The atmosphere within the manor felt thick, a stagnant silence that seemed to press against Almara's skin. Her trembling fingers reached fo the next page, her heart thumping against her ribs like a panicked prisoner. But as the parchment turned, the ink vanished. Nothing. Just a series of a pale, jaundiced sheets staring back at her, mocking her hunger for the truth.
A sharp, throbbing ache shot through her bandaged hand, a stinging reminder if the night's chaos. She clutched her wrist, leaning her hand against the cold mahogany headboard. Her mind was a kaleidoscope of fractured identities. Who was Aira? Was Jibran the protector of this estate or the predator hidden in plain sight? And Sikandar, Sultan... was he truly the man described in these haunting scripts?
"Baba..." she breathed, the word dissolving in the stillness. The ink on the previous pages felt like a silent accusation against her own lineage. Exhausting finally won the battle against her restlessness, and she drifted into a trouble haze, the journal still clutched tightly to her chest.
Miles away, the first rays of dawn didn't strike the ivory stones of the grand estate. Instead, they bathed a secluded farmhouse nestled in the heart of emerald-green fields in a soft, amber glow. The air here was crisp, carrying the scent of damp soil and wild jasmine.
Inside, Aradam Shah—a name whispered in the shadows of valley—folded his prayer mat with measured grace. He had just concluded the Fajr prayer, the tranquility of the morning reflected in his deep, obsidian eyes. The door groaned softly, and light footsteps approached. He turned, a flicker of warmth softening his sharp, chiseled features as he saw his mother.
Before he could reach him, he was at her side, gently taking the prayer mat and guiding her to the bed.
"Mama? You should be resting," Aradam's voice was a low velvet rumble.
His mother looked at him, her gaze heavy with a mother's intuition. "Aradam... Jibran and his kin came yesterday. Why did you avoid them?"
Aradam's jaw set into a hard line. He looked out the window, his gaze fixing on the distant, misty horizon. "She was with them. Wasn't she?"
His mother didn't a name to know who 'she' was. She simply nodded. "Aradam do not let the past consume you. You know the darkness Jibran carries. Stay away from their path."
"She deserves the truth, Mama," he replied, his tone turning as cold as tempered steel. "She has only scratched the surface of the secrets buried in the dust. She must know what kind of man her father truly was."
His mother gazed at him, momentarily struck by the sheer intensity of his presence. With his raven hair, midnight eyes, and a face that seemed carved from dark marble, Aradam was a man who could imprison a soul with a single look. But she feared the storm brewing behind that beauty.
"Loves means protecting her peace, Aradam. Once she knows, that burden might crush her. Are you ready for what comes next?"
Aradam stood silhouette against the morning light, looking like a guardian from an ancient myth. "I will be the one to hold the weight."
"I'll bring you some milk," she sighed , patting his hand. "Don't wander off just yet."
As soon as she left, Aradam picked up his phone. His fingers moved with precision as he typed a message to a contact saved only as 'The little Fairy.'
"I know the secrets you've unearthed. Come to the White Manor today. But come alone. I have something for you —something the ink forgot to mansion."
Back at the estate, the soft vibration of a notification cut through Almara's shallow sleep. She bolted upright, her vision blurring as she stared at the screen. The fog of exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy clarity.
He knew. The boy with piercing black eyes knew exactly what she was hiding.