Scene Continues: Library Courtyard – Dusk Deepens
The boys back away.
Not a word exchanged. Just Rustamov's gaze. The kind that says "You don't get to try again."
Their bravado collapses like a sandcastle against a tide. They disappear into the crowd, not daring to look back.
Gul still stands beside him, their hands clasped.
She can barely breathe.
Her heart drums in her chest, louder than the voices around them. Her fingers are small in his—his grip sure, steady, unmoved by the world.
She doesn't know how long they stood like that.
But when the silence feels too heavy, too intimate—she gently begins to pull her hand away.
He lets her.
Slowly. Purposefully. Without resistance.
As if saying, "You were safe the moment you reached."
She tucks her hand into her shawl, the warmth still lingering in her skin. Eyes lowered, face flushed, voice barely more than a breath—
"...thank you."
Rustamov looks ahead, unreadable. He doesn't reply immediately. Doesn't need to.
But just before he turns to walk, he says, under his breath, so only she hears—
"Next time… don't be afraid."
Then he walks off into the dusk, his coat catching the wind, as if nothing had happened.
Gul remains still.
Eyes wide.
Chest rising and falling.
She's not sure what just happened... but something has shifted.
And somewhere above, watching from a window…
Sophia breaks a pencil in her hand.
...…
Scene: University Corridor – Late Evening
Gul steps out of the library, arms hugged around her books. Her pace is quick, eyes on the floor. The moment from earlier still pulses in her chest.
And then—
"Enjoying the attention?"
She stops.
Turns slowly.
Sophia.
Perfect hair. Cold smile. That tone—venom wrapped in silk.
Gul blinks, unsure. Doesn't respond.
Sophia steps closer.
"You think that's why he's near you? Out of kindness?"
Her voice sharpens. "You're nothing but a little provincial girl with scared eyes. You don't belong here—and you don't belong with him."
Gul stares back.
Silent.
Still.
But unshaken.
Her silence is not weakness now—it's strength. The kind that makes even Sophia hesitate.
After a tense beat, Sophia scoffs and storms off, heels clicking like gunfire.
Gul breathes.
Not deeply. But steady.
She walks away with her head just a little higher.
---
Scene: Gul's Dorm Room – Midnight
The light is dim. Her textbooks lie closed. Her tea untouched.
She sits on her bed, knees drawn up, hugging her legs. The world is quiet.
But her heart isn't.
She keeps replaying it.
The warmth of his hand.
The way he stood.
The way the world listened to him without a word.
And then—his voice.
"Next time… don't be afraid."
She leans her head against her knees, face hidden in her scarf. And suddenly—
her lips curve.
A flutter.
A soft storm building inside her chest.
"He's my husband," she whispers to herself, the words fragile and glowing.
And her heart answers back.
She's falling for him.
Truly.
And she doesn't know what it means yet—but for the first time in a long while, she doesn't feel small.
Scene: Caucasus Mountains – Tribal Council Chamber – Night
The fire crackles in the center of the stone chamber. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by ancient weapons and hanging wolf pelts.
Rustamov stands at the head of the table.
Not seated.
Not leaning.
Standing—a storm in stillness.
Around him, the elders murmur. A conflict has brewed between two factions of his tribe: one accusing the other of betrayal. Blood has been shed. Tension thick as the mountain fog.
An elder slams his fist on the table.
"We need time, Rustamov! Let us discuss—"
"No."
The word cuts through the room like a blade.
Everyone falls silent.
Rustamov steps forward. His eyes scan the room, landing on each man like a judgment.
"Time costs lives. I've already decided."
He signals to two guards near the doorway.
"Beymir's son is guilty. He will be exiled by dawn. His men will disarm. His property—divided among the widows."
A collective inhale.
Beymir himself rises to speak, voice trembling.
"Rustamov… you dishonor my family—"
"Your son dishonored it first."
Rustamov's voice is low. Cold. Final.
"No one is above the tribe. Not even blood."
There is no room for argument. No opening for plea.
Even Beymir knows it. His head bows. The room concedes.
And just like that, peace is restored.
Not with debates.
But with decisive command.
Rustamov turns and walks out into the night air.
Snow begins to fall. His fur coat sways with his steps.
Behind him, the fire still burns—but it's clear:
He is the flame now.
And no one questions fire…..
....
Scene: Mountain Village – Morning After Judgment
The snow blankets rooftops. Smoke rises gently from chimneys. Children run along narrow paths between stone homes, their laughter breaking the silence.
And from every window, every gathering, one name is spoken.
Rustamov.
"He didn't flinch."
"Not even for Beymir."
"That's why we trust him."
A group of young men sit sharpening blades in the open yard.
"He cut the corruption out like it was cancer," one mutters in awe.
Another nods, "If I ever stray, I'd want him to be the one who brings the axe."
An elderly widow, her hands weathered from years of work, receives food and supplies — the very ones seized from the corrupt.
She lifts her eyes to the snowy cliffs.
"May Allah protect him," she whispers. "He gave us back dignity."
Scene: Central Courtyard
Rustamov walks through the village, his presence quiet but commanding. People step aside—not out of fear, but respect. Children stop and bow their heads slightly. Men nod with reverence.
He does not smile.
He does not speak much.
But when he places a hand on the shoulder of a crying boy who just lost his father—
the gesture speaks everything.
And when a mother offers him dried berries in gratitude, he simply accepts and replies,
"Your sons are under my protection now."
They call him many things:
The Shield of the North.
The Silent Flame.
The Knife of Justice.
But to his people, he is simply:
Rustamov.
Their leader.
Their law.
Their strength carved into bone.
Scene: University Library – Quiet but Tense
The sunlight filters through tall arched windows, dancing across wooden shelves heavy with books. Gul clutches a worn paper in her hand—the name of a rare herb her biology project depends on. It grows abundantly in the wilds of Rustamov's homeland.
She's paced her room all morning.
Practiced the words.
Lost them all as soon as she saw him.
Now, she stands frozen near the reading tables. He's at the far end, sleeves rolled, studying schematics on cybersecurity breaches. Focused. Unbothered. Power in stillness.
Sophia leans nearby, eyes flickering toward Gul with silent mockery, surrounded by her rich entourage.
Gul tries to speak.
Her voice doesn't come.
Sophia chuckles faintly—loud enough for Gul to hear. "Lost, again?"
Gul ignores her. Her fingers tremble slightly as she steps forward, finally standing near Rustamov.
A pause.
Then her soft voice:
"Rustamov…"
He looks up slowly.
"…I need a herb. For my project. It only grows in your mountains. I… I didn't know who else to ask."
There's a breathless second.
No mockery.
No delay.
He simply rises.
Tall.
Decisive.
His laptop shuts with a snap.
He walks around the table—past Sophia's eyes now wide with disbelief—and without a word, takes Gul's hand. Gently. Firmly. Publicly.
"We leave now."
Gasps.
Sophia's mouth parts. Her friends exchange stunned looks.
But Gul?
She stares at their hands.
Then up at him.
The grip isn't forceful—it's anchoring. Like she's safe. Like nothing else matters now.
And he walks out with her beside him like she belongs nowhere else.
Not just as a protector.
But as her husband.
And this time…
She walks without fear.
Scene: The Journey to the Mountains
The drive is long. Silent at first.
Gul sits beside him in the black jeep, mountains rising like guardians on the horizon. His hands command the wheel like he commands everything—calm, alert, undeterred. The air gets colder as they climb higher, the wind stronger.
She steals glances at him.
His profile is sharp against the pale sky. A man of few words, but every breath seems heavy with purpose.
He catches her gaze.
"You're cold."
Before she can reply, he stops the jeep, gets out, walks to the back, and returns with a thick cloak from his tribe—black wool with silver thread, worn only by honored women.
He wraps it around her shoulders.
"My grandmother wore this. It's yours now."
Gul holds the cloak tightly, the warmth sinking into her skin—and somewhere deeper.
Scene: Arrival at the Village
The moment they enter the stone-gated village, all eyes turn.
Children run ahead, shouting,
"Rustamov is home!"
Men bow subtly. Women glance at Gul with curiosity, some with smiles, others with quiet whispers.
He holds her hand the entire way.
Not hidden. Not apologetic.
At the central courtyard, the tribal elder—an old man with a crescent-shaped scar on his forehead—approaches.
"You bring her," he says. "You never bring anyone."
Rustamov simply replies, "She's mine."
Gul blushes, lowering her gaze.
The elder chuckles. "Then she's ours too."
Scene: The Herb Hunt
That afternoon, they trek through a sun-dappled forest on the edge of the village. Birds chirp above, the scent of pine and wild earth fills the air.
Rustamov crouches beside a bush.
"This is it," he says. "Zokhtail."
He carefully gathers the herb for her—strong hands gentle with something so delicate.
Gul kneels beside him, watching.
"How do you know these things?"
He smirks faintly. "I grew up in survival."
She brushes his arm lightly with her fingers. "Thank you…"
Their eyes meet—longer than they ever have.
Silence. Wind. A shared breath.
He doesn't pull away.
Scene: Sophia's Fury
Back at the university, Sophia hears whispers.
"He took her to the mountains?"
"Gave her his grandmother's cloak?"
Her rage burns under her skin. Jealousy mixed with helplessness.
But she doesn't dare act.
Because no one dares challenge Rustamov.
And Gul?
Now walks through the halls with a quiet strength, the scent of pine still clinging to her cloak, her heart secretly soaring with the knowledge—
He chose her.
Scene: Nightfall in the Mountains – Fire Circle
The air is crisp, stars scattered like diamonds across the sky. A crackling fire throws golden light over smiling faces, laughter echoing from the hearts of the tribe. Children sit in a circle, playing a game with polished stones, their voices high with excitement.
Gul is nestled among them, the heavy cloak wrapped around her small frame, its silver threads shimmering in the firelight. Her **tiny form—just four feet eleven—**makes her blend in with the little ones, and tonight, she laughs like one too.
A soft lock of hair slips from her scarf, falling across her cheek. Her laughter is quiet, warm, innocent.
She doesn't understand their Russian words, but their gestures speak clearly—pointing, miming, pulling her into a game. And she laughs. Freely.
A short distance away, Rustamov sits with the elders, a plate of roasted meat in front of him. His expression is calm—serious—but his eyes? They're locked on her.
He watches how she leans forward to clap for a child who just won the game.
How she holds her belly when she laughs too hard.
How her eyes squint slightly, the corners crinkling when she's truly happy.
He's mesmerized.
An elder beside him follows his gaze, then says in Russian:
"You love her."
Rustamov doesn't answer.
He tears a piece of meat.
Chews.
Swallows.
"She's mine."
Later, the children curl up with their mothers, the fire burning lower. Gul rises, brushing her skirt.
She walks slowly to where Rustamov now sits alone, elbows on knees, gaze still in the flames.
She hesitates—then sits beside him.
The silence is warm, filled with embers and breathing.
She speaks softly:
"Why didn't you come after me… when I ran away from you before?"
He doesn't look at her.
His voice is low.
"You were scared of a man who could burn down the world for you. So I waited for you to return… to the fire, not the flame."
She looks at him, heart trembling.
And he finally meets her eyes.
The firelight dances in both their faces.
And in that moment, not a word more is needed.
...…..
Scene: Morning Departure – The Wife of Rustamov
The first light of dawn spills over the rugged peaks, painting the valley in hues of amber and gold. Mist curls around the rooftops of stone houses, the mountain air crisp and pure.
The village is awake early.
For her.
Gul stands near the black jeep, the same tribal cloak around her shoulders, her scarf pinned neatly. Her eyes glisten, not with tears—but with something more powerful—belonging.
Children rush to hug her legs, women bring her small pouches—herbs, dried fruit, woven tokens—offerings of love and honor.
An old woman, bent and fragile, presses her weathered hands on Gul's cheeks.
"Zena Rustamov," she calls her, "Wife of our lion."
Gul smiles, lips trembling with warmth.
Rustamov stands beside the jeep, arms crossed, watching silently. Eyes unreadable, but jaw tense. Protective. Proud.
She turns back one last time, lifts her hand, and smiles warmly at the tribe—at the life that embraced her without needing words.
The tribe raises their hands in farewell. No chaos. No noise.
Just respect.
Inside the jeep, as they drive away, Gul clutches the herb pouch for her project but keeps glancing back through the window… until the village disappears behind trees and mist.
Rustamov finally breaks the silence.
"They love you."
She glances at him, heart full.
"Do you?"
A pause.
He drives a little faster.
Then:
"I burn for you."
And the road unwinds ahead—two souls bound by nikah, fire, and fate.
...…..
Scene: Back at the University – The Silent Bond
Life returned to its usual rhythm—but Gul had changed.
No longer timid around him.
No longer running from what was written in the skies.
In the library, she often walked in with her books… but instead of finding an empty spot, her feet always led her to his table.
He'd be there—hoodie sleeves rolled, eyes focused on lines of code, fingers dancing across the keyboard, his entire posture coiled with silent intensity.
Gul wouldn't speak.
She'd just sit beside him. Quiet.
A book open. A highlighter in hand.
She wouldn't disturb him.
But he'd sometimes push a cup of tea toward her without looking, as if he always knew she was there.
And she would smile at the steam and sip in silence.
In the lawn, beneath old trees where light flickered through branches, she would sometimes sit cross-legged beside him. Her bag in the grass, books forgotten.
And if no one was watching—or sometimes even if they were—her fingers would slowly find his.
No words. No smiles.
Just the soft brush of her hand sliding into his large, calloused one.
A silent claim. A quiet peace.
Rustamov never pulled away.
But his grip would tighten slightly.
As if saying:
"You're safe."
And in her chest, something would flutter, but not out of fear anymore.
Out of belonging.
Scene: Martial Arts Practice – Trust in Movement
It was early evening.
The university gym was quiet, echoing only with the soft sound of their footsteps on the mat.
Gul stood in her joggers and long hoodie, nervously adjusting her scarf under her hoodie.
Across from her, Rustamov stood tall, dressed in black workout clothes, sleeves rolled, calm and focused—like always.
She hesitated.
"I just want to learn how to protect myself… I don't want to be scared again."
His gaze lingered on her. He didn't say anything. Just gave a single nod.
He showed her the first stance—feet apart, hands up. She mimicked him awkwardly.
"Too stiff," he murmured, stepping forward, gently adjusting her shoulders, her elbows.
His hands barely touched her, but she felt the heat travel down her spine.
They moved slowly at first.
"How do you throw someone?" she asked.
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, in one swift move, he swept her feet from under her, catching her gently before she hit the mat.
She gasped.
Eyes wide, breath stuck somewhere between surprise and thrill.
He was close—too close—hovering just above her for a beat.
"Like that," he said flatly, pulling her back up with one arm as if she weighed nothing.
She laughed then. A bright sound echoing in the empty gym.
"Again," she grinned.
They practiced more—punches, blocks, simple escapes. Her movements clumsy but determined.
At one point, while teaching her how to twist out of a wrist grab, his hand encircled her wrist.
Her pulse jumped.
He noticed.
His thumb paused just for a second… before letting go.
They sat on the mat afterward, drinking water in silence.
Gul looked at him, cheeks flushed from the workout.
"Why do you never laugh?" she asked suddenly.
He turned his head toward her, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Then finally,
"Because it happens rarely… but when I do—"
He leaned in slightly,
"It's for something real."
She swallowed.
Heart racing.
The water bottle forgotten in her hand.
...….
Scene: Training Becomes Ritual – And an Unexpected Test
The martial arts practice became their secret ritual.
Every week—twice, sometimes more—after classes or before dusk, they'd meet in the quiet corners of the gym or open lawn.
Rustamov always arrived early, standing in still silence until she came bouncing in with her water bottle and hopeful eyes.
Sometimes he'd have tied a scarf around his hand just to test her grip strength.
Sometimes he'd just stand and say:
"Attack."
And she'd groan, "That's not fair," before charging anyway, her moves getting smoother, faster—more confident.
He never praised aloud, but when she got a move right, there was a flicker of pride in his gaze.
And when she fell, he'd always offer his hand.
Every single time.
One day.
The campus was buzzing with an international cultural event. People everywhere—crowds, noise, music.
Gul, carrying her notes and some herbal samples for a presentation, was walking through the crowded back corridor when a loud, drunken laugh stopped her.
Two foreign students—the same group that had once bothered her—blocked her path.
"Hey Gul, right? You from Pakistan or something? Want to give us a tour?"
One reached for her arm.
Her mind flashed blank.
Then…
Training.
Her hand moved without hesitation.
A sharp twist. A sudden shift of balance.
He was on the ground.
The other guy stepped back, startled.
She stood there, breathing heavy—but firm.
Rustamov arrived from across the field in seconds—he'd seen her from a distance.
He didn't ask what happened.
He just looked at the guy on the ground, then at Gul.
"You remembered the move."
She gave a small nod, hands still shaking.
He stepped closer.
His voice low.
"You're mine. No one touches you."
And as she looked up at him—heart pounding from adrenaline, not fear—she whispered:
"You taught me well."
Scene: Let Her Handle It – Rustamov's Quiet Pride
Word spread.
Everyone had heard about Gul, the tiny girl from Peshawar who flipped a guy twice her size in a blink. Whispers followed her in the halls—some in awe, some in disbelief, some bitter. Sophia's glare had only sharpened.
But Gul?
She walked steadier now.
Not bold, not loud.
Just quietly confident.
One afternoon, Gul was helping set up an exhibition in the central hall, arranging her herbs and research boards when a student from a different batch—one of Sophia's sarcastic friends—approached with a smirk.
"You think just because you're with him, you're untouchable?"
He reached out—half-mocking, half-serious.
Rustamov stood just a few feet away.
He didn't move.
Didn't raise a brow.
He just watched.
Gul felt it—the moment of choice.
And she made it.
A pivot. A wrist catch. A shoulder twist.
The guy yelped, spun around, and landed hard.
Students gasped.
Gul stood above him, firm, fire in her eyes.
Rustamov stepped forward, slowly, like a shadow unfolding.
He looked down at the guy, then at Gul—his voice calm, cold.
"Next time, she won't go easy."
Then, as they walked off—Gul still catching her breath—he offered her a rare, almost invisible smile.
"You didn't need me."
She blinked, unsure if she heard right.
But he reached into his coat and handed her a warm tea cup.
"Still. You've earned it."
.....