trust her voice. She simply nodded, her eyes snapping shut as she gripped Shehriyar's hand with a strength born of pure terror. Daim worked quickly, his touch delicate as he applied the bandage, leaning in to below a soft breath over the sting. "There. See? You're going to be fine."
The distant, rhythmic honking of a car horn broke the moment. The heavy front doors groaned open downstairs. The elders were back.
The shift in the room was instantaneous. Almara wiped her tear-stained cheeks with her sleeve, her movements frantic. Eyes were rubbed, shoulders were squared, and masks were donned. In seconds, they weren't terrified children anymore; they were the picture of normalcy.
When they stepped out into the hall, Granny, Jibran, Sozein and others were shaking off the chill of the outdoors.
"How was your day. Children?" Granny asking, her knee eyes scanning the group.
"Normal, Granny. Just stayed in," Daim replied, his voice steady, a perfect lie.
They began to disperse toward their rooms, a quiet exodus of guilt. But Jibran's footsteps stopped. His gaze cold and observant, fell on Almara's bandaged wrist.
"Almara. Come here."
The air in the hallway seemed to freeze. Almara walked toward him, her heart thudding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Jibran took her hand, his thumb brushing the edge of the white gauze. His gaze shifted slowly, pinning Daim and Shehriyar to the spot.
"What happened?" The patriarch asked, his voice low, vibrating with an authority that demanded the truth.
Shehriyar cleared his throat, stepping forward. "It was... It was a mishap with the coffee, Baba. The carafe slipped."
Jibran's eyes narrowed, his grip on Almara's hand tightened just a fraction. "Since when does Almara make her own coffee?"
"I asked her to," Daim interjected quickly, shielding her. "It was my fault."
Jibran started at them for a long, agonizing minute. The weight of his silence was heavier than any shout. "Let this be the last time," he said, his voice a sharp edge. "I don't want to see a single scratch on her again. Understood?"
He looked back at Almara, his expression softening into something unreadable. "Does it hurt?"
She shook her head, unable to find her words.
"Go to your room, if the pain worsens, tell me immediately.
"Yes, Baba," she whispered.
All the hallway emptied and Jibran led Sozein away, Almara retreated to the sanctuary of her room. She leaned against the closed door, the click of the lock sounding like a finality.
Her hands, still trembling, reached for the crumbled pages she had smuggled out of the darkness. She smoothed them out on the desk. They weren't just notes; they were a record of a game played long ago. The names were etched into the paper over and over, like an obsession: Jibran, Zain and Aira.
And every single time, beside the name 'Aira', the same word was written in bold, aggressive strokes: Winner.
Almara picked up the old dairy. Her fingers trace the worn leather cover. She felt a strange, chilling sensation—an intuition that went beyond logic. This wasn't just a book. It was a doorway.
The life of Almara Sultan was about to unravel, and as she opened the first page, she realized the shadows weren't just following her anymore. They were inviting her in.