Bound by Blood and Borders

❄️ Darmiyan Sultanate ❄️

Snowflakes descended like whispered blessings from the skies, dusting the highland rooftops of Darmiyan Sultanate—the northernmost empire, known not just for its biting cold, but for its untouched peace and formidable strength. It was one of the coldest kingdoms, yes—but also one of the most powerful, and ruled by the youngest Sultan in the region.

Wrapped in a deep blue velvet sharara, a girl in her late teens ran barefoot across the marble corridors, her soft jutiya slipping off as she giggled. Princess Ayat—the light of the sultanate, the heartbeat of her brother, and a name whispered with reverence behind every curtain.

Her milky-white skin glowed against the winter’s gray, her natural pink lips parted in excitement, and her hazel eyes sparkled like amber under the palace lamps. A veil covered her head and face, as custom dictated, and the guards lowered their gazes the moment she crossed the harem’s sacred border. In all of Darmiyan, no men were permitted to lift their eyes toward the royal princess—except one.

Her brother.

Sultan Aarif. Twenty-five. Cold-eyed. Stone-hearted. A man forged by grief, crowned too early, bowed to by sultans twice his age. And yet, for one person, he would always remain just “Bhaijaan.”

Elder brother.

As she neared the Diwan-e-Khaas, breath short from running, anklets singing like silver rain, she spotted him—just stepping out of the court with a few trusted nobles. The moment Sultan Aarif saw her, something shifted. The hard line of his jaw softened. A quiet smile broke through the marble of his face.

The nobles lowered their eyes and quickly excused themselves, understanding that this moment belonged only to their ruler and his precious sister.

“Bhaijaan…” Ayat breathed, running the final steps.

(“Brother…”)

“Ji meri Shehzadi,” Aarif replied, his voice a quiet warmth in the winter air.

(“Yes, my Princess.”)

She held out a delicate black thread laced with green. “Main aapke liye dhaga layi hoon—Dargah se. Haath aage kare.”

(“I brought you a thread—from the shrine. Give me your hand.”)

He stared at the thread for a long beat. Once, he had believed in God. But grief—grief had made him forget prayers. Only she still prayed enough for them both.

Still… he extended his hand.

With trembling fingers, she tied the thread around his wrist, then gently kissed his knuckle.

“Allah aapko har khushi se nwaje aur har buri nazar se bachaye,” she whispered with pure faith.

(“May Allah bless you with every happiness… and protect you from all evil eyes.”)

Sultan Aarif—ruler of men, breaker of enemies—placed his strong hand softly on her head, his thumb brushing her veil like a blessing unsaid.

And in that snowy morning, with prayers wrapping around his wrist like silk, the stone-hearted Sultan remembered what it meant to feel again.

As snowflakes kissed the cold marble outside, Aarif and Ayat stood side by side in the Diwan-e-Khaas. She was still catching her breath from all the running, cheeks flushed, anklets quietly chiming with each small movement.

Aarif noticed something just as his gaze dropped to her feet—barefoot on the icy floor.

Before he could say a word, footsteps echoed softly through the hall.

Zara entered.

Wrapped in a modest woolen shawl, her expression was calm but her eyes carried warmth—the kind that came only from years of loving deeply and silently. Zara was no ordinary maid. She had been with the royal family since the day Princess Ayat was born, raising her like her own, guarding every tear and every smile.

She had no family of her own, but the sultanate had become hers—and she was loved, respected, and trusted beyond measure.

The only woman, other than Ayat, to whom Sultan Aarif ever listened patiently.

And the only one allowed to scold the princess without consequences.

“Adab, Huzoor,” she greeted Aarif softly, offering a slight bow with one hand and Ayat’s delicate jutiya in her other hand.

(“Greetings, Your Majesty.”)

Aarif returned a quiet nod.

Zara turned to the princess, her voice low and affectionate. “Shehzadi... your feet will take cold.”

Ayat blinked—then looked down at her bare feet.

Aarif’s jaw had already tightened. His stern glance toward her said more than any words could.

Ayat bit her lip.

Then slowly… she made that face.

That unmistakable puppy-eyed expression, full of innocent mischief—the one that always, always, broke her brother’s restraint.

He tried to hold firm.

Tried.

But Ayat rushed into his arms and hugged him tightly, burying her face in his chest with dramatic affection.

“Mujhe thand nahi lagti bhaijaan,” she whispered sweetly.

(“I don’t feel cold, Brother.”)

Aarif sighed. That deep, exasperated, helpless sigh he reserved for her.

He gently placed his hand on her head.

“Zara, put her shoes on. Otherwise, she’ll blame me when she falls ill.”

Zara gave a small smile, kneeling down with practiced ease, and slid the warm, embroidered jutiya onto Ayat’s feet—just as she had done since she was a child learning to walk.

Neither of them ever called her “Zara bibi” or “Zara amma”—just Zara. Because titles weren’t needed when someone’s place in your life was unquestionable.

She was sweet, sharp, and so deeply woven into their world that her presence felt like home.

And even the stone-hearted Sultan listened when Zara spoke.

Ayat gently slipped on her jutiya, her anklets settling with a soft chime as Zara adjusted the strap one last time. Just then, the heavy doors of the Diwan-e-Khaas parted again.

Entering with measured steps were Ibrahim—the Wazir-e-Azam, a wise, trustworthy man in his fifties with calm eyes and a posture of experience—and Farjad, the Sipahsalar, commander of Darmiyan’s army and Sultan Aarif’s closest friend, a man of strength and unwavering loyalty.

Both halted a few feet away from the siblings and lowered their heads in respect.

Seeing their lowered gaze, Ayat instinctively stepped back, her hand moving toward her veil. “Main chalti hoon bhaijaan,” she said softly, turning to leave.

(“I’ll take my leave, Brother.”)

But Aarif raised his hand gently, stopping her.

“Wait, my dear. I intend to finish today’s work early. I want to be guilty of stealing some of your time.” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ayat smiled back, staying near but quietly stepping aside, giving the men space.

Both Ibrahim and Farjad brought their hands to their chests in formal adab.

“Adab arz hai, Shehzadi-e-Alam,” Ibrahim greeted with respectful grace.

(“Greetings to the Princess of the World.”)

“Dua hai Allah aapko har bala se mehfooz rakhe,” Farjad added with brotherly warmth.

(“May Allah protect you from every harm.”)

Ayat lowered her gaze with a soft smile. “Aap dono pe bhi Allah ka fazl ho,” she replied with poise.

(“May Allah’s grace be upon you both as well.”)

Meanwhile, Zara, always knowing when to retreat, quietly turned and exited the chamber, her footsteps fading behind the carved doors.

Then, Ibrahim stepped forward with a slight bow. “Huzoor,” he began, “Hind se paigam aaya hai.”

(“Your Majesty, a message has arrived from Hind.”)

Aarif’s eyes narrowed slightly, attentive.

“Rajgarh ke raja ne apni beti ke nikah ka daawat nama bheja hai,” Ibrahim began in his composed, respectful tone.

(“The king of Rajgarh has sent an invitation for his daughter’s wedding.”)

“Aapse poore khandan ke saath daawat mein shamil hone ki iltija ki hai, Huzoor. Agle mahine unke shahzadi ka nikah hai.”

(“He has requested your presence along with the royal family. The wedding is next month.”)

Aarif gave a slow, unreadable nod.

“Wazir-e-Aala, prepare a rare gift. Our message of respect and goodwill must reach them.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.” Ibrahim bowed again, hand to his chest.

Before silence could settle, Ayat, who had been listening intently, turned toward her brother with curiosity sparkling in her eyes.

“You’re not going to Hind, Bhaijaan?” she asked softly.

Aarif glanced at her, voice calm, though firm. “No, my dear. There are important matters in the Sultanate. It doesn’t seem right to leave our land right now.”

Ayat’s smile faded just a touch. Her lashes fluttered down, then up again as she gave him a playful pout.

“Then… may I go to Hind, Bhaijaan?”

Aarif arched a brow, not amused—but not surprised.

From beside him, Farhad—his sipahsalar and closest friend—let out a soft chuckle.

The Diwan-e-Khaas, for a moment, felt less like a seat of judgment and more like a sanctuary where power bowed to love.

Aarif studied Ayat for a moment—her mischief, her innocence, the way she looked at him like he held the entire world in his hands. For anyone else, silence would have been answer enough.

But not for her.

He sighed, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. His tone remained firm, but warm.

“Safar lamba hai, Shehzadi. Aur Hind ki raah har kisi ke liye mehfooz nahi hoti...”

(“It’s a long journey, Princess. And the road to Hind is not safe for everyone...”)

Before Ayat could open her mouth in protest, Farhad stepped forward.

“Huzoor,” he said gently, “agar Shehzadi jana chahein... toh main unki hifazat ka zimma apne sar pe rakhta hoon.”

(“Your Majesty, if the Princess wishes to go... I take full responsibility for her protection.”)

Aarif looked between the two—Ayat, practically glowing with excitement, and Farhad, his steady, unshakable friend.

“Aap dono mil kar mujhe majnun bana doge,” Aarif murmured under his breath, shaking his head with quiet resignation.

(“The two of you will drive me mad.”)

Then, at last, he gave a small, firm nod.

“Theek hai... Farjad aapke saath honge. Zara ko bhi saath le jaana. Aur... Wazir-e-Aala,” he turned slightly toward Ibrahim, “Shehzadi ke liye ek shahi qafila tayyār karwa dijiye. Behtareen log... behtareen surat mein.”

(“Alright… Farjad will go with you. Take Zara as well. And… Wazir-e-Aala, arrange a royal caravan for the Princess. The best people… in the best form.”)

“Joh hukm, Huzoor,” Ibrahim replied, bowing respectfully, hand to heart.

(“As you command, Your Majesty.”)

Ayat gasped, her hands flying to her lips before clapping together in delight. “Shukriya, bhaijaan!” she beamed, eyes glittering with joy.

(“Thank you, Bhaijaan!”)

She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Aarif, hugging him tight.

And he didn’t resist.

His hand rested gently on her back, protective and warm—no longer the Sultan, but simply her elder brother, the boy who once carried her through palace gardens, and now stood as the wall between her and the world.

He leaned down slightly, his voice low, close to her ear.

“Bas ek shart hai,” he whispered.

(“Just one condition.”)

“Aap apna ache se khayal rakhengi. Har halat mein apni hifazat karengi. Shahi qafila aapke saath jayega aur aap akeli, bina hifazat ke, kahin nahi jaayengi.”

(“You must take good care of yourself. In every situation, protect yourself. The royal caravan will go with you, and you must not go anywhere alone, without protection.”)

She nodded against his chest, the bells on her dupatta tinkling softly. Her smile turned softer, content.

Ayat – “Ji bhaijaan... jaisa aap kahe.”

(“Yes, Bhaijaan… as you say.”)

Ibrahim and Farjad, having their duty of preparation, took a respectful step back.

“Huzoor, ijaazat dein,” Ibrahim said with a graceful bow.

(“Your Majesty, may we take leave?”)

Farjad gave his usual silent nod, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword.

Aarif returned the nod, and the two men quietly took their leave, leaving the Diwan-e-Khaas bathed in golden silence once again.

For a while, the palace seemed to pause for the siblings.

Aarif and Ayat walked side by side along the sandstone corridors, their footsteps soft against the marble, the wind gently ruffling the carved curtains on the arches.

Ayat—bubbling with excitement—swirled her dupatta around her fingers like a child. Her anklets chimed in light bursts, and her laughter echoed faintly in the air.

“Bhaijaan,” she giggled, “main soch rahi thi... Faris ko bhi apne saath le jau.”

“Bhaijaan,” she giggled. (“I was thinking… maybe I’ll take Faris with me too.”)

Aarif gave her a fake sad look. “Bas wohi ek kami reh gayi thi. Ab toh mein bilkul akela ho jaaunga.”

(“That was the only thing left. Now I’ll truly be alone.”)

Ayat stuck her tongue out and then spun once. “Aap waqai chahte hain ki main na jaun?”

(“Do you really want me not to go?”)

Aarif’s expression turned serious, eyes soft but direct.

“Aap waqai Hind jaana chahti hain?”

(“Do you truly want to go to Hind?”)

Ayat stopped twirling. Her tone became more thoughtful, more real.

“Ji, bhaijaan. Aaj tak sirf kitaabon mein padha hai—Toh hum bas Hind dekhna chahte hain.”

(“Yes, Bhaijaan. Until now I’ve only read about it in books—so I just want to see Hind.”)

She paused, then added quietly,

“Par yakeen kariye, agar aap mana karenge... toh hum bilkul zid nahi karenge.”

(“But believe me, if you say no… I won’t insist at all.”)

Aarif stopped walking.

He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he smiled—rare, quiet, and filled with a tenderness reserved only for her.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently.

“Aapko kabhi mana kar sakte hain kya hum?” he murmured.

(“Can I ever say no to you?”)

“Aap bas hifazat se jaana... aur hifazat se wapas hamare paas laut aana.”

(“Just go safely… and return safely to us.”)

Ayat nodded, her eyes glistening with affection and trust.

“Ji, bhaijaan.”

(“Yes, Bhaijaan.”)