“There is a messenger with news,” the servant replied.

She went, and sure enough, there was a messenger in the presence chamber, waiting for her, to tell her the news. She could tell from her grandparents’ faces that they already knew.

“Agha-Jaan, what is it?” she asked.

The creeping feeling filled her lungs, making her feel like there were little bugs crawling across her skin.

The Badshah motioned to the messenger to relay the news.

“Rukhsana-sahiba has passed away,” the messenger said.

Durkhanai drew a breath. She recited the prayer for the deceased. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi ra’ji’oon. What happened?” She held her hands together tightly.

“When the Wali’s people came to meet the ambassador by the border, she had fallen ill,” the messenger told her. “A few days into their travel, she quietly passed in her sleep.”

“And the treaty?” Durkhanai asked. She immediately grimaced at herself—a woman had died—but she needed to make sure her people would be alright, that they would not be harmed because of this.

“The treaty is still valid,” the Badshah said. “Rukhsana-sahiba passed from natural means. The Wali of Teerza has no reason to quarrel with us.”

The messenger nodded, taking his leave, and Durkhanai was alone with her grandparents. Heart hammering, she recalled her last encounter with Rukhsana-sahiba, how the woman had taunted her, how furious Durkhanai had been—how impetuous.

But Durkhanai hadn’t meant to kill her, just cause her pain through the illness, for a few days, perhaps. To make her suffer, to make her understand the pain she had caused Durkhanai’s people.

She must have sprinkled too much of the powder. Tears filled her eyes.

Durkhanai had killed her—no.

She held her thoughts at bay, blinked the tears away. She hadn’t meant to; it wasn’t her fault.

Death came to all.

Durkhanai excused herself, holding her head high and back steady as she walked out of the presence chamber. It was only when she was out of their sight that she ran, lifting up her gharara, face scrunching in the prologue of a sob.

She ran to her room and shut the door, breathing hard.

Durkhanai ripped off the necklace and jewelry weighing her down, throwing off her dupatta and tiara. The gold clunked against the marble floors, a cacophony of sounds as she pulled the pins and braids from her hair, letting the hair fall loose.

She couldn’t breathe.

Durkhanai ran out to her balcony, leaning her body on the railing. From here, she could see nothing but mountains—her mountains. She steadied her breathing, tried to steady the blood rushing and gushing through her veins.

Guilt flooded through her. She felt sinful in the private space between Allah and herself, but Durkhanai pushed those thoughts away, shoved the feelings from her heart. She could sense she was being unreasonable, stubborn, even, but she would be what she needed to be.