Karachi looked different at dawn. The chaos softened — the horns, the shouts, the diesel coughs still there but somehow dulled. The air near the docks shimmered faintly, a low mist rolling in from the sea. Aamir could almost pretend it was just humidity.
Almost.
The woman — Nura — walked ahead, her cloak brushing the ground, movements too precise to be human. Aamir followed, clutching the satchel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
Nura didn't turn. "Somewhere between places."
"Helpful."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Do you always talk this much when you're terrified?"
"Yeah," he said. "It's kind of my thing."
They turned into a narrow lane behind an abandoned godown. A chain-link fence blocked the way, hung with a crooked sign that read NO ENTRY – PORT AUTHORITY PROPERTY.
Nura ignored it. She pressed her palm to the metal. Symbols flickered across the links, golden for an instant — then the whole fence dissolved into dust.
Aamir blinked. "Okay. That's new."
Nura motioned him through. "Welcome to the part of Karachi most people never see."
---
Beyond the fence, the air thickened, heavy with ozone and something else — something ancient. The alley curved, and then the world changed.
One moment they were in rust and concrete; the next, they stood in a courtyard of stone and glass, suspended over nothing.
Below them stretched a city within a city — shimmering streets, towers of carved light, and doorways that opened onto impossible places. The sky above wasn't the real one; it rippled like water, lit by faint auroras that danced in silence.
Aamir's mouth went dry. "What is this?"
"The Hidden Court," Nura said softly. "Built on the seams of the Veil. Half in your world, half out. The last refuge of those who remember what the Tilism once was."
He stared, trying to absorb it. The place felt alive — every wall breathing faint light, every shadow whispering.
"So this is... Qaf?"
Nura shook her head. "No. Qaf is deeper. Older. The Court merely touches its echo."
They crossed a bridge of translucent stone. Beneath it, Aamir could see reflections — not of himself, but of strangers walking other paths. For a moment he saw a boy juggling fire, a woman riding a horse made of smoke, a man in armor whose face was his own.
He stumbled, breath catching. "What the hell—"
"Echoes," Nura said. "Fragments of those bound to the Tilism. It shows what could be... or what was."
"That's comforting," he muttered.
---
At the far end of the bridge stood an archway guarded by two sentinels — statues, or maybe not. Their skin looked like polished obsidian, and faint blue veins pulsed beneath their surfaces. As Nura approached, they bowed — slow and deliberate — before returning to stillness.
The chamber beyond was vast. Lanterns hung from invisible threads, glowing with liquid light. Around a circular table sat figures in robes of varying color — gold, green, black — their faces hidden behind masks.
"The Court," Nura whispered. "Stay silent, and don't touch anything."
"Touch what exactly?"
But she was already stepping forward. The masked figures turned toward them in unison.
One — wearing a mask of bronze feathers — spoke first. "You bring a mortal into the Court?"
"He is no ordinary mortal," Nura replied. "The Satchel answered him. The Veil opened."
A murmur rippled around the table. The bronze mask leaned closer. "You risk much, Nura of the Hidden Path. If the Tilism stirs again—"
"It already has," she said sharply. "You felt the tremor last night. Something breached the wards."
They fell silent. Aamir stood awkwardly, trying to look like he belonged in a meeting of cosmic conspirators.
Finally, one of the masked figures spoke in a low, gravelly tone. "Step forward, boy."
He did, heart pounding.
"Show it," the voice said.
He placed the satchel on the table. The symbols on its surface pulsed faintly, reacting to the proximity of the Court's energy.
The masked figures leaned in. One reached out a gloved hand, but Nura stopped him. "Careful. It answers only to him."
A faint whisper moved through the chamber — like the sound of dry leaves shifting in the wind.
"Blood remembers," someone said. "The Ayyar line endures."
Aamir frowned. "You people keep saying that. What is an Ayyar, really?"
The bronze mask turned toward him. "A liar who tells truth through trickery. A thief who steals to protect. An illusionist who hides what the world is not ready to see. You are their heir."
Aamir stared. "So… basically, a glorified con artist with moral justification?"
A few of the masks actually chuckled. Even Nura's lips curved faintly.
"Perhaps," said the gravelly voice. "But in the time of the Tilism, the Ayyars were the last defense against the Shadow Courts — beings who sought to consume Qaf and all mirrors of it."
"And that's… happening again?"
Nura nodded. "The stranger who followed you — he was no man. They call themselves Mirajin. Shards of reflection, servants of the Shadow."
Aamir rubbed his temples. "Okay, so demons from a magic mirror dimension are after me because of a talking bag."
"That is… an oversimplification," Nura said dryly.
"Yeah, well, I'm a simple guy."
The bronze mask tilted its head. "He carries their humor too. The line is true."
---
A pause settled over the chamber — heavy, expectant.
Then the oldest voice among them spoke. "He must be tested."
Nura stiffened. "He's barely crossed the Veil. It could kill him."
"It could reveal him," said the elder. "If he bears the Mark of Qaf, the test will not harm him."
Aamir looked from one masked face to another. "Define 'harm'?"
But they didn't answer. The floor beneath him began to glow. Lines of light formed a circle around his feet, runes spiraling outward like ripples in water.
Nura's eyes widened. "They're not waiting."
The air vibrated. Aamir felt the pull again — the same dizzy twist from the alley, but stronger, deeper.
He tried to speak but the world blurred. The Court dissolved into streaks of light.
Then — silence.
And darkness.