She was wearing a sleevless long frock that hugged her petite form in the appropriate corners. It was white, spotless and pure as her. Her wheatish skin glowed in happiness. There was a tint of red on her cheeks that the painter had perfectly captured, along with the funny smile that she had on. Her messy curls, which the painter had begged to not comb and make appear civilised, covered her large forehead in swirls. Her eyes twinkled like that of a child. She wasn't what a prince would desire to have, but she was the painter's muse.

She would remain that, forever. Presently, the painter held her portrait in his lap, careful to not spill tears on the canvas.

"If only you had accepted my impatience as a blessing."

But she had not. She had dismissed his eagerness for their marriage as something silly. Firdaus regretted not coaxing her into it. Had he done that, she would have been alive. Not just trapped inside a painting like a beady moment plucked from the necklace of Time.

"But you know, janem, there is an avenger out here."

He imagined that his pretty beloved scoffed at his words. He grew impatient, as he would often become in her company - untamed, wild and stupid.

"He has survived! You don't know yet?"

Maybe you have already taken birth in some place. Maybe you are living a better life. And you need not worry about what goes on in here...

"Can you hear me, perhaps as a voice of some angel in your dream, a fae that lulls you to sleep? Do you feel the kiss"–he traced the partly parched pink lips on the painting–"that I offer you every night? Or have you forgotten me?"

He knew it was a sinful wish to pull her back, but he was a sinner in love. He wasn't one to mourn oceans and kill in wrath. He just vowed to not touch the brush again.

But oh well, he had been a part of cruelty. He had written his name in blood as a means of survival, as an act of fooling the perpetrator. What he initially pursued as a means to power became the bolt of karma, as if his lust for superiority and name had sucked the life out of her. Now, he could only wait till he was safe enough to burn the mask.

But he saw hope at the end of the tunnel. Someone who had the potential to put an end to it all had come.

"Firdaus?"

He covered the portrait with a red fabric. "You had expressed annoyance on me accompanying you everywhere," he snapped. "Now when I had left you alone at night, you come running here to my room?"

"I had just come to return your bow. You had forgotten it in my room."

Dunyazad handed over the weapon. Firdaus was impressed by the skill and ease with which she held the bow. "Have you been trained in wielding it?"

"Yes, somewhat, though I might not be as good as you all."

Dunyazad wished him good night and headed towards her room where her brother was waiting. She had got a glimpse of what Firdaus was hiding, but didn't let him understand she knew. It was a woman, a plain but pretty one with no sharp features. But that button nose was cute.

She smirked imagining her beside Firdaus. That would be an adorable couple. Not that she was into match-making or anything, but that pairing seemed more plausible than her brother's love life.

Upon reaching her room she found Shahrazad admiring the flowers that had just bloomed in the vase.

"Now, where do you want to take me?" he asked.

"I came across a hall today while Firdaus was around. He didn't want to take me there, said it had the portraits of all the dead brides. Said it wouldn't be a good idea to explore."

"But it isn't forbidden."

"I know, but he was too timid to go in. So I thought I will convince him to let me be free at night so that I can go there with you."

"Nice work."

Dunyazad guided Shahrazad to the hall. It was close to the main court where the Shah oversaw proceedings and hosted entertainment. Being so close to the hall were the royal court was held, this couldn't be a prohibited place at all.

Shahrazad and Dunyazad found two guards outside it. Without any hesitation they allowed the consort and his sister to enter.

Laid in front of them was a velvety maroon carpet. The walls were pale greyish-green in colour and the pillars were coated in golden. The room was illuminated by many lamps and a grand chandelier that hung from the ceiling. There wasn't any furniture in the room, except lines of lamps, and four leafy plants in the four corners. The walls boasted of the ninety-nine consorts of the Shah.

"No wonder I just escaped becoming history so soon."

"It gives me goosebumps to think you are the first spouse to survive. All these women that we see were killed."

"Just imagine the horror of the one who had to paint all of these."

"Maybe he was waiting to add a man in these walls."

Shahrazad snickered. "I poured muddy water on his desires. My portrait will not be alone, I shall have my portrait done along with the Shah and it will be showcased in a better place."

"Well, on that note, did you make any progress?"

Shahrazad shrugged. "I feel we have. He shared me certain things which has given me hope."

"That he remembers you?"

Shahrazad gave a pensive smile. "He remembers me. But he doesn't recognise me."

Dunyazad cracked her knuckles. "Well well, let's see the unfortunate brides. We might get to contact their families or do some search about their past later. I hope they have got the names along with the face."

Shahrazad and Dunyazad took a lamp and begun surveying from the two ends separately. Dunyazad had started from the ninety-ninth wife and made her way back in time, to the wife number forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight and...

An epithet was written beneath each portrait. This one read as follows-

The fragrant one, of simple wildflowers, not roses
Her spirit meek and easily trampled
Had marks on her body, pale eyes that bulge
The water, a life-giver, smashed the sunflower.

"The thirty-seventh consort, Khusboo. Died by drowning in the bath."

She lifted up the lamp higher to light up the face.

"No no, is this what I see!"

It was the same woman from the painting Firdaus was holding. So that means... she's dead?

Was Firdaus her lover?

"Ra, come here. You need to see something," she called her brother. Turning back, she found him still stuck at the same place where he had been standing in the very beginning, his eyes focused on the first painting.

"Ra?"

Shahrazad went for the door. "Dunyazad, we need to leave. Go back to your room. I have some work."

"But–"

"No. Obey me."

It wasn't often that Shahrazad forced his will on her, so Dunyazad gave in. She went back for her room quietly without protest, wondering what her brother was up to. But she was shocked to see the Shah himself waiting outside her room.

"Was Shahrazad with you?" he asked sternly.

"Err, yes."

"Where is he now?"

"The hall where the consorts are there..."

Shahryar's eyes twitched. "Thank you."

Dunyazad saw the fuming Shah stride away like a marching soldier.

Her brother was in trouble.