The corridors of the Sikandar mansion echoed less with laughter now, more with hushed whispers. Servants who once carried trays of sweets to children's rooms now carried fragments of rumors — overheard quarrels, slammed doors, voices hissing about inheritance and division.
The house still gleamed with chandeliers and courtyards, but in the eyes of its children, shadows stretched longer than light.
Wali, Thirtheen, walked with his father's proud gait, heir in waiting. Yet behind his composure, confusion gnawed. The father he once adored — the storyteller, the leader, the admired eldest — now raised his voice against Agha Jan, belittled uncles, and cared more for inheritance than affection.
Wali obeyed, smiled when told, but in his heart whispered: This must be a bad dream. We are too strong, too united… it will pass.
Yet respect for his father quietly slipped away.
Sahil, only five, could not name the change but clung to his brother like a compass — not knowing the compass itself had lost its true north.
Hafza, fifteen, prayed nightly for unity. Her notebooks filled with verses of broken homes and fragile threads, though her silence was her rebellion.
Hurrain, nine, the blunt one, asked once:
"Abba, why do you insult Agha Jan if you want his throne? Doesn't the throne come from him?"
Wajdan silenced her with anger, but her words lingered. She remained closest to her grandfather, her sharp tongue cutting deeper than elders dared.
And Sarim, Zavian's fourteen-year-old son, watched like a silent historian. He saw Wajdan's fury, his father's sly maneuvering, his cousins torn between fear and loyalty.
Dark thoughts haunted him: If Wali sees this and stays silent, will he repeat the same disrespect when his turn comes? Is this family cursed to repeat itself? He swore to his little sister, Saleha, "I will never let Father's shadow touch you."
Among the women too, silent battles brewed.
Sabiha, Zavian's wife, felt her heart split.
She saw greed burning in her husband's eyes yet dared not confront him. In secret, she prayed: Ya Allah, let this house not break. Let my children not inherit this poison.
Her restraint invited Rubab's taunts.
"You will regret this, Sabiha," Rubab sneered. "You think honor will feed your children? Justice will buy their future? Learn to take your husband's side. I have — because when Wajdan rises, I will rise too."
Like her husband, Rubab was restless, extravagant, insatiable. For her, wealth was victory.
Kaina, listening quietly, offered no reply. Inwardly she prayed Allah would shield her family from arrogance.
And in his study, Agha Jan sat wordless, Qur'an open, cane resting by his side. His eyes wandered from the verses to the memories of their ancestors. Where did I fail? Did I give too much… or too little?
Then came the fifteenth night of Ramzan.
For a moment, peace returned. With Wajdan absent, the mansion exhaled relief. Prayers rose unhindered, iftar passed gently, suhoor was serene. Even the children laughed again — softly, as though afraid to wake a sleeping storm.
But peace was fragile.
That Sunday evening, Ruhan folded his shirts into a neat stack, his suitcase half open on the bed. Kaina stood beside him, passing him a pressed kurta.
"You're leaving tomorrow?" she asked quietly.
"Just for a few matters," he replied, slipping a file into the case. "It won't be long."
He tried to sound calm, but his eyes betrayed a weight he did not name.
On the road the next day, his phone buzzed with a discreet call.
"Boss," the voice whispered, "your brother is moving too far. He's reaching where he shouldn't. For two years, whenever his ventures failed, it was you who covered the losses. He thinks he profits, but it's you shielding him—for Salex, for Agha Jan's honor. How long will you keep protecting him?"
Ruhan's grip tightened around the phone. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the car's silence swallow the sting of the words. He knew they were true. Every time Wajdan stumbled, it was his hands that carried the weight. Every time the family's name was on the line, it was his silence that protected it.
Every time Salex bled, it was his quiet money that sealed the wound
Why do I do it? he asked himself, watching the city lights blur past the window.
Because Agha Jan's name is not just stone and mortar—it is a lifetime of prayer and sacrifice. Baba built this house with his blood, not for us to shred it apart in petty feuds.
Because family is not meant to splinter. Six siblings, one roof. That was Baba's dream.
And because Wajdan, for all his pride, is still my brother. If the world sees him fall, it is our bloodline that shatters.
But the words on the call echoed like a curse: How long will you protect him?
Ruhan exhaled slowly, his jaw set. He had shielded Wajdan in silence for years, swallowing insult after insult, watching his arrogance grow fat on unearned victories. It was always for Baba, for his respect, for unity.
But fate had a way of pushing men to a threshold.
And deep down, Ruhan knew—this Ramzan night was not one of peace. It was on the edge of a storm.
When the thought ended, he found another waiting in his inbox —
There came the draft.
A collaboration with Salex Group.
Clauses honed like knives.
Every line designed to wound the careless.
The timing was no accident.
Someone was baiting greed — waiting to see who would bleed first.
Ruhan leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing. He gave one crisp instruction to his subordinates:
"Send it back. Change the clauses. If the deal fails, Salex's chairperson alone will repay ten times the investment."
The draft was returned.
Wajdan received it. He did not study the pages, did not question the terms. He signed, his hand moving with the arrogance of one who believed the world would always bend for him.
And so, far from the mansion's prayers, another stage was set — silent, sharp-edged, waiting to draw blood.
In a sleek boardroom of glass and steel, Wajdan adjusted his cufflinks. The Forex executives sat across, their eyes weighing him as he boasted of expansion and legacy. His gestures were grand, his voice soaked in confidence.
They listened politely, though behind their still faces they compared every number to the foundation Ruhan had built. They knew the truth.
The meeting ended. Wajdan strode out, muttering:
"They're mine."
But fate had other plans.
In the marble corridor, Ruhan walked with his assistant, a file tucked under his arm. Two colleagues from his earliest office walked with him — men who had seen him rise from salaried worker to empire-builder.
They bowed respectfully.
And then came Wajdan.
He slowed, his eyes finding his brother. A cruel smile twisted his lips.
"Well, well. If it isn't our preacher brother," he sneered loudly. "Still chasing papers? A jobber will always be a jobber. And you—" he raised his voice so others could hear — "you come here hoping to crack deals with Forex? Impossible."
The corridor stiffened. Executives exchanged shocked glances. They knew the irony. The "jobber" Wajdan mocked was the very founder of Forex.
Ruhan's assistant shifted, ready to speak, but Ruhan's gaze stopped him. Not here. Not now.
Ruhan said nothing. He simply looked at his brother, adjusted his cuff, and walked past — his silence heavier than rage.
Behind him, Wajdan laughed hollowly.
"Remember this, Ruhan. Deals are for men, not dreamers."
A director whispered to another:
"He insults the man who owns the chair he begs to sit on."
That night, when Ruhan returned, the mansion was cloaked in quiet. Elders prayed longer, children slept early. From afar, the house looked whole; inside, it cracked.
Ruhan stood in the courtyard beneath a star-strewn sky. It was the Twenty seventh night — the night of reflection, when angels descend and destinies are written. Wajdan's insults still echoed, but heavier than them was a truth: the war was no longer about inheritance. Wajdan had stepped into his world now, poisoning not just blood but livelihood.
Kaina came quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Dua karo, Ruhan," she whispered. "Ajj shayad qabooliyat ki raat hai."
Ruhan lifted his eyes heavenward.
"Dua? Yes. But also sabr. Because I fear Wajdan's choices will bring a storm none of us are ready for."
They spread prayer mats side by side, their whispers rising with the night's stillness. Kaina prayed for unity, unaware of Forex.
Ruhan prayed for sabr, knowing too well that destiny had already shifted.
And in the silence of that night, as the mansion breathed both prayer and fracture, fate sealed its course — unseen, inevitable.