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chaninfused · 3 months

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And Hope to Die | Han Jisung

◤“Her voice was softer and smoother than he anticipated, but why did he even expect her to sound like a fragment of his darkest nightmares in the first place?” In which a man who wants nothing to do with the mafia is chosen by its most infamous members. ◤Disclaimers: Female reader insert. Chapter four from the ‘dead men don’t speak’ series. Angst. Descriptions of violence, blood, injury, and death. Usage of profanities. ◤Word count: 3.5K ◤Note: This idea is mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. Masterlist.

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"Congratulations on your promotion!"

Those four words were the worst Jisung had ever heard in his life, but his colleagues seemed to think otherwise. They pounced on him, each with a proud slap to his back or a playful punch to his shoulder.

He stood between them like a twig helpless to the tides of the sea, jostled about without regard.

He didn't want a promotion.

He wanted out of this mess.

As he was pondering over all the ways the universe seemed to personally despise him, the door to the meeting room opened, and two strangers stepped in.

His colleagues immediately fell into a hush and bowed their heads in greeting, their small huddle around him dissipating. "Good afternoon, commanders!"

Not strangers, he realized with a chill as he mimicked the rest. He simply hadn't the opportunity to interact with them up close to recognize them. But he had heard of them. Who in the Shadow Front hadn't?

Seo Changbin, the one who wore an eye patch. Y/n, the one who wore a burgundy coat. Two commanders of the Chaos Crescent infamous for being downright insane.

Jisung wanted to jump out the nearest window.

"Han Jisung. That's you, right?"

He tensed up for a second. Her voice was softer and smoother than he anticipated, but why did he even expect her to sound like a fragment of his darkest nightmares in the first place?

"Yes," he squared his shoulders when he answered, daring to hold her—disconcertingly—sparkly gaze.

Why him?

Jisung had nothing to offer besides an uninspired soul, yet there she was, extending her hand out to him. “We’re excited to have you on board Action Unit 19, Han.”

That was his chance. He had better decline this ridiculous promotion and hope that if he weren’t to be released from this farce of a life, he’d at least remain in the bottom ranks where no eye nor mind regarded him.

But she was still looking at him intently, absorbing every millisecond of his hesitation with those knowing eyes. Behind her, the commander of Action Unit 17 regarded him with as much interest as one would grant a fly on the wall.

It appeared that his so-called chance was a farce, too.

Sure that fate was laughing its twisted ass off at him, Jisung clasped the hand of his new boss.

“Thank you, commander.”

•⭓•

Action Unit 19 was always busy solely by virtue of being yours, for you never sat still and never lingered in one place for too long. This new lifestyle was the very opposite of each of Jisung’s unheard hopes.

It was his third week, and he was standing amidst the havoc being wreaked by his comrades, idle. If any will was left in his empty soul, it was definitely not spared to raise the gun in his loose grasp or engage himself in the raid they’d been tasked with. It was a miracle he’d even survived this long, having been doing the exact same thing on every mission so far—absolutely nothing.

If anyone in his unit noticed, he was sure they’d kill him for it, or at least pummel him to the ground because that was the kind of unit he’d been promoted to.

One that would answer, ‘how high?’ if their commander told them to jump.

It moved Jisung’s soul not one bit.

In his impassive state, he felt a weight crash into him, nearly toppling him to the ground had he not quickly caught his footing.

The man who had collided with him was now clutching his issued suit. A bruised cheekbone and a busted lip, yet he snarled at him, spitting blood, “Go to hell.”

Frankly, Jisung couldn’t be bothered to fight him off, so he only stared back at him.

An enemy. Maybe he could finally release him from his hell.

The man fished out a knife, and it glinted with the tantalizing light of freedom, before it was snuffed out by two dreadful gunshots.

A bullet to his arm and another to his neck, and he convulsed, choking, letting go, dying. Exposing Jisung’s actions, or lack thereof, to his comrades.

The floor they’d been fighting in quietened, the silence only disrupted by the bold clacking of dress shoes and your demanding question behind him.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t turn around to face you, gaze still fixed at the dying man now crumpled at his feet. There went the chance he’d been waiting for.

Jisung doubted that you wanted his answer to that question because he was doing nothing, and that was the exact problem. His listlessness placed the rest of his unit in danger, and any resulting casualties would be your burden to carry in front of the higherups.

But he didn’t really care.

He knew better, in the depths of his mind, than to anger his boss. Still, he held on to the inkling of hope that maybe this way, you’d realize your mistake of hiring him and demote him back to the solitary humdrum of the lower ranks.

Anything to destroy this ever-growing snowball of mistakes.

You scoffed, and it sent a terrible chill down his spine. “I guess you don’t care if you died then.”

His body snapped in your direction, fast enough to see you point your gun straight at his head. Strangely, and against all reason, his heart lurched with the most sickening feeling. Wait—

Three gunshots deafened him as they echoed. Before he could speak. Before he could blink. Before he could breathe.

You were known to be wasteful with your bullets, but your aim was never sloppy, and instead of searing pain, Jisung heard a shriek from behind him.

Oh. Figures you wouldn’t actually shoot him.

He was frozen in place when you strode past him, your face a blank slate that somehow made the threat leaving your lips worse, “Get your act straight or you’ll wish those bullets went through your skull instead.”

•⭓•

Jisung thought that few things were more suffocating than his waking hours, one of which was being awake and in a party.

He managed to slip out of the loud hall with unsurprising ease. He was only a rookie in Action Unit 19, after all. No one would ask for his particular company during the half-year party where the entirety of the Shadow Front, bosses and underlings alike, gathered to drink and sweettalk their ways into higher positions.

Eager to be as far away from their pretenses, Jisung eventually found himself opening the door to the rooftop and stepping out to a stunning sunset. Even from this height, the view of the sky was the same as that seen by the passengers of the cars zooming below. Innocents who’d committed no mistakes as grave as his, and still got to enjoy something so mundane.

He leaned into the ceramic railing and nearly jumped out of his skin when a hum sounded behind him.

“The sky is green.”

He spun around so quickly he should’ve lost his balance, but Jisung only sputtered out, “Ma’am—!”

It turned out there were others beside himself who sought a breath of fresh air.

You were lying on the bare concrete, one outstretched leg over the other with your signature coat bundled up to cushion your head. How he hadn’t noticed you from the start was a wonder he could only attribute to the clouding of his mind, wanting nothing more than to escape the party.

As if his situation wasn’t sufficiently awkward on its own, there was the added fact that Jisung had been lying low ever since you rebuked him during the raid. Now, he was alone on the deserted rooftop with you and no smooth way to make an exit.

Damn it.

“Han Jisung.”

Maybe he should’ve stayed at that wretched party.

“I know you don’t want to be here.”

He stiffened at your words, carried by the soft breeze to his cold ears.

“I’ve known it for a while. Ever since your recruitment.”

So what? It wasn’t like he tired too hard to hide it. His life had been tainted by this organization, and he didn’t remember how or when it all began. Only that he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“But here’s the thing,” you sighed, and he heard the whisper of fabric as you sat up. “There’s nowhere but here for you and me.”

You were right. Of course you would be. Hands so thoroughly steeped with blood like his could have no other occupation.

“So quit this rebellion of yours. It’s only going to kill you in the end and you know they don’t hold nice funerals for people like us.”

Jisung didn’t need to have this heart-to-heart with a criminal. He knew there was no getting out of this alive, let alone unscathed. Still, he had to try. He had to do something, anything, otherwise that bastard—

“Why are you even doing all this?”

Your question—perhaps prompted by his silence, or perhaps ignited by your curiosity—forced him to finally look at you and absorb the way the golden sunset bathed your skin. A divine halo for the most wicked of devils.

You were all too relaxed, head tilted back to regard him almost lazily, and somehow, for whatever reason, his heart skipped a beat. Or dropped to the pits of hell. It was a feeling that unsettled him either way, and Jisung found himself at a loss for words.

“I…”

Or maybe his words were so abundant that he didn’t know where to start, or whether it was even appropriate for him to say what was on his mind. You seemed to notice too, for you let out a humored huff, “Well, whatever it is, I can tell you don’t actually want to get yourself killed.”

“Of course not,” he stated a bit too roughly, fists curling into themselves as he gritted out his frustration, “I’m just—”

He was helpless. There was nothing he could do to resolve his situation without hurting his sister, and he couldn’t bear for his days to go on without change either.

“I see,” you murmured when he lapsed into silence again. He didn’t know what exactly you ‘saw’, but he supposed reading others came with your job description.

You rose to your feet and dusted off your burgundy coat as though your business was concluded. Without so much as another glance his way, you turned for the rooftop’s door, imparting onto him a few last words that had clearly, very easily, seen entirely through him.

“What you are is angry, Han Jisung. Make use of it.”

There was that twisted feeling in his chest again.

Jump.

•⭓•

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing in this house?!”

The beer can, intended for Jisung’s head, clanged against the paving that led to the house. The assault did not deter Jisung, and he shouted back, “You used it all for your fucking drugs didn’t you? I gave that money to Mina!”

The assailant heaved with drunken anger. Once upon a time, Jisung knew him as his stepfather, but this man was no more than a stranger, now. He had lost himself to alcohol and narcotics after his wife’s abandonment and grew to resent her son as though it were his sworn duty.

His hatred was something that Jisung didn’t care for too much. He was an adult and had no reason to associate himself with this deteriorating household anymore. A luxury, yet he kept returning to this family because of her.

“That money wasn’t yours,” Jisung snarled, “Give it back.”

“You son of a bitch—!” the man's face reddened, as though he were choking on his own words. “I told you not to come here again! We don’t need your filthy money—”

“Right,” Jisung had to let out a bitter laugh. “That’s why you had to take the money I gave to my sister—”

“She’s not your sister!”

The shout should’ve rattled him, but Jisung stood his ground as his stepfather descended, fuming, hands outstretched as if to catch him by the collar and strangle him. He spat like a sputtering kettle, “I don’t want to hear her name coming from your mouth ever again—”

“Damn, you’re really insecure, huh?”

That voice did not belong in their family’s front yard, and it brought immediate quiet upon them. Jisung’s head snapped up, his heart sinking.

What the hell are you—

“Who the fuck are you?” his stepfather demanded, faltering in his angry steps as he glared at the intruder wandering into their property. Jisung could only watch, helpless, because he couldn’t simply exclaim at his boss’ face to leave.

“My name is Y/n,” you provided, a pleasant, yet utterly bland smile on your face as you walked up to the swaying drunkard. A black business card seemingly materialized between your fingers and you held it out to him, introducing yourself further, “I’m a general manager at House of Cosmos. Nice to meet you.”

“What the— How did you get in here? This is private property!” he hissed, completely ignoring your outstretched hand, and Jisung saw the masked disdain in your gaze grow. Disinterested, you dropped your business card on the ground and pointed behind you, shrugging, “Door’s wide open.”

And it was. The gate to their property was unlocked and yawning on its old hinges. Still, that didn’t explain your presence.

“Anyway, I’m here for my colleague,” you remarked, casually slinging an arm around Jisung’s shoulders and lying through your teeth with such terrifying ease. “You see, I offered to drive him to the company barbeque so I came by, but then—"

“I don’t care. Get out, both of you,” his stepfather interjected forcefully and you ceased your story making, letting go of Jisung’s stunned form with a scrunch of your nose and a mutter, “Huh...”

The man seemed to lean to his left a bit too steeply, a bit too slowly, slurring and struggling with this words, “A-And if I see your… face around here again—I s-swear I’ll—Argh—!”

The thud of his body against the yellowing grass was quiet.

A beat passed, then—

“I guess all that alcohol caught up to him, huh?” you murmured and Jisung stared, eyes like glass, at the limp body of the man he loathed more than anybody else. The cause and very source of all his misery and turmoil, motionless for once in his worthless life.

What the hell just happened—?

“Hello?” your voice was muffled through the fog in his mind as you called emergency services. “A man collapsed in front of us—I think from a stroke… Yeah… Middle-aged, I believe. Okay. We’re at 11B street, Villa 1053C…”

No. No. No!

Jisung’s breaths were coming too short, his vision too dark.

He’s dead? How can he be dead? I didn’t even touch him—

“Okay. We’ll do that. Thank you.”

You ended the call and he spun to face you, grabbing your arms in manic desperation as he gasped, “They’re going to arrest us now— They’ll think I did it—!”

You seemed all too slow to react to his outburst, wriggling out of his grasp with a dispassionate sigh, “Relax. You’ve got witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” he stepped back. “Who exactly?”

You furrowed your brows at him as if confused by his panic, then pointed at yourself, “Me.”

At the corner of the house, “the camera.”

Then somewhere above the two of you, “and her.”

Jisung’s gaze followed your finger to the window on the second floor and met the wide eyes of his sister gaping down at the scene. He realized, with a pang, that she had seen it all transpire despite every effort he’d made to keep her away from their fights all these years.

“Anyway, you know some first aid right?” you crouched next to his stepfather’s body, beckoning with your hand, “Come help me—”

“What are you really doing here?”

Jisung’s question made you stop and frown at him again, answering like it were the most obvious thing, “I’m here for you. Did I not say that?”

You did say that, but it made no sense and he was pretty sure it was a lie made to trick his stepfather.

“You weren’t picking up and I was nearby,” you told him simply. “Now, If you’re done with your questions, come help.”

“I…see.”

Again, that feeling nagged at him.

Jump.

•⭓•

Two men in smart black suits halted in their steps when Jisung passed by, making way as they greeted him, “Good morning, VP.”

“G’morning,” he raised his free hand in a half-wave when he returned the greeting. In Jisung’s other hand was a hefty weight he’d been dragging across the floor. It left a faint red trail behind him, but he didn’t care much. Their janitor wasn’t going to be cleaning anything anytime soon, anyway.

He smiled at the two guards and dropped the body at their feet. “Take care of this for me, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Feeling much lighter, Jisung resumed his way to his original destination. He was supposed to be there seven minutes ago, but there had been a minor distraction on his little trip. His tardiness wouldn’t be an issue, though, but the smudged blood on his gloves was, most definitely, unacceptable.

With a sigh, he pulled off his gloves and shoved them into the inner pockets of his blazer. It was a shame, truly. He really tried to make as little a mess as possible this time.

Jisung reached his destination and knocked on the polished door, pushing it open before getting his answer.

“You’re late,” you stated immediately upon his stepping into your office.

“Sorry,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “Caught a rat in the janitor’s closet.”

“Another one, huh?” you chuckled like it were a joke and not an attempt at your life, once again. Jisung clenched his jaw to bite back his frustrations.

You were lying haphazardly on one of the couches in your vast office. Feet propped up against the backrest and your head nearly dangling off the edge. Jisung didn’t know which was worse—your shoes against the leather or the fact that you were supposed to be recovering in bed today.

Farther towards the tall windows, someone else stood gazing out at the city with disinterest. Not once did he turn back to acknowledge Jisung’s entry, likely too unbothered to expend the effort, but that was to be expected of the Right Claw. Second only to the Boss, Seo Changbin wouldn’t even take more breaths than he was absolutely required to.

Jisung shut away the disappointment that flooded his chest at seeing him.

“You asked for me?” he questioned once he stood near the couch and you looked up at him from where you lay, grinning. Only then did he notice the pristine envelope in your grasp.

“Come take a look. It’s an invitation from the Prince of the Underworld.”

Jisung received the envelope from you and took out its one page contents. The letter was short, simple, and made his blood boil instantly.

Your voice sounded from behind the paper. “What do you think?”

“I think he’s either stupid or stupidly full of himself to order you around,” he said, and he was cooler and calmer than he’d imagined himself to be because in all honesty, Jisung wanted to tear the paper to shreds then set it all ablaze.

And after what those bastards did…

He folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. The so-called Prince of the Underworld was an audacious man, but this was an opportunity and Jisung was going to catch it by the tail. “I’ll go.”

“No,” you didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll go together.”

“Why? I can give him a piece of my mind just fine.”

You were silent to his protest, but the sudden darkness that shadowed your gaze screamed louder than any voice could. And Jisung heard it.

His emotions ran impossibly hotter, his whisper so chillingly low.

“So… Jeongin found something.”

“Yes,” you smiled and it made him crumble inside.

That wasn’t satisfaction or excitement. It was pain and old suffering that quirked your lips, and it had been that way for a while now.

He hated it.

He despised it so much that it sickened him to his very core.

So, Jisung allowed your desire for revenge to consume him whole. This mantle wasn’t his own, yet he carried its heavy weight on his shoulders because he was willing to do anything. A world that dimmed the spark in your eyes was a world that ought to be damned.

And so, he let that angry flame burn.

Your orders were soft, not at all demanding, “That’s why we’ll both go entertain the little prince.”

Jump.

Jisung relented. “As you wish.”

How high?

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Thank you for reading this far! I'm so sorry this one got delayed a bunch, but I hope it was an enjoyable read anyway. A reblog and any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I hope you have a spectacular day, and I'll see you next week (hopefully) with the fifth chapter! ♡

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chaninfused · 2 years

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[sneak peek] Speaking in Tongues: Finale | Yang Jeongin

#hi hello have this little snippet bcs idk when ill finish sit GSHJDFKS #for those who have never read sit and are confused; baraa is an oc so are others #but like only baraa matters so pffdghfjdsdg #anyw :)#speaking in tongues #source: chaninfused

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chaninfused · 5 years

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ﾟ✲* MAIN MASTERLIST *✲ﾟ

all the works under the cut are mine. do not copy, repost, or translate my work.

➥ go to blurb masterlist

❉ The Songless Bird | Lee Minho

➥ Stories of assassins and their journeys towards a happy ever after ░

Status: complete.

♔ Crownhill Academy | Stray Kids (intro)

➥ When their world begins to fall apart, third year students find themselves forced to overcome their rivalries to save the people they love. But there is more to a fairy tale than a happy ever after, and some truths are better not spoken ░

Status: indefinite hold.

ꕥ Speaking in Tongues | Yang Jeongin (part one, part two)

➥ Something terrible is unfolding in the slums of the crown city, and as the general hurries to put an end to it, he crosses paths with a rogue dancer who is willing to sacrifice everything for her freedom ░

Status: on hold.

⭓ Dead Men Don’t Speak | Stray Kids

➥ The life of a mafia member and the eight boys who cross her path, for better or for worse. Alternatively — Your partner is dead, or so you’ve been told ░

Status: ongoing.

☾ Paint the Moon | Kim Seungmin

➥ In which two souls find peace in each other’s presence, despite the raging flames of war ░

⌬ When the Clocks Stop Ticking | Bang Chan

➥ When a time traveler stumbles upon an underground boxer, she suddenly finds herself wishing to stay ░

🌣 Candles in the Sky | Han Jisung

➥ An old secret threatens to tip a warrior’s life upside down when a larger menace dawns on two opposing clans ░

❅ A Cloud of Dandelions | Lee Felix

➥ If only the warmth in the boy’s heart was enough to keep the poor match girl alive, for the streets were too cold ░

⚘ Dull Blood | Lee Felix

➥ In which the oddities of Imperii Al Ordines team up to bring down their city’s despicable leaders ░

⍉ Birds of Paradise | Yang Jeongin

➥ In which the few remaining Fae fight and fail, love and lose, but embrace the wind nevertheless ░

❉ The Songless Bird | Lee Minho (series masterlist)

➥ In which a royal encounters an assassin, and she’s suddenly all what’s on his mind ░

♕ Clover Prince | Hwang Hyunjin

➥ When two assassination attempts fail, royals of longtime rival kingdoms find themselves stuck with each other and unlikely friendships begin to bloom in that dreary land of betrayal ░

❦ And the Mountains Will Kneel | Han Jisung

➥ When greed breaks the Guardians of Light apart, eternal night befalls the three tribes, and the only way to restore the balance is through reuniting them ░

֍ Row, Row, Row Your Boat | Hwang Hyunjin (series masterlist)

➥ In which a simple lullaby leads an assassin to something he wishes to protect until the sky falls ░

؏ Danse Macabre | Lee Minho

➥ In an attempt to win his fiancée’s heart, a prince journeys across the desert, where lifelong secrets come unraveled and nothing is quite what it seems ░

✵ Hymn of the Winds | Lee Minho

➥ When an assassination attempt leaves a king wounded and his family endangered, his queen must find a way to protect all that she has sacrificed for ░

☙ Vivid | Lee Minho

➥ A girl cursed to be reborn strikes an unlikely deal with the ambitious heir of Valorieve in order to fulfill her only wish. However, this strictly-businesslike partnership develops into something more as her unraveling secrets and his treasonous aspirations converge. Will they face the monster of her curse together, or will the threat of a greater enemy break them apart first? ░

➥ go to blurb masterlist

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chaninfused · 2 years

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Speaking in Tongues: Part Two | Yang Jeongin

◤“This was how you would face the world. You would wear his horrors like the nobility did their jewelry. Proud. Unbroken. And you would see to his downfall, even if your initial plan had failed.”

After a siege goes wrong, the general hastens to remedy the disaster and find the lost victims while the rogue dancer left behind continues to fight the ghosts of her past.

◤Disclaimers: From the world of Danse macabre (no need to read beforehand). Fantasy inspired by Arabian mythology. Lots of angst, no fluff really. Includes descriptions of violence and injury, as well as murder and death. Please proceed with caution. Depictions of a human trade. Alludes to mature themes (not explicit) and recalls occurrences of sexual assault (not romanticized, obviously). This does not refer to a historical event of my knowledge, nor does it reference real life nations or people. Female reader insert. View the glossary here. Playlist.

◤Word count: 13.6K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

Part One | Part Two: Sword and Storm | Part Three

“Mawlati!” Jeongin crashed through the door of the elegant office, terror making disarray of his appearance.

The queen stood from her ornate velvet chair, both startled and confused. She didn’t recall seeing the general perturbed like that before. “What’s wrong?”

“We need...to send a message to the governors,” he spoke through strained breaths as though he’d run across the palace to find her.

“Of course.” she motioned for her messenger, though the frown of confusion never left her graceful features. She knew that the general had an important mission that night. “What happened at the Junayna?”

He looked at her as though it shamed him to admit his next words. “They abandoned it. I’ve dispatched several squads to find them. We need to alert the other cities and the harbor before they make it too far.”

She slid a piece of parchment toward him and Jeongin began writing his note instantly. There was no time he could waste on formalities. Important fugitives have escaped the crown city. Hold anyone who tries to leave or enter. They must not get out of Darilmalek.

After signing the note and blowing on it twice for the ink to dry, the general rolled the parchment and handed it to the messenger.

The man’s tall figure drowned in heavy green robes. He seemed to look at the world as if he saw more than the rest of them did, eyes always wandering. The messenger received the note and pounded the staff he held against the floor, muttering a short incantation.

In a blink, a creature of fire and blood materialized next to him. Its ebony horns and wicked claws made an unwelcome sense of Deja Vu wash over the general. A Jinni stood in the room.

The queen had introduced magic to the court like no one had done before. Sahara had become an integral part of the royal clinic, the Architects’ Association, and the budding team of inventors and engineers. The messengers could’ve been her most valuable addition yet. Men and women who used their knowledge of Jinn to deliver messages across the kingdom at incomparable speeds. The note Jeongin had scribbled would reach the harbors and every established city in a matter of moments.

The messenger held out the note for the Jinni to take then commanded, “Ith’hab.”

And the creature did, disappearing between one heartbeat and the other.

Jeongin didn’t dare to exhale. There was still so much work to do.

“They took everyone?” the queen asked, and he shook his head. “All of them but one.”

“One? Why?”

Jeongin gritted his teeth, something ached deep in his heart. “I don’t know. She’s receiving the care she needs right now.”

•ꕥ•

You woke to deep oud and a terrible burning sensation on your face.

For a moment, you thought that you were floating. Everything around you felt soft, light, cold.

Then a reality seemed to close in on you suddenly. Your surroundings were soft, but heavy. You were entrapped in a cocoon of sickly warmth.

You moved your head and stared at an expanse of gold and black tiles. A piece of art depicting a repeating pattern of golden blossoms against a dark backdrop. You’d never seen something like it before. It was beautiful. It was dizzying to look at.

You breathed, then pain crashed into you like a boulder. You sat upright, hissing as you brought a hand to the sore area. What happened to me?

Your fingers came in contact with a fine fabric, and you remembered.

You remembered everything.

Like plunging headfirst into cold water; the music, the burlap pouch, Hijris’ sneer, the searing iron rod. It all rushed into your consciousness.

You found that you were in a bed, bigger than any you’d seen before, surrounded by a heavy blanket and an array of pillows. You pushed yourself under the covers, scrambling to your feet. Meeting the cold floor with a careless thud, your knees buckled lousily as a fabric fell over your legs.

Someone had changed you into a comfortable cotton thawb, white garment lightly embroidered with blue lines on the sleeves.

You looked around you. You were in a strange room. Furniture of an oak so dark it gleamed black was elegantly positioned in the vast space. Similarly dark curtains were open to reveal the vibrant morning sky. Where am I?

A fraction of light caught your attention and you rushed toward it. You had spotted a mirror hung over a long dressing table.

Though, you supposed you should’ve approached it slowly. For what was reflected back at you made you inhale sharply.

The left side of your face was completely bandaged from below your jaw and over your head. The feel of the scorching iron on your skin echoed in your memory.

No sound left your throat as a stillness settled in your lungs. The sight before you was difficult to absorb. You hated to think of what lay behind the bandage.

When you raised a tentative hand to touch the cloth again, a kind voice stopped you. “Try not to mess with it.”

You swiveled around, eyes landing on a woman walking through an archway that linked the bedroom to a sitting room.

A beige thawb hugged her full figure, rich orange thread accenting the hems and the waist. Her black curls were pulled into a thick braid that fell over her shoulder. The woman smiled at you, brown eyes twinkling against sun-kissed skin. She carried a tray with rolled bandages and some ointment. “Why don’t you sit down?”

You did as she told you, gingerly placing yourself at the edge of the bed as you watched her move across the room. She set the tray on a close nightstand then came to stand before you, her hands holding your face like one would a fragile vase. “I’ll remove the bandage and you’ll be able to see it for yourself.”

You nodded and felt the layers being peeled off swiftly, exposing your skin to the air. The weight on your right eye didn’t wane when she stepped away, tossing the bundle of used bandages on the tray.

The warmth in her expression didn’t change when she looked back at you. It reminded you so much of a mother’s loving gaze. “You can go ahead.”

You stood and stepped toward the vanity again. You made sure to prepare yourself this time before lifting your gaze to your reflection. A deep inhale. An exhale.

Your legs seemed to liquefy. You had to hold on to the edge of the table to stay on your feet.

The skin on the left side of your face was raw, a thick discolored line that stretched from the side of your jaw and over your eye to the beginning of your brow. It tingled in the air, throbbing with pain. You bit back a sob. You weren’t going to cry, not in front of that woman.

You forced your left eye to blink. It was a slow movement that sent jolts of pain through your head. It felt heavy. Wrong. You leaned closer to the mirror, examining your eye with a trembling heart.

That was when you noticed the gem-like shards in the iris. They caught the barest light and winked as though your eye was forged from precious stone. Is it...gone? You stepped away from the table as panic seized your chest, merciless in its grip.

With a restrained breath, you raised a hand over your right eye, afraid of what you might see. Or what you wouldn’t see.

It was nothing. You saw nothing.

It was as though someone had obscured your vision with a blindfold. As though you had both eyes covered.

A hand flew to your mouth as a gasp entangled with a breathless sob escaped. You turned to face the woman. It hurt to speak. “M-My eye!”

She gave you a sorrowful smile. “I’m sorry.”

“What happened to it?!”

“I could tell you, but I’ll need you to sit first.”

You didn’t want to sit. You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream until your vocal cords snapped.

Hijris did this to you. He was the reason behind all your misery. You didn’t ask for this life, but he chose it for you. He created it. Did he think himself a god to pick you out of your quiet life and force you into his vision of paradise? All you did was try to survive. Try to escape.

But this was what he did. He broke the strong. He killed the hopeful. Anger squeezed its way through your anguish, fizzing, crackling.

You willed yourself to sit down. Tears brimmed your healthy eye, but you kept a firm expression, staring at the woman intently as she transferred some of the ointment to her hand.

“This will sting,” she warned before applying the medicine on the swollen flesh. It did sting. Terribly. But you wallowed in the pain. It was all you could do.

“You came with a burn across your face,” she started, a sadness to her tone, as though she was the one suffering the injury. “The Sahara and Atiba’a did their best to restore the skin and the nerves in the area. It will heal, but it will scar. Your eye, on the other hand...”

She stopped with a shake of her head. “Your eye was too damaged to heal. They decided to infuse it with a gemstone such that it doesn’t need to be removed.”

“Infuse it?” you frowned, and it hurt.

“Don’t make too many faces,” she chided gently, throwing her braid behind her shoulder and grabbing the fresh bandages. “Yes, infuse it. It’s a technique developed by the medic Sahara. They use pieces of stone and mend them with bone or other organs in order to fix fractures or faults. The injury left your eye defective, but the infusion procedure was done to restore its shape and appearance.”

“So,” your voice seemed to grow fainter by the syllable. “It’s gone.”

She gave you the barest nod.

The heaviness you felt in your right eye was exhaustion. A load too heavy for it to carry alone. A certain confusion. The reality of the situation felt like sand to swallow. You needed water.

The woman finished bandaging the burn and stepped away, admiring her work. “All done. You can rest now.”

But you didn’t want to rest. “Where am I?”

She gave you a surprised look. “You’re in the palace.”

“The palace?” you repeated, eyes wide. What were you doing in the palace out of all places?

��Na’am.”

“Why? How did I get here?”

“They rescued you from that horrible place last night,” she said, and you held your breath. The Junayna.

“What about the rest? Are they here too?”

She shook her head. “You were the only one they came back with. I hear the culprit has escaped along with the victims.”

Any relief you hoped to gain was put out like a dying candle. Hijris left you to die while he ran away with his dancers and his riches. Or maybe he left you to be found by the general and his men and become a different kind of prisoner again.

No matter where you went, what you did, nothing changed. “I see...”

“They’ll find them, I’m sure,” she assured you as she gathered her materials, readying to leave. Picking up the tray, she looked at you one last time, embarrassed. “I was wondering...”

“I know you aren’t in the best condition right now but, um,” she cleared her throat, “Are you and, well, the general...perhaps?”

Her question flew over your head. You could only stare at her, blank.

She rambled, “I just thought...since he brought you here that maybe—”

Why did everyone assume your association with this general? You diverted your gaze to the polished floor. A mutter, “I don’t know the general.”

She silenced herself, taking your answer with no argument. When your eyes flitted upwards, you saw a hand stretched out to you. The young woman was smiling. “I’m Kayan.”

You hesitated before briefly shaking her hand. “Y/n.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment before asking you to rest and disappearing through the archway. The resonant sound of a closing door soon followed her, and you were alone again.

It were as if you’d barely been clutching the reins of your composure and they slipped out of your weak hands. A herd of anger, despair, and anguish rampaged toward you, not allowing you to pick yourself up before trampling you over, crushing your will under their unforgiving hooves.

Meeting the soft covers, you let the cry wring itself out of your lips. Tired. Hopeless. Broken.

The embrace of calming oud carried you to your slumber. The salt of your tears was still fresh on the tip of your tongue.

•ꕥ•

There was a moment when your breaths finally calmed and your eyes dried. You didn’t notice it at first as though your mind and body were both too exhausted to process anything beyond the simple fact of your existence.

Kayan had entered the room several times throughout the day, attempting to get you to eat the food she brought with her. You caught the delicious waft of lamb, soups, pastries, but nothing had you sitting up to eat. You declined each of her trays, unwilling to do anything besides drown in the covers and your bitter misery.

It was sometime late during the night when you heard a knock on the door. You were wide awake, courtesy of having your sleep schedule permanently altered by working in the Junayna, but you didn’t answer. You had no heart to eat, when will they accept that?

After a few beats, you heard the door open anyway. You didn’t lift your head from the pillows. “I don’t want food.”

But this wasn’t Kayan, you realized when a strong oud pierced your senses, inviting, it almost pulled you out of the bed. You caught a hint of yasmeen in the blend. “You must eat in order to heal properly. I’ve been told you declined all the food delivered to your room today.”

That voice.

You stilled, fingers clenching around the fabric of the blanket covering you. It was him.

The man behind the blank veil. The man who saved you and Kadi. The man who caught you sneaking around Hijris’ office. The man who lied to you.

You thought that the tears were returning, but instead, newfound anger spilled into your words. “Did you bring me here so I can be your prisoner too?”

He placed something on the small coffee table with a gentle clink. A tray, most probably. You didn’t bother to turn around, continuing to give him your back when he spoke, “I brought you here to make sure you were safe and being taken care of. You are not a prisoner, Y/n.”

That was the first time you heard him say your name. In another lifetime, you might’ve reveled at the way his voice carried each syllable with the grace of a thousand starry skies. As if serenading it with every breath.

You wanted to turn around, see the face behind the voice and the veil. Would he frown at you or smile? Would he apologize? Would he see anything besides the dancer from the Junayna?

“You lied to me.” your voice was a frail whisper, engraved with betrayal. You’d trusted him. Only because he showed you the barest, simplest decency. You’d foolishly trusted him, even when you knew you shouldn’t have.

The general was quiet before a single statement left his lips. It cut through the distressed remains of your heart like a khanjar. “I had to.”

He left the room then, a breeze of oud and anbar, adding with a murmur on his way, “Please eat.”

You didn’t want to. You wanted nothing but to stay where you were, cooped up in your turbulent sorrow. But then your stomach twisted in sharp hunger, a prickly pain that had you squeezing your eyes shut. You hadn’t eaten for a day and a night, and if you waited any longer, you would complete a second night.

You pushed yourself to sit, and your weakness hit you like a storm ravaging the sea. You rested your fidgety arms in your lap, looking sideways to where the tray was placed.

Atop the low table was a silver tray carrying dishes of lamb, rice, bread, and soup, but what caught your attention was the small plate on the side.

Fresh buqsumat lay in a pretty assortment on the plate, dusted with sukkar, garnished with crushed fustuq, and topped with a single purple blossom of rayhan.

•ꕥ•

“Goodnight, Y/n,” Kayan bowed her head before leaving your room with a tray of empty dishes in her grasp.

You gave her a small smile. She had fussed over you throughout the day, ever since she visited you in the morning and saw the tray the general had left you. You had eaten, and it seemed to fill her with glee.

She was too kind. You almost felt bad for what you were going to do.

She will forget about it, you assured yourself as you slipped out of the bed, bare feet meeting the cool floor. People like me come and go, anyway.

You needed to leave the palace. You couldn’t stay there, safe and sound, knowing that your friends—knowing that Bara’a and Kadi were out there, lost in the vastness of the desert and at Hijris’ mercy.

You were allowed to leave. Isn’t that what the general had told you the previous night? You are not a prisoner.

You were about to test that statement.

Slipping your feet into the sandals Kayan had brought in hopes of encouraging you to take a stroll around the gardens, you walked toward the archway connecting the bedroom to the sitting room. The chamber you were in was grand and a little too much for a guest like you. Or so you thought, catching a glimmer of your reflection in the mirror. The white bandaging on your face stared back at you.

You halted, fingers itching.

You hadn’t looked at your burn since that wretched morning. It hurt to think about it. It hurt to think about what Hijris had done to you, about what you’d lost.

Sadly so, you were used to pain.

With careful hands, you unwrapped the bandages that stretched across the left side of your face, letting them fall to the floor as you gazed at yourself. The burn had barely healed, but whatever ointment Kayan was applying to your skin was doing its job perfectly. In a month or so, nothing would be left of the injury but a jarring scar. You couldn’t silence the echo of Hijris’ words when the searing iron had lifted.

No one will look at that pretty face of yours ever again. And when you’re rejected across the city, you’ll remember how kind Amm Hijris had been to you before you decided to steal from him.

Your face had felt alight yet cold, numb. You spat at his crooked nose then, but he only stepped away, letting them drop you on the floor before disappearing amid the haze of your suffering.

You shut your eyes, forcefully pushing the memory away. No. He would not break you like this. Instead, the splash of Bara’a’s laugh reverberated in your mind, the painful melody of Kadi’s cries.

If he thought he could shame you into hiding, shun you from the world by scarring your outside, then he was dreadfully wrong.

This was how you would face the world. You would wear his horrors like the nobility did their jewelry. Proud. Unbroken. And you would see to his downfall, even if your initial plan had failed.

You only needed to get out of the palace first.

•ꕥ•

The two guards at your door let you pass with nothing but the merest glance. You had almost hesitated, expecting them to shout and force you back inside, but they did no such thing.

So the general’s words were true, you tasted bitterness on the tip of your tongue. If only he didn’t lie to me first.

That thought was soon forgotten when you realized that you didn’t know where to go. The palace was a huge, complicated web of hallways and doors that looked alike, and the more you wandered, the more anxious you became. You had no place in the palace. What if a guard found you and mistook you for a trespasser?

You didn’t want to wait and find out.

You decided to follow a group of servants making their way down the hallway. If anything, they could lead you to the servants’ quarters, which you supposed you could easily find an exit from.

And they did. You soon found yourself rounding the corner into bustling quarters. Men and women in shades of white and brown moved like bees in a hive, an eerie harmony to them.

You separated from the group to drift toward the night peeking through an open door. It was connected to the stables, and you ignored the stink of dung as you made your way past the sleeping mammals and curious stable hands, steps quickening with each breath. You had spotted greenery at the mouth of the stable. That must be it! You would be out of the palace in a matter of minutes.

Striding into a neatly groomed garden, your eyes trailed over the looming wall enclosing the palace and the great gate in the middle. Guards patrolled the area with sheathed suyoof and grim expressions. You hoped they would let you pass as easily as those by your room did.

But before you could take a step farther, a voice broke through the clarity of your thoughts and sent them into upheaval.

“You’re leaving.”

That alluring oud permeated the crisp air. Him again.

What is he doing here? You closed your fists on air, welcoming unforgotten anger. You didn’t want to see him. But at the same time, you did. You deserved to know the face behind the voice. You deserved to know, so you could remember him, curse him when you looked at the scar he was responsible for.

So, you turned around, gaze landing on the famed Grand General of the Darilmalekan Army.

The words melted on your tongue.

He was a shard of moonlight.

All the sharpest angles shaped his face in a brush of excellence that was almost overwhelming. The stern rise of his cheekbones cushioned the pointed blades of his eyes so elegantly, it was as though he was sculpted by the most skilled hands. An artist who had sought perfection and had clearly achieved it.

He stood there with the poise of a royal, the pride of a soldier, a combination that made you feel smaller by the moment. Rather than the plain attire he’d worn in the Junayna, he was dressed in a uniform expertly tailored to his frame, silver shoulder pads reflecting the generous light around you. The wide piece of cloth wrapped around his middle supported a belt that held two sheathed swords, one fixed at each hip. It was a battle technique, you remembered Bara’a telling you once, soldiers on horseback brandished twin swords to clear a line through enemy troops with ease.

His litham was long gone, exposing dark hair that was neatly tucked behind his ears. He was handsome in a way that reminded you of the press of a dagger, sharp, wounding.

All the confidence you’d scraped previously crumbled before you, leaving you defenseless, bare, with a burn disfiguring your features and helplessness twisting your heart. You stepped back, turning your head to the side in an attempt to hide your face. “Don’t...look at me. I-”

The words caught like rocks in your throat, rough and difficult. Bitter. Always bitter. Hot tears pricked at your one eye, angry or embarrassed, you couldn’t tell. They didn’t fall.

“You?” the general prompted, his tone measured, that one word calculated.

The ghost of a breeze kissed your cheeks, the sensation sending chills down your spine. Why did fate place you in the general’s path? A liar’s path? Had you not suffered enough?

You wanted your words to sound blameful. It was his doing after all. “I’m hideous.”

The statement didn’t hang in the air but fell flat to the ground instead, almost painfully. It made you cringe inwardly. You conformed to Hijris’ hurtful words in a breath of vulnerability. No one will look at that pretty face of yours again.

The general seemed to ponder for a fleeting moment before he spoke, unflustered by your statement, “I’ve seen men with torn arms and shredded faces, tripping over their own innards. You look nothing short of pleasant to me.”

“Don’t romance me.”

“I am not romancing you.”

You snapped your head to face him angrily, noticing that the guards surrounding the area were nowhere to be found. You didn’t think any better before hurling the accusation at him, “You lied to me! You caused this!”

He was taken aback, and you took pleasure in the sight of the crack in his composure. But it was short-lived. Understanding eased his expression, and his demeanor was recomposed in the same moment as if practiced. “I lied about the reason I was in Hijris’ office, never about our encounter. Regardless of the way he found out, it was not initiated by me. Purposely, that is.”

You hated that you heard the truth in his words, loud and clear. You’d heard enough lies to discern the difference. Yet, there was ample, undirected anger festering in your heart. You weren’t ready to forgive him yet. “I don’t need your pity.”

“If I pitied you, I would’ve given you a fortune, found you a good prince to marry and a castle far away. I do not pity you, Y/n.”

It felt as though you were slamming your fists against a wall repeatedly, as though you were trying to break a boulder with your bare hands. Every response you pulled out of the general was sure and resolute, unfazed and unbothered. You could only stare at him, having run out of harsh sentiments to utter, and he held your gaze in return, not challenging but rather patient.

You searched his face for any giveaway of hidden intentions. Trusting him came easy at first, natural despite your doubtful nature. But once you fractured that one-sided trust, you didn’t know if you were capable of putting the pieces back together. You wanted to trust him badly enough that it hurt. You wanted to feel safe. You wanted to believe that you weren’t fighting alone, with nothing but your secrets and tears, anymore.

The general must’ve sensed the troubled whirlwind of thought overbearing your mind, for he asked, “Do you want him dead?”

And you heard the silent continuation of his question. It told you everything you needed to know. Because I can arrange that for you.

Did you want Hijris dead?

You’d dreamt of the day you left the Junayna with Bara’a and Kadi, relishing the thought of his helpless anger. You’d wished he would wake up one day to empty coffers and lose the authority he cherished so much. You knew that you wanted him to suffer the same way you did, scramble to grasp any kind of dignity left for himself in the face of a cruel and unforgiving world. But dead? The possibility circled your mind restlessly.

Letting out a breath, you admitted, “I don’t know.”

He considered your words carefully then tilted his head toward the gates of the palace. “You can leave, of course. None of my men will stand in your way.

“But,” he paused, and you wondered if anyone had ever intruded into the fortress of his perfect calm, “I hear the royal garden is a great place to think.”

•ꕥ•

When Kayan entered your room the following day, she didn’t inquire about your exposed injury or the dirt on your sandals. She simply set her kit down, and you didn’t miss the relief twinkling in her eyes when she smiled at you. “Did you sleep well?”

You could only offer a hesitant nod. After your encounter with the general the previous night, you stood outside the stables alone, conflicted. You had wanted to leave the palace because you believed that the general had wronged you, and you couldn’t bear the thought of staying under the wing of a liar while your friends were lost with Hijris. But it was all a misunderstanding rooted in your shaky trust and the shock of your distress. You supposed you owed him an apology. After all, the general had helped you several times out of nothing but his untouched morality.

Or maybe it was guilt for having allowed an establishment as vile as the Junayna to thrive unnoticed for so long.

You found your way back to your rooms later that night and met the blankets with a sigh. Though it was more of an exhale of relief. What good would walking back to Al Qa’er do you anyway? You thought that maybe, just this one time, you should stand back, hand over the weight of your problem to someone else. Someone who was more than capable of handling the weight.

You had slept peacefully that night, albeit for a short while until the sun rose.

Kayan made quick work of bandaging the burn, skilled hands moving in trained swiftness. When she was done, she clasped her hands, pleased with her work before announcing, “The general asked to see you. I will let him in if you’re ready.”

“The general?” your heart sputtered, why?

“Na’am,” she nodded. “If you would follow me?”

Kayan had you settle on one of the settees in the adjacent sitting room while she made her way to the door. A murmur passed between her and the guards when she opened it, and shortly after, the general stepped into the frame of dark wood.

He looked as he had the previous night. The same elegant uniform and stoic presence. He acknowledged Kayan with a nod, “Shukran, ya Kayan.”

She responded with a short bow before exiting the room and closing the door behind her. You were left alone with the general.

Your single eye followed him as he stepped toward a long desk by the large window. He moved with a certain ease, as though he knew the place like the back of his hand.

Standing behind the desk, he pulled out a roll of parchment and a silver inkwell from one of the drawers. The silence in the room was only disturbed by your wandering thoughts. You’d wanted to apologize to the general after your encounter. Now that the chance was there, you didn’t know how to utter the word.

What would you apologize for anyway? Mistrusting him when he was a complete stranger? Accusing him of taking advantage of you when that was all you experienced? The more you thought about it, the less sure you were of the apology.

So, you decided to blurt it out instead and let fate decide the consequences, “Asifa.”

The general’s gaze snapped up from the desk to land on you, unreadable. He was quiet for a moment, as if contemplative, before he pressed his lips into a thin line. You saw the shadow of failure pass over his features. “I, too.”

His words seeped into the air and settled like warm honey in your heart. No one had ever apologized to you. Not after shoving past you in the streets. Not after shouting obscenities at you over the music of the Junayna. You deserved no apology in the minds of those who thought themselves entitled to your body and spirit.

You never realized how sweet those words were.

After a beat of silence, the general unrolled the parchment and uncorked the silver bottle, gently dipping a wooden qalam in the ink then scribing something on the paper. He sounded remorseful when he spoke, “I know we haven’t met in the most ideal circumstances...”

“Perhaps we could start anew?” he gave you a polite smile, clasping his hands behind his back as he introduced himself, “I’m General Jeongin, Commander of the Darilmalekan Army.”

You returned his smile to the best of your ability, but it felt more like a grimace. You had no title nor occupation to embellish your name with. It felt incomplete. “Y/n.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aanisa Y/n. As you might’ve heard, Hijris has managed to predict our plans and escape with the victims of the Junayna,” he said, stepping around the desk. “I admit to having underestimated him.”

“He is a cunning man,” you acknowledged in a hushed tone, recalling how he had you trapped in his web of deceit so easily.

“We are currently on the lookout for any unregistered caravans,” the general continued after a nod of consideration toward your statement. He stopped to stand before you, keeping a generous distance in between. “However, we lack the means to accurately identify the victims.”

You saw the request glinting in his knife-like eyes before you heard it fall from his lips. “If it isn’t much to ask, we need your help in compiling a list of the runaways.”

You didn’t pause to think about your answer, determination guiding you as your posture straightened. “What should I do?”

“I need you to write the names of everyone you remember. Include the gender, age group, and major physical attributes of each if you can. Hijris will most likely have them lie, so the more details we have, the better.”

You took in his instructions with a firm nod, and he mirrored you. “Good. Once you’re finished, hand the scroll to one of the guards at your door, and he’ll deliver it to me.”

With that, you watched as the general made his way toward the door, his gait easy yet measured. You wondered if he had felt your gaze on him at that moment, for he turned to face you one last time. A certain tenacity clenched at his jaw when he spoke, “We will find them, Y/n. You have my word.”

•ꕥ•

Bara’a missed the simplicity of the past.

The days before he lost his father to the deceitful pleasures of khamr and qimar. The life before he lost his freedom to Hijris’ boundless greed. He missed a time when the weight of sorrow and helplessness wasn’t familiar on his heart.

He had traveled to Darilmalek in hopes of joining the kingdom’s famed academy for swordsmanship. There was a fire in him that yearned to build some sense of financial stability for his family after his father left them in ruins. He was a fighter after all, and wielding a sword was what he did best. But nothing had prepared him for the villainous conman and his underground empire.

In less than a month after his arrival, Bara’a found himself entangled within Hijris’ web, and his heinous job at the Junayna began.

At first, the nights were long.

Those hooded gazes and embellished veils chased him in his scarce slumber. He loathed himself and every inch of skin covering his body. His body, which was simply presented like livestock in the market and used only to be discarded like a soiled rag. It was as though he was helpless once more, watching his father spiral into madness again, watching his life fall apart before him.

That young fire in him died, heartlessly suffocated, and he had no means of reviving it.

He felt their touches no longer, mind clouding with numbness whenever the ensemble began. The nights passed, and the days became a blur of misery and despair. A piece of him died with every lying letter Hijris had him write to his family in Tallilmalek. He wasn’t sure if any of the real him would survive by the end of that damned month.

Until he saw you in that corridor, stunned and unable to fight the man forcing himself upon you.

The cold, forgotten tinder in his soul birthed fire once more, brighter, mightier than it had ever been.

He was a fighter, and Hijris couldn’t take that from him. It was the part of him that never died and had refused to quieten once it acknowledged the vulnerable souls around him.

There was always a need for fighters, and Bara’a was going to be one until all hope was wrenched out of his grasp.

“Oh, no...” Kadi mumbled beside him, frowning at the empty qurba she gripped. Almost instinctively, Bara’a reached for his own waterskin and held it toward her. “Here.”

“Shukran.” the girl smiled at him, tentatively receiving the container before taking one quick gulp of water.

They’d been aimlessly trudging across the sand for three days, prey to the cruel sun and arid desert. The man who led their small caravan was one Bara’a was quite familiar with. Museeb, Hijris’ prized punisher and lapdog. He was an omen of misfortune and torture and seemed to take pleasure in being so.

If there was one person Bara’a despised the most after Hijris, it was him.

The young man knew that they were running away, most likely from someone powerful in the crown city, but if Museeb knew anything, he shared none of it.

It was a budding night at the Junayna when Hijris emerged from his office, flanked by several of his men, and started shouting at the ensemble to stop and the guests to leave immediately. Bara’a had seen one of the guards usher you to that office a short while prior, but you didn’t leave when the men did. Dreading the worst, he managed to slip away when chaos erupted in the clearing and search for you.

Alas, his search was hindered when he neared the office and felt the tip of a saif against the thin fabric covering his back. Hijris’ voice boomed from behind him, “You will not move any farther.”

He protested then, “But what about Y/n? Where is she?”

“I’ll take care of that,” Hijris had answered, displeasure clear in his voice. “You will pack your necessities and move with the guards. Don’t create trouble, Bara’a.”

He had wanted to argue, but then he caught the sight of Kadi from the corner of his eye. She had followed them and watched the ordeal unfold, fear and confusion wrinkling the pale skin between her dark brows. Whatever was happening, he knew he couldn’t risk leaving her to fend for herself. You would never forgive him if he did.

As much as his heart screamed at him otherwise, Bara’a capitulated to Hijris’ commands and walked away from the wretched door. In no way were you weak, and he trusted in that knowledge. You could handle all Hijris threw at you, right?

Please be okay, he prayed now, squinting at the orb of fire crowning the depthless blue. Only the Aliha knew where they were headed or when their miserable trek would end.

When a chorus of murmurs rose at the back of the group, Museeb halted, raising a hand to signal the rest of them to do the same. From atop the dune they were stood, an approaching troop was visible in the distance. They were moving on horseback, and moving hastily at that, sending dense clouds of sand into the air surrounding them.

Someone seemed to vaguely recognize those people, for they shouted from behind, “Soldiers!”

Darilmalekan soldiers? Bara’a looked back at the dark silhouettes in the dusty yonder, curious. He’d never seen soldiers during his stay in Darilmalek, Hijris had made sure that his so-called staff remained hidden from the outer world.

Perhaps... A foreign hope fluttered in his heart. Perhaps they’re here to rescue us.

Museeb seemed to recognize them too, for he remained still for a beat before reaching for the ghastly knife strapped to his middle. He moved in a blur. Between one breath and the other. The blade glinted in the light when he swiveled, striking down the first person within his reach.

Kadi toppled to the ground with a noise of choked horror.

“Kadi!” the shout was ripped raw from Bara’a’s chest. All at once, terrified clamor rose around him as the defenseless men and women of the Junayna scattered. He could barely grasp the reigns of his awareness before the knife flashed again. Museeb had chosen his next target.

Dazed, Bara’a’s hands raised to intercept his aim a beat too late, gripping Museeb’s forearm and directing the knife upwards instead. It caught skin and slashed a deep line across the side of his nose. With a strain of his strength, he hurled the lanky man unto the sand and heaved a difficult breath.

Blood trickled down his face, leaving a trail of gruesome red on his honeyed skin. Sand and air assaulted the fresh cut, but the bite of pain was what he needed to bring him back to his senses.

He should have known that was Hijris’ plan all along. That scoundrel wanted to escape with his corrupt empire, and he was willing to do anything to avoid capture and retribution. He had ordered his men to kill them all if the circumstances called, and Museeb was doing just that.

All the other caravans… The realization struck him roughly. Wherever you were, he could only hope you were safe.

Bara’a didn’t wait to let Museeb stand back up, immediately launching himself at the disoriented man. There was no one there but them. No guards, no rules, no friends to hold him back. He would gladly give that bastard kalb his overdue fight, and he swore to himself that only one of them would emerge alive.

And it would be him.

Museeb snarled as his arm was pinned down, rendering the knife in his grip unusable. Bara’a was using all his weight against his gaunt figure, so clear effort contorted the man’s features when he salvaged all his strength to kick him off. It was barely a success, for the young man was back on his feet in a fraction of a second, but it got his arm free.

Bara’a wanted to laugh when he lunged at the man unsparingly. He had thought that he was a powerful name in the Junayna. Believed so. He had fear. He bred it and nurtured it then used it to break anyone at Hijris’ command. He was so lost in that false sense of superiority.

But where was that now?

Out there in the desert, nothing stood between him and Bara’a. Nothing. Not even that crooked knife.

Because Bara’a knew. He knew who he was, and he knew himself.

He was a fighter, in blood and spirit, born to a family of knights and soldiers and raised as such. Museeb, on the other hand, was a coward and a brute who leeched off Hijris and the Junayna, who knew no honor nor compassion. He undermined them all, and he would regret ever doing so. He would pay for every sliver of tears and pool of blood he’d shed. Bara’a was going to make sure that man carried the shame and guilt with him to the grave.

Their brawl was messy. Sand was obscuring his vision, blood was stinging his eyes, yet Bara’a knew that he wasn’t the one fighting to survive. It was Museeb. His punches and swings landed frantically and thoughtlessly as the obvious gap in skill became increasingly evident. Perhaps he had gotten used to the ease by which he delivered his punishments—guards holding the target down, fear paralyzing them as he had his way.

Bara’a almost relished the look of increasing panic dusting his face as he wrestled him back into the golden sand. He didn’t try to pry the knife out of his grip, instead twisting Museeb’s arm to press his own weapon against him. The latter thrashed, kicking and flailing, but it was a fruitless effort.

With the blade pressed against the base of his neck, Museeb dared to bare his teeth in a sickening sneer. They were slick with blood from his busted lip. He spoke in staggered breaths, eyes bulging with pain, “Ya nakira, ya Bara’a.”

The insult met the walls of Bara’a’s memory and faded, lost between recollections of the suffering and the unfeeling words hurled at him whenever he disobeyed Hijris. You’re nobody. You’re nothing.

He knew that Museeb was trying to fracture his resolve, reawaken the harrowing memories to disturb him, so Bara’a returned the smile, tasting blood and sand. He would play the coward no longer. “Adri.”

He drove the knife into his paper-like neck, pressuring the man’s twisted arm enough to pop his shoulder in the process.

The howl of distress that left his bruised lips came to a choked stop as he gurgled up dark blood, eyes rolling back to welcome death.

Bara’a stayed there for one labored breath, then another, hands unmoving on the now lifeless man. The scarlet liquid trickling from his neck dampened the yellow grains of sand, dyeing them in that macabre hue, letting the earth drain his tainted blood.

A certain stillness settled into Bara’a’s heart as he stared at the trauma-stricken face. He’d caused that, and somehow, he felt no remorse.

The men and women that had circled him wore the same grim expressions of silent realization. They, too, acknowledged the graveness of his doing, but they couldn’t find it in themselves to shed a tear for that man. They only watched as Death carried him in its cruel embrace. And for the first time in years, they felt free. Safe.

Bara’a dared to let go and stand up, breathing in slowly. He was aware of his grisly appearance, hands that were sticky with blood and a face that was caked with the same foul substance, but he couldn’t be bothered to tend to that. Not when there were more pressing matters at hand.

“Kadi!” he called over the sandy breeze, voice charged with a forgotten ferocity. Death had loomed over the caravan of lost travelers a little longer, readying to collect another soul on that tragic noon. Its mocking cackle reverberated endlessly in the chamber of Bara’a’s thoughts.

The girl was struggling against the face of the sahra’a, panicked, trying to push herself up and seize the life that was gradually seeping through the shallow slash on her neck. Strength was abandoning her weakened body faster than she wished.

Bara’a dropped to her side, knees sinking into the parched earth as he gathered her in his arms. Any surge of vicious energy he had felt was gone in a fearful flutter. “Kadi, speak to me!”

When nothing but a muddled noise left her lips, he pressed a palm against the wound, frantically shouting into the unforgiving distance, “Help! Someone help us, please!”

His eyes met the mourning gazes of his companions. They stood helpless there. They weren’t medics nor scholars. They were only unfortunate enough to be plucked out of the miserable streets of Al Qa’er by Hijris. There was nothing they could do to help the dying girl.

“Please,” his plea was broken, a ruptured sob. He couldn’t lose Kadi. Not after all they’d been through. Not after all her bravery and woe in the Junayna. There was still so much life ahead of her. It was unfair. To him, and to her.

Over their joyless years in Hijris’ custody, Kadi had become the closest thing to a little sister he had in Darilmalek. Her safety, her happiness, it was an oath he took and vowed to honor against all odds. It was a sense of purpose that grounded him, anchored him to reason whenever a rash thought crossed his mind. He couldn’t lose her now.

Bara’a debated carrying her to the proclaimed soldiers for aid when he felt the barest tug at his wrist. Looking down, he noticed her glazed-over eyes laboring to fixate on him. A dying moon in his arms, she strained to utter, “I w-want...home.”

He was weak. He was too weak for the universe to torment him like that. Blinking away the blood trickling into his right, he could only whisper, “We’ll go home, Kadi. I promise you.”

His answer seemed to ease a conflict in her young heart, for at that moment, she stopped grappling for breath, at rest in his weary arms. Peace smoothened the ever-creased space between her delicate brows and she bid her cold world a final farewell.

The sun whispered to the moon about the young man when day bled into night. She carried the echo of the anguished cry that tore through his lips, coarse and haunting, wrought with the purest grief. The sand would remember, and so would she, the suffering souls of that dark day.

•ꕥ•

Jeongin felt uneasy in the presence of magic, though it was a weakness he’d never reveal to his soldiers.

It was an unpredictable, tremendous power that had brought him to the brink of death many times. It also saved him, but the memories he lived to carry were meshed in fear and a desperation he never wanted to experience again.

He was too small in the eye of the world, insignificant to the giant shrouded in myth and mystery.

Yet, he would be a damned liar to deny his thankfulness for the messenger Sahara. The first report reached his desk a day after he sent out copies of the list you made. A few of the fugitives have been found and taken into custody this morning. We accounted for three men and four girls. Three persons were dead by the time of our arrival. As it appears, their leader has ordered his subordinates to kill their companions upon sensing a threat from the authorities. I believe this is critical information that must be relayed to the soldiers on duty.

The letter was signed by the general in Arba.

Similar reports from neighboring cities arrived throughout the day, confirming the capture of small groups of men and women who matched some of the descriptions on the list. And with a cruel twist of fate, the tally of the fatalities only increased. A letter from a city to the north reported that an entire caravan was found dead by one of the search squads.

Jeongin felt sick. It seemed that once he’d failed, he had no chance of redeeming himself. Hijris didn’t want to be captured alive, and he was taking his victims down with him. He’d made it exceptionally clear. Leaving you injured in the Junayna was a message to the general. A mere hint of the extremes the conman was willing to go to.

The memory of the promise Jeongin had given you began to taste sour on his tongue. Was this ordeal only a pending failure?

The answer came in the form of an urgent rap on the door of his office, to which the general responded, “Come in!”

A guard stepped into the room, bowing slightly before handing the general the folded piece of parchment in his hands. “Sir, this message has reached us from the base in Ramwah.”

Anticipating the worst, Jeongin received the note and let his gaze run over the rushed scrawl. A chill fogged his thoughts. He was out of his seat and shouting commands at his men before he could finish reading the letter crumpled in his grasp.

As of the time of writing this letter, a man fitting the descriptions of the fugitive Hijris has been captured and taken into custody by the governor’s office. He was identified while trying to enter the city with a caravan of four. The suspect attempted to take his life after murdering his companions once faced by the authorities. Your urgent presence is necessary as we are uncertain of his intentions.

Signed, General Murad.

•ꕥ•

The royal garden truly was a great place to think. A paradise in the heart of the palace with its swaying trees and glorious nakheel.

You sat in the shade of the palm trees, watching two desert birds hop across the finely trimmed grass as a gentle breeze tickled your cheeks. There was a tranquility to the place that could only leave you wandering in your thoughts. Forever lost.

A tranquility that was unceremoniously disrupted by the approaching sound of chatter. “Oh, but Dina, whatever will you do with him?”

You spotted the group of ladies who shared gossip as they walked into the garden. They moved with such a grace they appeared to be gliding over the polished pathway, swathed in rich silks and striking jewelry. Your nose itched from the sharpness of their perfumes.

A lady in the center answered, shrugging, “The general is like any man after all, is he not?”

And perhaps they understood an implication to her words, for her companions erupted in scandalous giggles and fits of teasing.

You felt your brows furrow, suddenly curious at the mention of the general. What do they mean?

But before they could settle on the benches nearby and before that lady could delve deeper into her plans, you snapped back into your senses and stood up. Whatever the general did in his personal life and whomever he was sharing it with was none of your business. You ignored that foolish intrigue and a silent twinge of hurt as you made your way out of the garden, wishing to avoid the women and any kind of trouble they may bring about. Perhaps you thought too fondly of the general’s kindnesses toward you that the revelation in those musical giggles stung faintly.

You were only his guest. Leverage against Hijris and evidence of the Junayna. Nothing more and nothing less, and those ladies were the reminder you needed.

You weren’t surprised when you found the guard that had escorted you to the garden earlier waiting for you under the palace’s magnificent archways. When you questioned him that morning for following you, his answer came gruff. “General’s orders. For your safety.”

You had been conscious of his stoic, watchful eye throughout your brief visit.

The way back to your room was one you took with Kayan twice before, passing doors and rounding corners until you reached a secluded wing of the palace. There, the vaulted ceiling reached a bit higher, and the tiled floor gleamed a bit brighter. Two impressive doors on adjacent walls stared back at you, one slightly smaller than the other, both continuously watched by a team of stern guards. You turned to your right, pushing the smaller door open and stepping into the new familiarity of the room you’d been occupying for the past week.

That wonderful scent of oud and yasmeen hit you immediately.

Everywhere you’d been to in the palace—which wasn’t much—smelled like wealth and influence and foreign spices, but you’d grown to find a strange comfort in the fragrance that seemed to cling onto the soul of that room. Ever so rich, ever so alluring, and you found its source when you poked your head into your bedroom.

Kayan had part of the heavy curtain gathered in one arm while carrying a golden mibkharah in the other hand and passing it under the fabric. The delicate tendrils of incense danced, only to be suffocated by the velvet on their rise. She noticed you standing at the archway and remarked with a quirk of her dark brow, “You’re back early.”

You could only lift a shoulder in response, lightly plopping on the edge of the bed to watch her work. If you told Kayan the truth behind your abrupt return, she would march you right back into the garden while lecturing you about not permitting others to ruin your fun. She’ll have to accept your silence for now.

Kayan passed the burner under the other side of the curtain as silence stretched between the two of you, then she moved to open the linked bathroom’s door and let the wisps of incense settle in the air for a moment. When she turned back, she smiled apologetically as though needing to justify her actions. “The general prefers to have his rooms incensed regularly.”

You were about to nod to her statement without much thought when her words dawned over you, almost heart-dropping. You echoed with a slight frown, “His rooms?”

“Na’am.” She had set the mibkharah on the coffee table and took over fluffing the cushions on the miniature divan, laughing when she noticed your vivid horror, “I thought you knew?”

You could only shake your head mutely, almost grimacing as you recalled how you spilled your anguish on the pillows after your arrival and how easily the general had walked through the room.

That only seemed to humor Kayan further. Placing her hands on her hips, she regarded you like one would a confused pupil. “See, we all assumed that the general had finally taken on a lover since he brought you here. All of that was quickly brushed off once he had the rooms cleared, the sheets changed, all to accommodate a guest while he took a guest room for himself.”

“But…why?” you dared to venture, and she shrugged. “Security? My best guess is yours. Knowing him, he has no ill intentions.”

She picked up the golden mibkharah to carry it to the sitting room and you trailed after her. It seemed as though all you knew were ill intentions. Twisted, heinous intentions. All Kayan had done so far was speak well of the general, but you weren’t ready to take her words for truth yet. “Why do you love the general so much?”

She let out a surprised chuckle. It was like stepping into sunshine. “I don’t love him. I simply admire his work and his temperament and that is all.”

“Well, then, how could you be so sure of his intentions?”

She turned to face you, an unmistakable glint of fierceness in her almond-like eyes. “He chose me to be part of his medic crew when he was first assigned general. We’ve seen him over the years, we’ve worked with him and grown alongside him. I may not know his exact plans, but you can trust me when I say: you’re in safe hands. All of your friends will be once he finds them.”

You had no response for her, and she didn’t wait for one, swiftly resuming her work of incensing the room. She was lucky, you couldn’t help but conclude with a pang of envy. To be so confident in that trust, to believe in it wholly and fiercely. She made it seem so simple. So foolishly simple.

You drifted toward the window behind the desk, letting your eyes settle on the view of the outer garden and the crown city stretching afar. Somewhere among the closely huddled buildings, the Junayna hid, abandoned after years of exploitation. Though it looked insignificant from that height.

When you spoke again, it was lined with vulnerability. Oh, how fickle was your trust. And yet, in many ways, you wanted to be like Kayan. “What is he like?”

“Hmm?”

“The general. What is he like—since you speak so well of him?”

She took a moment before answering, and you heard the rustle of cushions as she rearranged the settee. Even though you gave her your back, the truth of her admiration for him was relevant to you in the soft cadence that overtook her voice. “He is kind and thoughtful…but he delivers his justice with an ease that earned him undeniable respect across the kingdom despite his young age.”

A pause.

“He is patient, remarkably so. One could even argue that his self-discipline is unsettling. Never have I heard him make a sound as his wounds were stitched closed or ask for help afterward over my years of being part of his staff,” an amused huff interrupted her words, “Some people claim that he would never take on a partner despite the king and queen’s attempts because his only love is his job. However, I find that to be one of his admirable traits. He is aware of the overwhelming duty on his shoulders, and he is not in a rush to appease the romantics of the court. Not to say that that would be a despicable thing to do.”

Her conclusion caught your attention like a fisherman’s experienced net. “But that seems to be his nature—stern over his responsibilities both as a prince and a general.”

“He’s a prince?” you had to turn away from the window to stare at her, dumbfounded at that small detail. Suddenly, Hijris’ words made sense. You can’t even recognize a royal when you see one!

With a twinge of bitterness, you remembered Kadi remarking that he spoke like a prince. It is true that my tutor had taught princes.

“Na’am, the sole son of the former king’s youngest brother. His mother died after childbirth, and his father refused to wed another, so he was raised by the former queen alongside King Minho,” she explained. “He doesn’t refer to himself as a prince often, but it is public knowledge.”

Kayan straightened to look at you, an eyebrow raised teasingly as she added, “Which is why him giving up his quarters for you garnered a lot of attention. Not just anybody enters a prince’s rooms.”

You decided to gaze out the window again, ignoring the heat that threatened to rise up your face. “I am not interested in courting the general.”

“Yet you ask an awful lot of questions for someone who is uninterested,” she joked before clearing her throat, suddenly becoming serious. “Don’t worry, though. It seems that this misfortune is coming to an end. The general left the palace with a group of his men yesterday. Word has it that they’ve found them.”

Kayan was great at relaying news about Hijris to you, and you were thankful for the change of topic. They found them! Soon enough you’ll be reunited with Bara’a and Kadi and the nightmare will be over. You’ll be finally, truly free from the Junayna.

Keeping your voice even, you asked, “How long do you think they’ll take to return?”

“Not less than a week, that’s certain,” she replied, and a restlessness exploded in your veins.

A week.

A week and they’ll be safe in the palace. A week and they’ll be with you.

You could wait a week. You would wait with your heart in your throat, but you would wait, nevertheless.

•ꕥ•

A week it took for the clamor of soldiers to disrupt the palace’s anxious peace.

You were in the royal garden again—you seemed to spend the majority of your mornings there before retreating to bed when sleepiness overwhelmed you. This time, you had invited Kayan to picnic with you, sharing disks of soft khubz along with bowls of vibrant zaytoon and cups of warm haleeb. The sun was greedily centering the sky, not a cloudy wisp tinged the gentle blue.

The guard who had accompanied you earlier rushed to where the two of you were settled on the grass. When he spoke, it was directed at Kayan, “You must return to your rooms. General Jeongin has ordered that the palace hallways be cleared of roamers.”

At that, she immediately stood, bundling the cloth that your food lay upon and giving you an urgent glance. “Hurry.”

But you were too dazed to process her words, drifting after her like the memory of a tayf. Your heartbeat was suddenly too loud, louder than the beat of the cruel daff that was ingrained in your memory, louder than the singe of iron. Jeongin being in the palace only meant one thing.

They are here. They are here. They are all here.

When you were back within the familiar walls of your rooms, you found the nearest seat to settle into and calm the bells of distress causing mayhem in your mind. But you found it difficult to relax. It was almost impossible. You felt the unexplainable urge to move, run, find them, do anything but stay in your rooms.

So, you stood and walked toward the window, peering out in hopes of seeing them, or their caravan, hell, you would settle for any sign. Yet, no matter how you twisted your neck or raised your stature, only the expanse of the crown city and a silver of the outer gardens were visible.

For a fleeting moment there, you forgot that Kayan was in the room with you. You were startled when she said, “The general would not have them enter through the main entrance. You won’t see anything from there.”

You slowly turned to look at her, ripping your desperate gaze away from the view outside. Her statement made sense. They wouldn’t be paraded through the same door that royals and nobility step through.

You willed your lungs to expand once, taking in as much air as possible before letting it out slowly. It was not the time to lose your patience or your focus.

Soon, you assured yourself, finding the settee once more and busying yourself with the silver tray of sugared buqsumat on the low table. The freshly baked biscuits were delivered to your room on a daily basis, which you supposed was Kayan’s doing. Dusted impeccably and topped with that fragrant, purple blossom of rayhan each time.

It took longer than you wished before you were clear to move about the palace again. The guard that had relayed the information seemed to understand the trembling desperation in your eyes as Kayan excused herself. There was a semblance of apology in his tone. “The victims are currently receiving care in the royal clinic. You will be able to see them once all formal procedures are over and they are settled in their rooms. Be assured that we will inform you then, Aanisa.”

And so, you waited further, your uneasy impatience keeping you sharply awake and conscious of every passing minute. The sky’s soft blue was beginning to bleed into purple, the loss of light casting long shadows across the sitting room. Kayan would be entering to oil the light fixtures soon, and you hoped she would carry some helpful news with her.

When a knock finally echoed in the room, you hurried to answer it, swinging the door open with a question ready to fall out of your lips. Where you expected to find the young lady tasked with taking care of you stood a certain Grand General, hands folded behind his back as he regarded you with that calm, fortified gaze.

The question was pulled under the flood of thoughts violently crashing into your mind. You suddenly remembered the conversation you had with Kayan on that strange morning a week past.

“Good evening, Aanisa Y/n,” his lips stretched into a vague smile, and if you stared enough, you would have noticed the weariness tugging at his eyes, “I hope you’ve been well.”

“I have, shukran,” you managed to croak out after a beat of awkward silence, flustered by his presence. What was he doing there of all people?

But before you could carry the awkward exchange further, your thoughts snapped into focus again and you cleared your throat, urgency dancing in the lilt of your syllables. “Where are they? Are they safe?”

At that, the general closed his eyes and a silent sigh slipped out of his lips. “That is what I came here to talk to you about. If you would follow me, please.”

You obliged wordlessly, trailing behind him as he led you through the somewhat familiar maze of hallways. You couldn’t imagine him growing up behind those walls, running from room to room in the palace with a prince training to be king one day. It felt almost wrong to reduce his current guarded and calculated demeanor to that of a curious, carefree child. Then again, how much did you know about the lives of princes?

You reached an area that didn’t seem to be part of the palace. Low ceilings and dim lighting, dull walls and an unmistakable tang of steel, the general stopped before a small yet heavily guarded door at the end of the hall.

He turned to look at you, speaking carefully, “Behind this door and at the end of the tunnel is Hijris’ dungeon. I can take you there if you wish to see him. If not, I will walk you to where your friends are in the palace.”

Despite the unease that washed over you, you found yourself nodding. “I would like to see him.”

La, you didn’t want to see him. You wanted him to see you. You wanted Hijris to see you and let his impending demise sink into his skin, into every filthy fiber of his being. You wanted him to see you, standing, unbroken, alive, the survivor he tried so hard to snuff out, while he himself was chained to the ground, helpless, defeated, doomed. And it would be the last time he laid his hateful gaze on you. May it burn with scorn, you thought. You would gladly let your pride feast on that image for the rest of your life.

With a firm nod in your direction, Jeongin mentioned for one of the guards to open the door before stepping into the narrow tunnel of dungeons.

“Stay close. Hathari,” he instructed, and you did, keeping your eyes trained on the silver-bladed shoulders of his uniform as you made your way past blank-faced guards and countless cells.

Eventually, he stopped before a dungeon that was more secluded than the rest. You hadn’t the time to peer at the dark dungeon before you heard the wet noise of spit shooting out of the prisoner’s mouth. It narrowly missed your sandaled feet.

Hijris was sneering behind the bars. “Here’s your gift returned. How did you like your stay at the palace, ya—”

The guard on duty rattled the bars in warning before he got to finish, and the general’s words cut through right after, the hostility in them foreign to you. “I would consider my next words with the utmost care were I you, Hijris.”

Yet the threat seemed to affect him none. Hijris’ sneer was still present, still directed at you with relentless malice.

But you would not give him the satisfaction of your fear or the unease that you felt around him. He was defeated. He was nothing anymore and he could not do anything to you any longer. You would make him understand. You would see that smugness wiped from his face and you will relish it.

So, you lifted your gaze and let it crash on him, stone on broken earth. You would not even grant him an answer.

He was in a threadbare thawb, his expensive silk abaya and turban long discarded, presenting him as he truly was. His graying hair was matted to his head in layers of sweat and grime, and you supposed it was a splatter of dried blood that darkened a tip of his mustache. You fought to keep your repulsion in check. He was a displeasure to look at.

A memory echoed.

Do you want him dead?

Your hands formed fists on the sides of your thawb. This time, you had an answer, and it was sending tremors of fury across your tensed muscles.

And as though he could sense it, Jeongin shook his head, his tone coming out oddly gentle, “As much as I would like to let you have this, this vengeance isn’t yours alone to take.

“We should leave now.” he signaled to the guards on duty and turned toward the direction you came from. Without a last glance, without a goodbye, without a parting insult, you whirled around and followed the general out, keeping your head up. You refused to break in those dungeons.

Only when the heavy doors creaked shut behind you did you dare to let out a single wavering breath. Hijris was there. That fact did not dawn over you lightly. It crashed over you violently, stealing the air from your lungs. You almost buckled under its weight. As if previously oblivious, your insides churned, threatening to spill the day’s food at the revelation. Panic clawed at your chest, sudden, cold, relentless. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

“The trial will commence once interrogations are finished,” you heard the general say, but he felt distant, imagined.

What was happening to you? You tried to grasp onto any piece of reality, but it was all too slippery. The walls seemed to close in, both those of your surroundings and your mind’s. The brown and black of the guards’ uniforms swirled like washed away paint, dizzying, a blotch of silver seemed to bloom in the mess.

The world tipped over, and you were a drowning sailor, flailing for any raft to hold on to.

Then…

“Y/n.”

There! You threw your arms over that voice, grasping it as though your life depended on it.

“Breathe.”

But you were, so much that the rapid succession had muddled your thoughts.

“Slowly. He will not harm you now, nobody will. I swear it.”

Something prodded at you to believe the voice. There was a reason buried at the back of your mind you couldn’t retrieve.

“There, slowly, Y/n. You’re safe. You’re all right.”

You had a reason to be safe around him. It was clear as a crystal for a breath, bright, then gone the next. A shudder rattled your ribs. You were suddenly all too aware of your palms pressed against the cold floor, your knees uncomfortable against the hard tiles.

“You’re safe here, Y/n.”

A murmur, gentle, intimate, the words meshed together with a thread of deep empathy. Slowly, you encouraged yourself. Slowly.

You blinked. The world began to clear.

“Safe… There you are…”

No, it wasn’t empathy. You caught the raw tinge of painful memory in his tone. Something personal. Vulnerability, a weakness he seemed to understand differently.

You inhaled, and it felt like your first real breath in a tortured decade.

“Aanisa Y/n?” the general was kneeling beside where you were huddled on the ground, eyebrows knotted in concern as his gaze searched your face. Decision settled on his countenance when he spoke, “You should return to your rooms and rest.”

Your breathing had finally calmed, and you shook your head. Despite that excruciating fit of panic, you could not rest. Not without seeing your friends again. Your voice was a mere whisper. “La. I need to see them.”

The tender understanding that soothed the furrow of his brows engrained itself into your mind. He was beautiful in a way that made you let your walls down, lay down your vulnerability freely. Maybe it was your conflicted state, or your unease, or your silent fear that made you see him with such unprecedented affection. He understood, and he didn’t fight your wishes. It meant more to you than it should’ve anyone else.

You shook your thoughts away, unwilling to dwell in those intrusive feelings further, and pushed yourself to your feet. The farther you were from the dungeons, the better you would be.

The general followed you, righting his posture and smiling softly as though you were a bird he didn’t want to scare away. “I’ll walk you to your friends.”

•ꕥ•

All throughout the past two weeks, you had imagined your reunion with Bara’a and Kadi, turned the scene over and over again until it became a muddled mess in your drowsy mind. It was a lullaby that drove you to sleep every night, one twisted with timid hope and bitter guilt.

They would understand, wouldn’t they? Bara’a would understand the decisions you had to make, right?

They were gone by the time you had awakened. Whether or not you stayed at the palace wouldn’t have made a difference.

They would understand.

Now, as your steps quickened after the general’s sure strides, the reunion panned out in your mind again, lush, vivid, yet clouded by your anxiousness. You thought of what you would do once you spotted them. Would you run to them? Call out? Would you pull them into an embrace or stare wordlessly? What could you even say when you finally met their gazes? I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re here. I missed you. We’re all safe now.

Then, an unease settled at the bottom of your stomach, killing the swarm of butterflies. What if they weren’t as excited to see you again as you were to see them? What if, instead of relief and joy, you spotted hurt and betrayal in their eyes?

La! You pushed those thoughts away forcefully, hurrying such that you were a step ahead of the general. La, that won’t happen…

But that wasn’t enough to calm the restless buzzing in your heart. It didn’t help that the palace felt like an endless maze right then. You walked with Jeongin, passing through long hallways swarmed with guards and under magnificent archways, holding your breath in anticipation whenever you rounded a corner or spotted a cluster of people. It was almost driving you mad.

You glanced at the general, preparing to ask about your destination when you found yourself walking into a crowded hallway. Like second nature, your eyes found him among the people instantly, and you forgot your pointless agitation.

His back was to you as he spoke to a passing guard, but you would recognize his frame anywhere, anytime, void of all your senses if you had to.

“Bara’a!”

He turned at your voice, and it was a flicker in his eyes, like a spring breaking through rock—recognition, relief, joy. You were stood there for a breath, running the next, then in his arms finally. Cool air rushed past you before melting into pure warmth, and you drew in a shaky breath as you held him tight. It felt like your first real breath in weeks.

You pulled away, just enough to see his face, and your eye welled with tears again. Everything that happened up until that moment came rushing to you, ready to spill out the moment you dared to blink.

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to do anything that would distort your sight of him, grasping onto every thread of his being as though to reassure yourself of this being a reality.

There was your friend, and you could finally exhale. There was Bara’a, with his ocean-like gaze and breezy smile. A cut ran across the side of his nose, haphazardly nearing his eye and dipping into his brow. It didn’t look new, the healing ends were only interrupted by delicate stitching. Concern bloomed cold in your heart.

You wanted to ask, but then you saw the set of your friend’s eyes darken, the stillness of water hiding awaiting perils. He beat you to the question, his voice coming out hoarse, “What happened—who did this to you?”

Somehow, amidst that day’s events, you’d forgotten that your burn was bare for any and all to see. Kayan had undone the bandages that morning, stating that there was no further need of covering the injury. Perhaps, in another lifetime, you would’ve grimaced and attempted to hide it. But you only shook your head as a tear slid across your right cheek, choking out, “It doesn’t matter,” before the words came tumbling after, the syllables tripping over one another, “I was so worried when I woke up and learned that he took you all and ran away. I thought— I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. There was nothing I could do. I’m just so relieved that you’re here and that you’re safe—”

You paused, hiccupping a breath before you realized, “Where is Kadi?”

You’d been so relieved to see Bara’a that you nearly overlooked the fact that he was alone. Kadi would always trail after one of you. The more you thought of it, the odder her absence seemed.

He was silent for a moment, and you watched the turbulent waves of conflict twist his eyebrows and moisten his eyes. Sorrow, so immense and raw tugged at his every feature you almost berated yourself for not noticing it earlier. It seemed as though he could barely muster out the will to whisper, “Y/n…”

No… Something was wrong, terribly so. Uneasiness weighed down your feet as you stepped away from your friend, turning around unthinkingly to find Jeongin. He was standing a short distance away, conversing with one of his soldiers when he caught your look of distress. A frown, so slight you would have missed it, seemed to ask, what’s wrong?

You looked around, searching and failing, before you frowned, “My friend Kadi… She’s not here…”

There was a tug at your wrist, and you moved to see Bara’a shaking his head. “Y/n, don’t.”

“What’s going on, Bara’a?” you didn’t like any of what was happening. His worn expression, his anguished tone, you had never heard him sound so broken. A different kind of panic began to rise in your chest. Where’s Kadi?

You were suddenly aware of all the eyes trained on you, the familiar faces of your friends that were morphed into expressions of mourning and woe. You hurled your gaze back to the general and found him pursing his lips in solemn remorse. You turned back to Bara’a, desperate for anything to soothe the unease threatening to pull your heart apart. “Why isn’t Kadi with you? Where is she?”

His next words came strained, as though each letter were a khanjar thrust deeper into his chest, as though he were admitting a truth he’d denied for so long. Any joy you felt moments prior was washed away in a harrowing instant.

“Kadi is gone, Y/n.”

Part One | Part Two: Sword and Storm | Part Three

If you have read this far then you are contractually obligated to tell me your thoughts! Well, not really, but do drop by sometime! Please anticipate the final part in 2022. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a wonderful day! ♡

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chaninfused · 3 years

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Speaking in Tongues: Part One | Yang Jeongin

◤“When he said nothing, you felt a familiar mute anger rise in your chest. He must think you were pathetic. Maybe a fool. But you were doing everything you could to survive this horrible place.”

Something terrible is unfolding in the slums of the crown city, and as the general hurries to put an end to it, he crosses paths with a rogue dancer who is willing to sacrifice everything for her freedom.

◤Disclaimers: From the world of Danse macabre (no need to read beforehand). Fantasy inspired by Arabian mythology. A blend of fluff and angst. Includes descriptions of violence and injury. Depictions of a human trade. Alludes to mature themes (not explicit) and recalls occurrences of sexual assault (not romanticized, obviously). This does not refer to a historical event of my knowledge, nor does it reference real life nations or people. Female reader insert. View the glossary here. Playlist.

◤Word count: 10.2K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

◤Dedicated to @blueprint-han, happy birthday, dawn! Please enjoy this day to the fullest because you deserve it! Always remember that you are loved and appreciated by us all, and that you’re absolutely amazing! Happy reading! ♥

Part One: Little Heaven | Part Two | Part Three

“Ah, there you are!” Minho clapped a hand on his cousin’s shoulder when he spotted him amongst the crowd. “I was almost sure you weren’t going to make an appearance.”

Jeongin gave him an easy smile, hands clasped neatly at his back as his twin swords swayed with his steps. “I thought I’d give the prince my well wishes.”

It was young Prince Seungmin’s ninth birthday that night, and the nobility of Darilmalek had gathered for a celebratory dinner. However, the general’s words were only part of the truth. He walked into the party with urgent news to deliver to the king.

But before Jeongin could ask for a private word, Minho was already directing him toward a small gathering where the queen stood with a lady he vaguely recognized. “Dearest cousin, allow me to introduce you to Sayeda Dina, heir to the southern Nasri business.”

The woman stood tall, stiff in posture, the darkest waves of hair elegantly hidden under a veil of bright turquoise. A headpiece of thinly pressed gold coins framed her kohl-lined eyes, a grave contrast to her moon-like skin. Her gaze skittered to the ground when she bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, general.”

Jeongin threw a single disappointed look toward his cousin before acknowledging her. “Likewise.”

It was yet another attempt at finding him a bride. He was well aware. The king and queen weren’t exactly discrete with their motives.

The general noticed the disapproval woven in the king’s expression and dared to hold his gaze back. What were they expecting him to do? Kiss her hand and ask to meet her father?

An exasperated sigh fought to leave his lips.

Instead, he turned to fully face Minho, making sure to stand close enough for his words to meet the king’s ears alone. “A word, please.”

The king shook his head, a clear sign of disappointment, before taking hold of his wife’s hand and excusing himself. “A moment, hubbi.”

The queen looked at him then at the general, the smallest hint of amusement curving her tinted lips. “Of course.”

Only when they were away from the gathering, alone in the hallway after dismissing the guards, did Jeongin let out that sigh. He folded his arms, the silver blades of his shoulder pads glinting in the moonlight streaming from the windows. A long strand of black hair fell over his left eye when he glared at his cousin. “When will you stop trying to introduce me to the ladies of the court?”

Minho barked a laugh. “I know you didn’t bring me here to berate me about that.”

Instantly, his demeanor changed, and his eyes scanned the hallway for any eavesdroppers before saying, “We have a lead.”

“A lead?” Minho repeated, voice dropping into a hushed whisper. Over the span of two weeks, rumors of a thriving human trade based in the crown city reached the royal family. Jeongin and his men were working toward finding the culprits, if there were any and the rumors were true, and bringing them to face trial.

“Na’am. We managed to intercept an invite to the Junayna.”

The Little Garden. The Little Heaven. That was the name of the pleasure house hidden deep within the slums of the crown city. Entry was only granted to those carrying an invite, issued by the owner of the establishment.

It was a suspicious business, promising anonymity and secrecy for its clients. The sudden emergence of the Junayna perfectly coincided with the increasing reports of missing men and women. Jeongin knew that there was scarcely anything honest about such businesses.

“You’re sending men undercover?” Minho asked, to which Jeongin shook his head. “We don’t want to raise their suspicions. I’m going alone.”

A silence stretched between them as the king considered his words, to be broken by a cough as the general added, “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Minho’s gaze snapped to meet his. Though, he wasn’t surprised to find nothing but resolute decision in the calm sea of his eyes. Jeongin had grown to become a leader of his own, a general willing to go beyond the specifications of his duty to see a mission done. He was nothing like the easygoing, remiss cousin Minho knew ten years ago.

He also knew that he was being told this information out of nothing but mere protocol. Jeongin didn’t really require his advice on the matter.

“Alright,” the king gave him a solemn nod, his permission acquired. “May the Aliha grant you their luck.”

•ꕥ•

Jeongin didn’t need luck. He needed patience to tolerate this slum.

Al Qa’er was what the locals called it. A lawless neighborhood ruled by thieves, conmen, and drunkards. Nothing would save him here but the tip of his saif. Not a title and not any kind of dignity.

It wasn’t the buildings that seemed to lean into each other, or the ground that seemed to be caked in grime — what Jeongin hated about Al Qa’er was the knowledge of what lay behind those walls and hid in those alleys. There was an injustice that always seemed to return, no matter how many times the crown tried to annihilate it. The exploitive minds of Al Qa’er always found a way to oppress the less fortunate and the unsuspecting.

The general couldn’t tell if the searing rush of emotion that clouded his mind was disgust or anger. Or both.

Jeongin adjusted the black veil he wore and turned into an alley on his right. The route he memorized was courtesy of his assistant. A maze within the alleyways that would finally lead him to the Junayna.

From the edges of his vision, he spotted a couple of people following his path. They, too, wore veils to conceal their identities. They were dark pieces of garment, secured at the back of the head, with a single slit across to allow vision. The rich liked to decorate them with gems and golden embroidery portraying the mouths of various animals or intricate shapes. Jeongin had settled for plain black, embellished with three small pearls at each end of the slit.

It was a requisite for entering the pleasure house, in order to give the visitors the anonymity they sought.

The mere concept of the veils made the hairs at the back of Jeongin’s neck rise in repulsion. Though he supposed it worked for his particular situation. The Commander of the Darilmalekan army was too recognizable a face to saunter undetected into Al Qa’er’s horrific establishments.

The closer Jeongin was to his destination, the more masked figures he noticed. They all walked in silence, as though the veils demanded it. He wondered about them. Who were they? Did he know any of these people? Were they men and women he dined with? Invited to his home? Was it mere curiosity that brought them there or were they regulars?

Finally, Jeongin spotted a dimly lit entrance guarded by one man and realized he wasn’t ready to witness whatever obscenity the Junayna offered.

The muffled beat of the daff reached his ears. Too bad he never waited to be ready.

Jeongin watched as the guard let a couple pass through before pulling out the folded piece of parchment he secured in his belt. He studied the man’s face as he handed him his invitation. He, too, maintained an unnatural silence. His dark hair was pulled into a short braid at the base of his neck, and the bronze of his skin shimmered in the meager moonlight. A heavy sword was sheathed at his hip. No man walked the streets of Al Qa’er unarmed.

The man flipped the parchment over, and over again, frowning as though something was wrong. He grunted, wrinkling the invitation in his grip as he regarded the general. His words were accented by the unruly streets. “Who are you?”

Jeongin raised a brow, his words shooting through the air like lethal arrows despite the winds of nervousness that breezed over his heart, “Is this your promise of secrecy?”

“I’ve never seen-”

“What is all this commotion about?” a voice boomed from somewhere behind the guard, and soon, a stout man came into view. A heavy, bejeweled turban balanced on his head, grey strands of hair escaping the white silk. He wore a similarly white thawb, and a ridiculously yellow abaya over it, studded with zumurrud. He almost resembled a lemon. A khanjar was strapped to his belt, and the enormous precious gems on the rings suffocating his fingers told Jeongin that this man had never needed to wield a weapon in his life.

He was the target.

Jeongin let out an annoyed breath, gesturing to the guard while his other hand rested casually on the hilt of his saif. He’d had to ditch his twin swords for the occasion. “Your guard is denying the validity of my invitation.”

“Give me that,” the man snarled as he ripped the parchment out of the guard’s fist. He took a glance at it, then directed his gaze toward Jeongin. The latter tilted his head, the lie spilling like smooth honey on fresh bread, “A good friend of mine gave me this invite. I do not wish to disclose his identity.”

His age-worn mustache seemed to twitch with something akin to annoyance as he slammed the invite into the guard’s chest. An unsettling smile then stretched his plump lips as he beckoned Jeongin forward. “Right, of course. Pardon the insolence of my guard. Allow me to walk you in personally.”

Jeongin followed him without acknowledgment. A question danced at his lips, but he elected to stay silent. Better maintain the facade of a nonchalant nobleman than raise eyebrows with his curiosity.

They walked through a dimly lit tunnel, and the farther they went, the clearer the daff became. The catchy tune of the habban drifted through the air, complemented by steady clapping and harmonious singing. Jeongin realized they must’ve had a fully-fledged ensemble at the end of that tunnel.

The Junayna was nothing like Jeongin expected. When he stepped through the archway, the general was greeted by the flurry of colorful silks and the hypnotic beat of the daff and its sisters. He was standing in an enormous clearing that seemed to be carved out of the heart of a great building. The moon and the stars shone above, witnesses or maybe an audience to this underground party.

At the center of the court, a group of female dancers moved in a graceful whirlwind of silks, skin, and hair, perfectly illuminated by the lanterns hung above them. Around them, Jeongin noticed the veiled figures. They sat in groups or alone, relaxed on lavish cushions with glasses of khamr and plates of exotic fruit. The lights were scarce on them, but Jeongin still saw the hunger by which they ogled the dancers.

A sting of disgust made him grimace, and he was thankful for the veil that hid his expressions.

“Ah, front row!” the man exclaimed as he pointed Jeongin towards an empty majlis closest to the center. He wanted to decline, already spotting a place hidden in the shadows at a far corner before he silenced the thought urgently. People don’t come here to be modest.

“Enjoy your night.” the turban tipped haphazardly when the man bowed his head and sauntered away, hollering a comment at the dancers that created a rupture of laughter amongst the audience. Jeongin allowed himself to sit, forced himself to loosen up. If he were to learn anything from this visit, then he’d better try to blend in.

A serving boy soon rushed over to his majlis, placing down a bottle of khamr and a silver plate of grapes and pomegranate. Jeongin regarded him. He couldn’t have been much older than Seungmin. His clothes fell over his figure lousily. Oversized, or maybe he was too underfed.

When the boy offered to fill his cup, Jeongin let him. He wouldn’t drink, he never did, let alone on a job, but that would be enough to complete his facade. He murmured a short ‘shukran’ before the boy scampered away, the sleeves of his tunic billowing around his bony arms.

What now? Jeongin thought as he shifted in his position, eyes trailing over the round structure he was in. The circular wall was three stories tall. He noticed a veiled figure disappear through a staircase at the opposite side of the court, accompanied by a dash of purple silks, then appear at the open hallway on the first floor. He didn’t bother to see what room the two walked into.

There were women among the audience. He noticed eyes deeply lined with kohl, veiled heads crowned with beautiful headpieces. He also noticed the men standing near them, purple vests open to flaunt toned torsos and sculpted arms.

Jeongin had begun to feel as though his veil was crawling with ants.

The dancing had stopped with a final shrill of the habban, and the dancers left the wide arena in perfect unison. They held their skirts firmly and pressed their arms to their sides as they passed through the thin space separating the ensemble from the audience’s seats. It was as though they were protecting themselves, Jeongin realized when he saw a man lean forward and grab a fistful of one of the girls’ silks. His veil bore the embroidered mouth of a lion.

The girl froze in place. The rest scurried past her, a stampede of blue and red, green and gold, a panicked jingle to their steps, and huddled in an empty space behind the ensemble.

All Jeongin could see from his place was the rigid hunch of her bare shoulders, ivory against the deep blood of her fustan. The glorious waves of her black hair were slightly tousled from dancing, but they reached the small of her back like the other dancers.

For a moment there, Jeongin thought she would storm off. He hoped she would. But then he saw the man in the obnoxious yellow abaya, a look he could only describe as the impending storm shadowing his awful face.

The girl dropped her shoulders and turned around to face the veiled man, letting him guide her to the majlis he shared with several other girls.

Jeongin looked away. This was vile. He knew little of the workings of harems and concubines, but this was entirely different.

He needed to talk to someone. He needed to gather all the information he could before he fled this place in sheer horror.

The serving boy from earlier strode past him, an empty bottle in hand. Should he try to stop him? Wring out a few answers?

No, Jeongin thought, eyes searching the open court, too conspicuous.

“In need of company?”

Jeongin’s eyes snapped towards the owner of the voice. The horrible man in yellow stood near his majlis. The same unsettling smile was drawn on his lips. Though it felt more like the sneer of a prowling predator, now that Jeongin had seen what the Junayna was like.

Every instinct of his screamed at him to decline, but the general’s mind bloomed at the chance. Perfect.

He didn’t respond, letting his silence do the work for him.

“May I interest you in one of our girls?” he offered and didn’t wait for an answer when he turned to look at the group of resting dancers. He took a moment as if to contemplate before calling above the music, “Y/n!”

Almost immediately, a young woman stood, her embellished fustan flaring around her due to the sudden movement. She stared, dazed, as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears. The man repeated, loud, his tone harsh command rather than kind invite, “Y/n!”

She started walking, her steps stiff and quick, abrupt jingles sounding from the sash on her hips. Jeongin noticed some eyes among the audience following her, then noticed the way she clutched her dress. Not protective or afraid, but harsh, displeased. Angry, he realized.

She came to stand before him, eyes fixed on the ground. Jeongin didn’t miss the way she stiffened when the man grabbed her arm and forced her forward. “Of course, there are younger girls, but I think you will find our Y/n quite delightful. She’s of Tajilmalekan roots.”

Jeongin forced his cool gaze to land on her. The deep blue of her fustan mimicked the night sky, cascading gracefully over her figure. It was designed to make a spectacle of its wearer with layers of silk that danced and flared with each little movement. A line of careful embroidery traced the dangerously plunging neckline to the belt of small, coin-like, pressed gold pieces tied around her hip. The accessory was meant to clink like a thousand little bells with each movement.

She was beautiful. Jeongin wasn’t going to lie to himself.

When he dragged his gaze back to the man in yellow, the latter clasped his hands behind his back and turned to leave. He barely caught what he said to the young woman on his way. “Behave.”

Moments of silence passed after he left. Jeongin released his gaze, letting it roam anywhere but her as he reached for the full cup on the table. She stood still, fists tight around her silks. Her sudden words could’ve easily been lost in the music surrounding them. “I don’t care what Hijris told you. I can offer you conversation but that is all I’m willing to give.”

What? Jeongin felt as though he was being suffocated by his veil when he realized what she was insinuating. She spoke with the lilting syllables of Tajilmalekan seafarers.

“Conversation would be great,” he responded when he regained his composure. He looked at the majalis around him and caught the gaze of one of those men in purple vests. He was staring right at him, pure murder in his handsome features.

Jeongin didn’t wait to see him divert his eyes, letting himself look at the girl again instead. “Why don’t you...sit?”

•ꕥ•

You wanted nothing more than to murder the mercenary scumbag who called himself Hijris.

You were a dancer, were you not? Your job was to dance. Why then were you sitting by the majlis of a veiled man, legs folded neatly under your body, mind racing through a thousand possibilities of what could happen next? Why?

“You’re from Tajilmalek,” the man said. He spoke like no one you’d met before. Clear, perfectly measured syllables that ended with sharp cases, free of any accent you recognized.

Your eyes stayed trained on the hard ground. “Na’am.”

He hummed, a low sound. Then asked, “Do you like it here?”

The question made your gaze snap up, finally taking in the man who sat like a king on his cushions. He was dressed in black from the carefully swathed fabric of his litham to the tips of his hitha’a. A single sword was sheathed at his hip. But perhaps what intrigued you the most was his underwhelming choice of veil. While the other men and women chose to embellish theirs with gems and complex embroidery, his was a starless night sky, save for a few small pearls.

He was watching you, knife-like eyes shrouded in fittingly dark kohl awaiting an answer. You looked away. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t hear the rustle of clothes when he stood up, not offering a hand but simply deciding, “I’ll walk you back to your group.”

That’s it? You didn’t know if you wanted to cry in relief or laugh at this strange man. Wordlessly, you stood up and fell in step behind him. You didn’t want to try and figure out his motives for doing that. You were simply grateful for his silent company. It kept the eyes following you in their place.

You parted ways by the ensemble. He made a clear line toward Hijris, who stood near a group of guards overlooking the arena, while you quickly joined the rest of the dancers resting on the ground.

Your friends didn’t say anything but looked at you with relief in their sorrow worn, kohl-lined eyes.

You brought your hands to your aching foot, massaging it to relieve the pain that resulted from hours of constant dancing on the rough ground. A shadow fell over you when you switched to the other foot and you didn’t bother to look up when you heard him demand, voice an ugly hiss, “What did he tell you?”

“He said he would never sleep with a woman in cheap silks and fake gold.”

Whether or not he believed your lie, you didn’t care. The satisfaction of a man who sold the bodies of others to fill his coffers was beyond your concerns.

He could go crack his skull against the walls of his pleasure house for all you cared.

•ꕥ•

Your nights were always long. The Junayna was bursting with music and dance and hell until the sun’s graceful rays chased the stars.

You watched the sunrise from the window of your cramped room while braiding your damp hair. The bothersome fustan you’d donned all night was discarded in a pile alongside the rest of your fasateen, awaiting to be collected by the laundry girls. You were comfortably changed into a wide cream thawb, lightly embroidered at the collar and the cuffs with red thread instead.

A faint knock sounded at your door, and you stepped to open it, glad to be greeted by a familiar face.

Bara’a gave you a small, sad smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you breathed, letting him into your room and closing the door. There was barely enough room for the two of you in the narrow space, but you managed.

You heard the soft clink of coins as he set something on the small dressing table he leaned against. “This is all I could get.”

Five Dinar. You counted the bronze before gathering it in your fist and kneeling beside the large chest on the floor.

You, Bara’a, and a third friend of yours had begun picking up money from Hijris’ earnings. One might call it theft, but you supposed you deserved more than the terrible excuse for a salary he gave you. Especially when that money was the product of the blood, tears, and anguish of people like you.

You opened the chest and dug between layers of colorful, cheap silks until your fingers found that familiar rough fabric. You pulled out the pouch. You’d fashioned it such that it looked like a folded roughspun thawb. Perfectly uninteresting.

You unfolded the layers of the dress to find that hidden pocket. After untying the thread that held it shut, you dropped the coins with the rest that the three of you had collected over the past eight months. The pouch would soon be too heavy, and you’ll have to make a new one.

Soon enough, you’ll be free to run away where no one could find you again.

You couldn’t wait to see the anger on Hijris’ face.

Behind you, Bara’a let out a quiet breath. “What happened down there?”

You didn’t have to ask to know what he was talking about, and you shrugged, burying the pouch under the mass of silks and closing the chest. “Nothing. He asked me two questions and sent me back...himself.”

“I saw,” he acknowledged with a murmur. You rested your back against the wall, letting your gaze settle on him with the lightness of a feather.

You first met Bara’a nearly two years ago. A veiled man who’d had more khamr than his system could handle had followed you as you made your way to your room. You were new and afraid, and you couldn’t fight him off when his filthy hands clamped on your bare arms.

That was when someone wrestled him off you, and amid your panicked fear, you barely registered the voice telling you to run away and hide.

You didn’t know why he’d done that, but you soon learned that it was the sense of unity that tied those of you in the Junayna. The knowledge that you were all fighting the same evil.

Whispers about the incident skittered between the girls like mice the following day. They said that weapons were drawn, and that Hijris whipped Bara’a until his back bled for his actions. Though, he never spoke of it to you.

You’d become friends ever since, looking after each other in silence when no one else did.

Bara’a was like you. He’d traveled to Darilmalek for a future he sought, only to find himself entangled in the webs of Al Qa’er. Looking at him, you hated that you knew why Hijris’ men targeted him.

In the shy light of dawn, he looked every bit a prince. The gentle brown waves of his hair reached past his ears, framing his face elegantly like one would a painting. The crooked tip of a thin scar peeked from under his chin, warm honey cutting through light stubble. His eyes were a blue you could only liken to the mesmerizing deep of the ocean, graying over when the sun shone at them directly.

He was beautiful. Perhaps that was why he was a favorite among the women who visited the Junayna.

Bara’a returned your gaze, eyes like troubled waters. They always were. “Do you think...”

“No. Not at all,” you shook your head instantly. There was no way you were catching someone’s eye. Not when you were so close to reclaiming your freedom.

He nodded as if telling himself, of course not. He then said, “Kadi is in her room.”

“Is she okay?” you asked with a start. Poor, sweet Kadi. You had no choice but to rush after the girls when that man grabbed her fustan. All you could do was watch with the rest, horror and desperation etched on your faces as she stepped into his majlis.

There was nothing any of you could do. You had no voice to deny the veiled visitors.

Bara’a shook his head. “I overheard her crying when I passed by.”

You didn’t spare a second to run out of your room and down the hallway when you heard that. Oh, Kadi.

Her room was unlocked, and you stepped in, Bara’a following and shutting the door behind you. In the narrow space, you spotted Kadi, tangled in her blood red silks, huddled on the thin mattress of her bed. Her sobs were muffled, pained hiccups ricocheting off the walls.

“Oh, Kadi.” you dropped on the side of the bed and gathered her in your arms. The girl was much younger than you and Bara’a were. Barely turning sixteen when she was forced to join the Junayna a year ago.

Hijris had taken advantage of her innocence, her dewy charm. She was lucky enough to end up with the dancers, but even that label didn’t protect her from the desires of some monsters. Much like it almost did to you.

Kadi wept in your arms. She didn’t speak, didn’t say what happened to her, but you heard it in her anguish. You felt it in the echo of your own cries some years ago.

“I want t-to leave this place,” she croaked, her voice broken and raw. You hugged her close, murmuring as you fought back tears, “I know.”

A warm hand settled on your shoulder. Bara’a’s voice was weighed down by sorrow. It always was. “We will. Soon.”

•ꕥ•

Jeongin eyed the invitation on his desk. One of his soldiers was sent to collect and deliver it to him earlier that day.

The general had seen atrocities on his visit to the Junayna during the previous night. It was clear to any observer that it was a business that ran on exploiting vulnerable people. Many of them are kids, he reminded himself, remembering the girl in the red fustan and the serving boy.

Hijris was the name. He was the man responsible for that, unfortunately, thriving business.

Feigning interest, Jeongin had asked if there was any chance he could receive his own invitation. The man seemed to be guided by nothing but greed, for he quickly added a new drop-off location to his list and demanded a large sum of money.

Jeongin tossed a heavy pouch of silver in his open hands and turned around, leaving the grim establishment to be swallowed by the night behind him.

The general sighed, eyeing the drawer where he’d stashed the black veil.

He was going back tonight. But he was bringing one of his spies along.

•ꕥ•

“Ya bint!”

A panic rose in your heart and you quickly grabbed Kadi’s hand, diverting from the group.

It was time for your first break of the night. Normally, you’d look forward to resting your blistered feet. This time, however, you were dreading the moment you left the arena.

You’d promised Kadi that nothing would happen to her tonight. You swore it. So when you heard that shout and noticed that it came from the majlis of the man with a veil resembling a lion’s mouth, you had to turn away.

You weren’t going to let him have his way with the girl again.

You thought of taking the route between the majalis and then around the perimeter of the court, but then you spotted Hijris. He was making his way toward you like an angry bull.

No, no, no! You looked around you, trying to keep your composure. Kadi was sobbing silently by your side.

There must be another solution.

Then you saw him. Blank black veil, somewhere in the middle row, all alone.

Was it foolish of you to take your chances with a complete stranger? Definitely. But it was that or let Kadi go and face Hijris’ fury when the sun rose.

So, you acted as though you’d meant to go to him all along, dragging Kadi with you in hurried steps.

His gaze fell on the two of you like the tip of a saif on soft skin. If he was confused, he hid it perfectly. Or maybe the veil hid it for him.

You ushered Kadi toward one side of the divan, speaking under your breath before dropping yourself to the man’s other side, “Sit!”

•ꕥ•

To say Jeongin was confused would be a laughable understatement.

You’d plunked yourself on the cushions beside him and wrapped your arm around his, posing like the women in purple silks on the other majalis. The girl you dragged with you sat neatly on his other side. She kept a small distance, as if to avoid making contact, and picked up the plate of fruits to place on her lap.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice even and low.

“Please...” your muttered answer explained nothing, but Jeongin understood enough when he caught the sight of a veiled man walking his way. He was flanked by women in purple silks and donned a veil resembling a lion’s mouth in its embroidery.

Jeongin remembered him. He was the man who’d forced one of the dancers to join his majlis.

The young girl.

He glanced to his left, finding that she’d hung her head low to let her hair fall like curtains on her face. He still saw the glisten of tears on her pale cheeks. It all made sense in a moment.

“Why would you run away like that?” the man’s tone should’ve been lighthearted, but Jeongin saw beyond that. He wanted to corner them, fluster them into doing what he wanted.

The general let a cool gaze settle on him. “Can I help you?”

“No. But sweet Kadi over here,” he leaned. The veil seemed to be swallowing his difficult breaths, “Why don’t you let me see that pretty face of yours?”

“So, you’re disturbing my company.”

“Not at all. I’d just wanted Kadi at my majlis.”

“So, you’re willing to share?” Jeongin wanted to find the nearest wall and bash his head against it. But he knew the effect of his suggestion. This man’s greed and ego wouldn’t let him depart with the women.

It was evident in the way he glared at Jeongin, a large hand fisted around the silver hilt of his small saif.

“I am not fond of the idea either,” he confessed. It was true. Jeongin didn’t like any of what was happening.

“Sadati, what is bothering you?” a voice rose from behind the veiled man. Jeongin saw the lemon abaya before he spotted the face.

Hijris spared one glance at his majlis, something akin to approval in his expression, then turned his attention to the man with the lion’s veil. “Nadia is coming down soon. I’ll let her find you.”

“The girls told me she was sick,” the man said, starting to follow Hijris back to his divan.

“Sick? Oh, no, no! She’ll be here in moments.”

Something told Jeongin that was a complete lie.

You let go of his arm before he could shrug you off. You’d been silent throughout the exchange, training your eyes on the ground as though you didn’t know how to speak.

The girl you brought with you was the same. Though her silence was nothing but the restraint of her sobs.

“She’s crying,” he said to no one in particular.

“She’s afraid,” you responded after a beat. When Jeongin turned his focus on you, he found your gaze searching his blank veil. You spoke with an anger that had been silenced long ago, but never lost its voice, “I will not let you lay a single finger on her.”

He pinned your wandering gaze down. If there was nothing he could do, he could at least offer this simple protection. “I will not lay a finger on either of you.”

He pulled a black handkerchief from his overcoat and held it out for you. “Give it to her.”

You stared at it. It was a modest piece of cloth. No emblem, no name. You picked it up carefully before standing up to crouch before the girl in a red fustan. When you lifted her chin, Jeongin saw the redness in her dark eyes. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen. That would’ve made her a decade younger than Jeongin. A child, he thought with a frown. A child whose only defense from a strange man was another stranger.

He looked away. Any longer and he would’ve pulled out his saif and charged toward that Hijris. He couldn’t afford to blow their cover so soon.

He caught the shadow of the spy he brought with him somewhere at the top of the circular building. He was to look around, gather information, while Jeongin observed the Junayna from the perspective of a visitor, perhaps speak to a few of the supposed employees.

He noticed someone glaring at him among the audience. It was the same man from the previous night. Though, he was seated this time. A lady in a white veil was leaning into him, a cup of khamr in her jeweled hand.

The purple vest he wore stood bright against the honey glaze of his skin. He had the physique of a fighter, but he sat like nothing but an obedient servant.

The veiled woman brushed back his brown hair, probably whispering something in his ear, but he didn’t acknowledge her. His eyes were fixed on Jeongin.

“He’s staring.”

You looked up, a flicker of recognition crossing your face when you saw who he was talking about. You’d reassumed your place next to him. “He’s...making sure we’re okay.”

“You’re friends?”

You hesitated. “Na’am.”

Jeongin considered that with a hum. He wondered about the men and women in purple. “Are these uniforms?”

“Yes. Purple is for...” you couldn’t say it, Jeongin heard it in the way your voice drifted into a troubled silence. But he didn’t need you to utter it. Purple was for the men and women who disappeared behind doors on the first floor, whispering sweet nothings to veiled visitors. “I understand.”

A solemn silence settled between the two of you. When he glanced to his left, he saw Kadi drop her gaze to her lap as though it burned. She was looking at him with a hint of wonder. As if she saw something behind that veil.

She busied herself with carving open a bright red pomegranate, unprompted. Jeongin was observing the buzzing ensemble when he heard her small voice. “Sayyidi, you...you speak like a prince.”

A flare of alarm shot up in his system at that, and he heard you whisper shout, “Kadi!”

“It is true that my tutor had taught princes,” he responded, hoping his voice didn’t waver. It was the truth. Though it would mean nothing to the two of you other than it being a testimony of his wealth.

The daff started with a clap, and the dancers flooded into the arena in a stream of color. Jeongin saw the look you exchanged with Kadi. Uneasy.

He looked at neither of you when he said, “You can stay.”

And neither of you said anything. But when the beat picked up, you didn’t move. Kadi resumed picking at the fruit, and you kept your attention on the show in front of you.

“I’m not going to have that.” Jeongin looked at the silver plate of fruit. The crimson pomegranate seeds were piled like crystals next to clusters of white and red grapes. Kadi snapped her head up, the faint shadow of dejection depressing her youthful features before realization sparked in her eyes. Bright.

Her gaze traveled back to the plate, contemplative, then she shook her head. “Hijris says we can’t eat at night.”

“Why?”

“Because it will hinder our dancing.”

He frowned. “You won’t be dancing tonight if you want to stay away from that man. You might as well eat.”

“She’s right,” you spoke beside him. A murmur. “He won’t like it.”

And who does he think he is? Jeongin scoffed inwardly. He found his horrible yellow abaya behind the ensemble, and as though he sensed his gaze, Hijris looked back at him.

Good. Let him watch. Jeongin leaned forward, plucking a single grape and holding it between his fingers before turning to face you. He hoped you would understand. “Asif.”

Your confused gaze traveled from his veiled face to Hijris in the distance, to Kadi’s curious stare, the young hope in her, and back to him. Understanding firmed your jaw.

You let him feed you the grape as Hijris watched.

“He can’t complain now.” Jeongin lifted a shoulder, reclining and looking back at the girl in red. “Go ahead.”

She was unsure, then carefully, she plucked a red berry from its stem and munched on it quietly. The music continued around them.

A presence only Jeongin felt stood behind them. His spy.

The general lifted his hand, a minuscule, insignificant movement. Though it was an order to his spy. Leave. You can return.

And he was gone. A fragment of shadow. A silent breeze.

Jeongin was supposed to leave with him, but he didn’t. He stayed until the music dimmed and the dancing stopped. He stayed until the light swallowed the stars and the court emptied into a barren desert.

He stayed until he made sure you could leave undisturbed.

•ꕥ•

“Why did you go to him?”

Bara’a fell in step behind you as you were making your way back to your room from the baths.

You kept your eyes forward. “I don’t know.”

“You took a chance.”

“I had to.”

You reached your room. A sigh left your lips when you placed a palm on the door to push it open. “Nothing happened to us, Bara’a. You don’t have to worry.”

He followed you in, always welcome. “I know… I was watching.”

A laugh bubbled up your chest as you dumped the fustan in your arms in a corner. “You should stop glaring at people from across the court, by the way.”

When you turned toward him, you found that a smile had graced his lips. Rare, calming, like a cold breeze against the face of a traveler who’d ventured across the sand for endless days. You poked his shoulder with a grin, “That lady was getting quite frustrated with you.”

He laughed, a splash of water on a hot day. “Let her be.”

But like it came, his laugh faded, and you found yourself facing troubled waters again. “You still need to be safe. Ashanya.”

For me. The way he spoke reminded you of home. He was from southwestern Tallilmalek, raised by the coast where people spoke with the salt of the sea on their tongues. The dialect of pearlers, fishermen, and seafarers.

It was a culture almost identical to yours by the shores of Tajilmalek.

“Adri.” you gave him a small smile and turned to your dressing table. It had no mirror, but it provided adequate storing space. You pulled out a comb to tend to your damp hair.

“You always know, Y/n,” Bara’a shook his head, folding his arms and leaning against the table, “What happens when you don’t?”

“Then it’s ma’adri.”

He scrunched his brows, an amused look that said both ‘Seriously?’ and ‘What did I expect’ etched on his face. You could only shrug, a certain mischief sparkling in your eyes.

When you set your comb down, Bara’a pointed to your hair with his eyes. “May I?”

You hummed your permission, and he pushed himself off the edge of the narrow table to stand behind you. With gentle hands, he held the length of your hair and began braiding it. Hijris had insisted that it be long. Something about dancing and ridiculous beauty standards.

“You know, I would call that man strange, but,” he paused, having almost finished the braid, and pulled out the band he used to tie his own hair back. You didn’t see the way it fell around his face, perfect in its elegance despite everything. He secured the end of the braid. “there’s nothing strange about not taking advantage of others.”

“It’s strange in this place,” you remarked.

“Can we trust him?”

You’d turned around then and grabbed a small pouch thrown on the bed. Bara’a looked at you expectantly, waiting for an answer he could direct his concerns to.

You could only shrug. You didn’t know if you could trust the stranger in the plain veil. You thought you simply got lucky. Twice.

It didn’t matter anyway, you thought as you slung the pouch across your chest and left the room. You wouldn’t need to trust him again.

•ꕥ•

“He conceals it by calling it employment,” Hyunjae said as he slid a couple of papers across the meeting table. “I managed to pick up a few empty contracts last night.”

“But the contract ensures that they remain in debt,” Minho murmured, his eyes running over the text inked on the so-called contracts. Standing on his right, Jeongin nodded. “They are practically unable to pay the debt.”

Him, the king, and his lieutenants were gathered to discuss the findings of the previous night and decide on their next move. There was no more time to waste.

“We know this. But we’ll need to gather testimonies from the victims to represent in trial.” Minho set the papers down.

“We seize the establishment. That’s how we get both Hijris and anyone inside,” one of the lieutenants suggested.

“Right,” the general leaned in. “We must also prepare proper housing for them once we evacuate the building.”

“Of course,” the king nodded thoughtfully.

An hour later, the meeting room emptied. They’d finished discussing the details of the plan. Jeongin and his men were to take hold of the Junayna at midnight. When it was the most active.

It would be too full for a fight to breakout, and Hijris wouldn’t be able to hide the truth of his establishment when his men and women were in the middle of their work.

Only Jeongin and his spy remained in the meeting room. They had something to discuss.

Hyunjae rolled the contracts, securing them with a leather band when he said, “You made company yesterday.”

That was not what they had to discuss.

Jeongin gave him an unimpressed look. “They came to me on their own accord.”

“Always a charmer, sir.”

“They needed help, Hyunjae.”

The mentioned man looked at him questioningly. “From you? How did they know?”

Jeongin sighed. Hyunjae was a good friend of his, a fellow soldier. They worked together. Though, sometimes, the general felt as though the spy found enjoyment in asking too many questions. “They don’t know. I’m assuming one of them trusted me enough after my first visit.”

He arched a brow, facing the spy with a challenging grin, “Why? Is it so farfetched to believe that your general is a man with morals?”

“Not at all, sir,” Hyunjae gave a quick salute. “I’m rather impressed.”

“I’m sure you are. We need to return to the Junayna. I want to find a list of all the clients, as well as assess the buildings surrounding it.”

All lightheartedness left Hyunjae’s countenance. He gave him a firm nod. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

•ꕥ•

There was one problem with trusting others to do your work for you.

You snuck past a dozing guard into the dark hallway, your bare feet moving over the floor soundlessly.

They never did the job right.

You pressed your back to the wall, listening, waiting, until you decided it was safe enough to poke your head out the window.

The climb to Hijris’ office should’ve been terrifying and undoable, but you, Bara’a, and Kadi had done it every day of the past eight months. You knew the ridges between the brick like the back of your hand.

Before the guards could know any better and look into the hallway, you lifted yourself over the edge of the open window, welcoming the gentle morning breeze.

You felt weightless in your cotton thawb as your feet found the familiar dents and you held onto them, transferring your weight carefully. Your hands found grip above and you moved, one cautious foot after the other, one trained breath after the other.

This was your least favorite part of the task. Falling from this height would mean lying broken and bleeding to your death without anyone’s knowledge. This part of the building was secluded, surrounded by high, windowless walls. It was to ward off thieves and hide the room that was a short climb away from you.

You knew you’d arrived at your destination when you felt no more cracks to latch onto. The opening above you was wide enough for one person to squeeze through, a humble window for the office of the least humble man you knew.

You slammed a sweaty palm against the ledge, gripping it with all your might and pulling yourself up and into the office. You landed with a soft thud, back on solid floor again.

It was empty, as you came to learn of Hijris’ schedule long ago.

After all the guests left the Junayna, you rested. The house slept until the sun was the highest in the sky. During that time, Hijris left the establishment to rest at his own house, trusting a few guards to watch over the slumbering men and women, boys and girls of the Junayna.

He expected nothing of you. In his mind, you were all weak and helpless. You wouldn’t dare do anything during his absence.

He was incredibly foolish to think so of the three of you.

While the people slept, you snuck out, alternating days. One of you scaled the wall every morning to return with a few extra coins to add to your pouch. Never too much to catch Hijris’ unwanted attention.

The carpet under your feet felt soft. A luxury only one man in the Junayna could afford. A desk of dark wood stood regally in the middle of the room, a plate of sweet buqsumat resting near an empty finjan on its surface.

He didn’t even bother cleaning up before he left.

You wasted no time, sneaking toward the desk and easing open a drawer on the bottom right. Pouches of money were stacked together like fresh bread on display. The sight of them was like the waft of a welcoming bakery to your senses.

Hijris reserved ample coin for the daily purchase of food for the Junayna’s nightly visitors. The pouches were refilled every morning before he left his office. It wasn’t money you minded taking.

You worked with nimble fingers, untying one of the pouches and palming whatever you could in a passing moment. Not too much.

You shoved the coins into the small bag slung across your chest and stood up, grabbing one of the sugary biscuits off the desk on your way.

You were going to shove the treat into your mouth when your gaze landed on a figure swathed in black standing in the office.

You swore your heart stopped for a moment.

He stared at you, sharp, kohl-framed eyes curious through his blank veil. You couldn’t breathe, frozen, caught red-handed.

He tilted his head, his voice drifting through the air ever so quietly. A whisper of wind. “You’re stealing.”

What is he doing here? You wanted to disappear like those genies in your grandfather’s tales. Instead, you dared to blink. Once, twice. Let the air seep out of your nose slowly and back in again. “I’m not stealing. I’m simply taking back what’s mine.”

At that, his demeanor seemed to change. Something akin to the triumphant feeling of good revelation lining his words. “Why?”

So, he wants conversation, you clutched your pouch with your free hand. You’d give him conversation. Isn’t that what you offered two days ago?

“Because I need to.”

“Doesn’t he pay you?”

“Not enough. Never enough for sad folk like myself.”

When he said nothing, you felt a familiar mute anger rise in your chest. He must think you were pathetic. Maybe a fool. But you were doing everything you could to survive this horrible place.

He had to understand that. You didn’t know why, but he had to.

“There’s no hope for people like me and Kadi in this place. If I don’t do this, then we’ll be stuck here — I’ll be stuck here until we grow old and ugly. Or until some sorry sob looks at me and thinks to make a wife of me,” you whispered in frustration. “Then he’ll ask me to dance for him. Undressed, probably! And that will be my life. Forever. Until death sows its seeds.”

He didn’t look surprised when you blurted all that. “So, you steal.”

“So I steal.”

“And the buqsumat?” he pointed at the biscuit that made your fingers sticky with its sugary powder.

“I just like baghsam.” you shrugged and waited for him to say something. Anything.

After a beat that felt like three, he motioned with his head to the window, “Go. This conversation never happened.”

So you turned to leave, shoving the biscuit in your mouth and preparing to climb down. But before you dangled your legs over the ledge, you looked back at him, the question leaving your lips before you could think better. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here to talk to Hijris.”

You nodded and found the familiar ridge outside the window, pulling yourself out. You didn’t want to be in that office any longer.

On your way down, you couldn’t shake off a thought that perturbed you.

How did you not hear him come into the office?

•ꕥ•

Hijris considered himself to be a man of wits. It was what helped him survive Al Qa’er and become one of its lords.

The Junayna was the crown jewel of his empire. The product of careful planning, scheming, and trickery. He’d managed to gather the finest and the most unfortunate men and women of the crown city and bend them to his will. He’d created a masterpiece of an establishment that rained money on him like a king.

Now, he felt as though his crown was being threatened.

It began with rumors, people speculating about a possible human trade happening in the city, then he appeared at the doorstep of his little heaven.

Blank veil, calculated words, but Hijris knew that he was no common man of the slums. He spoke with the precision of a royal and carried himself with the pride of a soldier.

Hijris found himself hosting the General of the Darilmalekan army.

He was two years late, but he was there nonetheless, and Hijris couldn’t afford to lose everything now.

So when the music reached a shrill stop and the dancers retreated to their place behind the ensemble, he turned to his guards. That plain veil was nowhere to be found. They had to leave.

“Bring Y/n to my office,” he ordered one then pointed at another two, “You search her room. Turn everything inside out and bring me anything you find.”

•ꕥ•

You followed the guard in silence. It was strange for Hijris to call you during the night, while you had work to do. You couldn’t help but worry, recalling the surprise encounter you had earlier that day.

Did he tell him?

You knew you shouldn’t have trusted that man. You bit your inner cheek hard enough to draw blood. Foolish, Y/n.

The guard led you to the office you’d been in earlier. He knocked on the door and stepped in after receiving permission from inside.

Hijris was standing before his desk, his turban and abaya discarded to leave him in a lavish white thawb. Several of his men stood in the room, hands on their suyoof. You noticed an iron bar heating on a pile of bright charcoal in a clay stove.

Your heartbeat spiked. There could only be one purpose for that device. Punishment.

Hijris motioned for the guard to shut the door. His gaze settled on you, and your fustan suddenly felt too tight to breathe.

“You’re going to tell me everything the general told you.”

Your breath hitched, confusion furrowing your brows. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Y/n,” he spat, walking toward you until he was within your reach. No, until you were within his reach. “The man you sat with. Tell me everything you know.”

The man... you shook your head, panic widening your eyes. A general? What is he talking about? “I’m sorry, I d-don’t know-”

“Don’t lie to me!” his voice rose in a heartbeat, along with a gesture you flinched from involuntarily. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know! That you thought he was a regular man with peculiar motives!”

You speak like a prince, Kadi’s voice echoed in your memory, distant, lost in the music. You’d brushed it off then. It is true that my tutor had taught princes.

It can’t be. You sputtered, “I... h-he didn’t say-”

“You really don’t know,” Hijris let out a breath that was more angry than disappointed. “Did you really think that a man would visit the Junayna just to sit idly and do nothing?

“Some scholar you are!” he scoffed, turning around. You bristled at the mention of your supposed career. “You can’t even recognize a royal when you see one!”

A royal? You wanted to scream. How were you expected to know anything about this kingdom’s politics? And didn’t he call him a general?

You blanched. This meant that all the questions he asked, all the things he’d done were part of a bigger plan. But a small hope sang in your heart. This also meant that a higher authority knew about the Junayna—about you and Kadi—and was going to put an end to your misery. You will be rescued.

But before you could exhale in meager relief, Hijris spoke again, “It doesn’t matter.”

His tone was dangerous, the crackle of flame before the inferno. “Hold her down.”

Hands had grappled your arms and neck before you could react. When you tried to fight them off, you felt the tip of a dagger pressed against the thin silk covering your back. You couldn’t move.

You watched as Hijris leaned over his desk, reaching for a drawer and pulling a familiar pouch out.

It resembled a folded dress.

Your heart dropped into the depths of sudden ruin. Any sort of relief you felt was immediately gone, forgotten, as though it had never been.

“You recognize this bag, I see,” he sneered, unsheathing his khanjar and cutting a messy line through the fabric.

The coins clinked on the table merrily. All of Bara’a and Kadi’s hard work. All of your hard work.

“I assume you also don’t know about this money?” he rolled his eyes, mocking you.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. It felt like a hundred coins scratching against your insides. Your voice seemed to betray you, leaving you to fend for yourself alone, with the scraps of nothing you had left. “It’s mine.”

You’d insisted on storing all the money yourself. You wanted to make sure that you were the only one who would get into trouble if Hijris found out. It was your idea, after all, and you were willing to take the blame for it if that guaranteed your friends’ safety.

“Oh, but how can that be?” he ran his filthy fingers through the mismatched collection of coins. It wasn’t nearly enough, but you were halfway there. You only needed a couple more months.

“This is much more than your allowance gives, not to mention that,” he paused as though to catch his breath, “the produce allowance has been disappearing for a while. A few coins short every time.”

He laughed then, a sound that rung terrible in your ears. “You know, at first, I thought there was something wrong with my calculations. Perhaps I was missing a few coins here and there.” he turned to you, features a violent storm. “But then it kept happening.”

“You proved to be completely useless, Y/n. Again. I sent my men to search your room for some hint of the general. Maybe a note or a dagger. Something useful! But this is what they return with instead!” he waved the limp pouch in your face. “And I find out that there is a thief under my roof!”

You couldn’t tune out his angry words like you normally did whenever he had a fit. You heard everything. Your mind was an empty sheet imprinting every second, every sound, into your memory permanently. You had no voice. You were weak and afraid again, but this time, there was no one to help you.

He threw the empty pouch on the floor before gesturing towards one of his men. “Museeb.”

The man moved. He looked as though he was made of parchment, gaunt figure, sharp angles. You always saw him leave the office after Hijris finished chastising someone.

He grabbed the iron rod and you began to squirm. Dagger be damned.

“This is what happens when you steal from me, Y/n,” Hijris said, and that bare veil flashed in your mind. Amid the fuzz of your thoughts, the desperation of your fight, the sting at your back, and the garbled mess of your sobs, you barely caught his last words.

“Don’t scream.”

•ꕥ•

It was midnight, and Jeongin was leading his men through the miserable streets of Al Qa’er.

They moved like a knife cutting through water, the path clearing for them swiftly. The general could tell that the slum’s residents weren’t happy about their visit. He saw and heard the hostility in their frightened expressions and from their foul mouths.

They had divided into teams. One team would approach the Junayna from the back and surround it, another would secure the roofs and the buildings nearby, and the last would storm the establishment.

Jeongin was leading the last division.

Passing through the familiar alley without a veil covering his features felt strange, but it was a feeling he welcomed. He could finally step into that hellhole with his face out and his swords brandished, in his true form.

The usually guarded entrance was desolate, no lights or silent visitors in sight. It was quiet.

“Move!” Jeongin shouted a command at the soldiers from his mount and they rushed through the entrance, a stream of black and brown uniforms, armored shoulders glinting.

He dismounted his horse to join them, running through the sinister tunnel and stepping past the arches into the infamous Junayna.

It was like staring at the expanse of the sahra’a.

The court that should’ve been bustling with movement, alive with music and dance, was a barren land illuminated by the scarce light of the moon. It stared down at the soldiers, a blank face.

Jeongin swiveled toward his men. “Search the building!”

And they did, bursting through doors and shouting their findings amongst each other.

They abandoned the place, Jeongin thought, gaze trailing over the rough ground and rising to study the building encapsulating them. Dread wormed into his heart. Why? How did they know?

Could he have underestimated Hijris?

Could he have overestimated the veil’s ability to hide his identity? His ability?

“Sir! General!” a shout caught his attention and he turned to the source of the sound. It came from a growing cluster of guards surrounding a place he quickly recognized as Hijris’ office. “We found someone!”

They let him pass through them with perfect ease, and Jeongin strode into the generously furnished office he’d been in earlier that day.

A soldier knelt on the ground. An iron rod lay atop strewn charcoal and shattered clay. A woman swathed in deep blue silk lay limp on the carpeted floor.

His dread exploded into a million fractures of blinding realization.

He had failed.

Part One: Little Heaven | Part Two | Part Three

If you have read this far then you are contractually obligated to tell me your thoughts! Well, not really, but do drop by sometime! Thank you for reading and I hope you have a wonderful day! ♡

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chaninfused · 3 years

Text

Hymn of the Winds | Lee Minho

◤“We will be fine.”

When an assassination attempt leaves a king wounded and his family endangered, his queen must find a way to protect all that she has sacrificed for.

◤Disclaimers: Female reader insert. From the word of ‘Danse Macabre’, some years into the future. Mentions of violence, death, and execution. Brief descriptions of physical injury. Fantasy inspired by Arabian mythology. A balanced blend of fluff amid angst. All places and events are fictional and do not reference real life nations. Find a glossary with all the terms used here. Also, Husband Minho. I think that should be a warning.

◤Word count: 5.5K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

◤From the author: Though this is from the world of Danse Macabre, you are not required to have read it to be able to understand what happens in this story. It’s a short and sweet, whodunnit kind of thing. Also, I didn’t plan for this to be released on Valentine’s day and I’ve just realized the coincidence so, please accept this as my Valentine’s day gift to you all! Happy reading!

“Call for the Atiba’a!” Jeongin ordered as several pages rushed to the wounded king’s side. It had been an entire night’s worth of travel to reach the palace, and although Minho survived the hasty journey, he was a mere dead weight by the time they’d arrived.

Servants and guards did as he instructed despite their reasonable confusion. He knew they weren’t expecting them, at least not for a day or two. But it seemed that their assailant had other plans for them.

Jeongin noticed you standing at the end of the hall. The young prince was clutching the silk of your dress as he watched the servants help the king into the royal chambers. Seungmin had never seen blood, yet there it was, soaking his father’s uniform in gruesome reds. It was a sight tough on his young mind.

“What is the meaning of this?” you marched up to the commander, anger, confusion, and worry furrowing your brows. Seungmin shuffled after you, his eyes full moons of horror. Jeongin knew no way to lighten his words for the young prince, “We were ambushed, not too far from Arba.”

“Arba?” you restrained yourself from drawing in a sharp breath. The city was at least a full day’s journey from the capital, just how fast were they traveling? More importantly, how critical was Minho’s condition?

“No one was injured, save for the king. The attacker was set on him,” Jeongin said before you asked, and if he didn’t know you well, he would’ve missed the fury that unfurled in your eyes.

“And you let him.”

Your words were salt to the wound of his shame. Jeongin might’ve been the commander of your armies, but he was also your and Minho’s most trusted man. The attack shouldn’t have happened. Not on his watch.

All he could do was keep his gaze steady and firm as he held yours. You were good friends, but when it came to Minho, there was no place for leniency. “He tried to kill him. Minho is wounded but he will be alright.”

“And the assassin?” you raised a questioning brow and watched as Jeongin’s features hardened into a scowl.

“Dead.”

•✵•

You were twenty-one when you shattered the Sahira’s Heart.

It freed you from a curse, but it left a certain hollowness in its wake.

You’d learned to fill it up with the newfound memories you created along the way, those with the most precious people in your life.

Yet, there were times when your thoughts would stray. You’d find yourself wishing for that power again. Just a taste of it. A shard to cut the hunger.

It was absurd, you knew.

But as you watched your son run into his father’s embrace, it was all you could think of.

If you had your Jinni magic, you’d find the bastard who sent an assassin for your husband faster than any spy could. You’d drag them to the depths of hell and back and it would cost you nothing. If only...

Minho’s laugh snapped you out of your thoughts. No, it would cost you everything. Everything you’d worked so hard to build in the last six years.

You silenced the voices in your head, magic shouldn’t be the way to go. You saw the monsters it created, and you’d barely escaped its dark clutches.

There was no way you were looking back.

•✵•

“I can protect you, Abi! Minhyun said I’m ready to have my own saif now,” Seungmin announced, his little hands fisted on his hips in a show of strength. It was anything but, and it prompted a soft chuckle to fall from Minho’s lips as he regarded the boy sitting on his lap. “I’m sure you’re the best swordsman in Tallimalek, ya ghanati, but I’m afraid I’ll have to see it for myself first.”

The young prince’s eyes sparkled. “A duel?”

Minho’s gaze flickered to the side, finding you lost in thought before he brought his attention back to his son and smiled, “Yes, a duel. Maybe tomorrow before your classes begin?”

That was enough to make Seungmin cheer in excitement, hop off his father’s lap, and scramble to the door as he called, “I’ll go tell Minhyun!”

“Be careful!”

Minho’s gentle smile never left his lips. Not until he heard the greetings of the guards as Seungmin dashed past them to find his trainer. It melted into a quiet sigh then, and he directed his gaze to where you stood.

Lost in thought, again.

“I know you’re angry.”

His voice seemed to pull you out of your trance, and you pursed your lips. “Angry doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“I’m okay, love.” he dangled his legs over the edge of the bed to further prove his point. The arrow was lodged between his ribs, and the wound became an uncomfortable ache in his side, but he was fine. He was sure he’d seen worse.

Though he knew you wouldn’t take his word for it.

“You might be okay, but someone had tried to kill you. Someone is trying to get their hands on the throne and we both know they would stop at nothing to get it, our family included,” you pointed then added softly, “You might survive a stab or an arrow, but I’m not sure Seungmin would too.”

At the mention of the young prince, Minho stilled. You were right, and he’d be lying to say the thought hadn’t plagued his mind throughout the night. He could only grit his teeth. “I won’t let it happen.”

His words settled into the air, a promise the palace walls held witness for, before you broke the tense atmosphere with a shake of your head. “You should rest.”

He stood and sauntered toward you lazily, the frown he wore moments ago long replaced by his signature grin. One that told you he was up to no good. “I’m gone for weeks and the first thing you tell me when I return is to rest.”

He was standing so close then, almost daring you to resist him. Weeks of travel had bronzed his skin, his hair fell a little longer over his eyes, but that undisturbed gleam of mischief still shone in his eyes, brightening the longer you stayed silent.

It was a shame you weren’t falling for that, yet.

Challenging his gaze, you repeated, “Rest.”

Minho elected to ignore you, his hands tracing the thin, elegant chain circling your neck instead. You followed his eyes as his fingers stopped at the small emerald pendant and a distant smile graced his lips.

Once upon a time, it was a gemstone of powerful magic. You shattered it to save yourself, and though its powers were long gone, it bore a stunning green sheen. He had the royal jeweler fashion a necklace out of a shard of the stone and on one starry night, he presented it to you. He had a habit of lavishing you with gifts.

You knew it was Minho’s favorite gift. Perhaps that was the reason you wore it so often. Just to see that soft smile draw itself on his beautiful face.

Minho’s attention drifted back to your features and a murmur danced in the little space between you. “You’re holding your breath.”

Skies.

Then your lips were on his, hot, as you felt a flicker of a smile against them. The hand that caressed your necklace rose to cradle your face, delicate. Always delicate.

Heat coursing through your body, heart dropping into the depths of your longing, the world could’ve ended and begun right then and there, and you wouldn’t bother. It was only him, and the fire clouding your mind.

Too much for resting.

You pulled apart and Minho’s forehead rested against yours. His words came in rushed breaths, “I missed you.”

You hummed, unable to hide the faint curl of your lips, “I missed you too.” A beat. “You still need to rest.”

“Only if you give me a smile. A real one.”

At that, your lips straightened, and you attempted a glare. Though it was impossible with the giddiness that rattled your heart.

Nevertheless, Minho’s grin widened when you didn’t budge. “You leave me no choice then.”

His hands found your arms, wrapping them around his middle as his mouth found yours. A kiss, then another, until your fire roared into a storm and you could no longer hold back your smile.

“There she is,” Minho’s mumble drowned in your skin one last time before he pulled away and you puffed your cheeks, a futile attempt at killing your grin. You gave in, looking away with a mutter, “Is this good enough for you?”

“It’s more than enough, my love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, where the chain of your necklace fell, then another below your eye. His promise wasn’t lost among the flutters of your heart.

“We will be fine.”

•✵•

“I still believe you should be resting,” you remarked, handing your assistant a message to relay to the ministers of your kingdom and watching as she hurried past the guards toward their respective studies.

Minho folded his overcoat and draped it over the bench next to yours. “A little duel won’t do any harm.”

“Besides,” he stepped toward you, kissing the top of your head before grabbing an idle practice sword, “I promised Seungmin.”

“Right.” you sniffed. There was no getting into that stubborn mind of his.

You were seated in one of the palace’s many gardens as an audience for Seungmin’s small duel with his father. The sun had just peeked out of hiding, and the breeze sang with the chirps of the birds.

It was a beautiful morning, despite the fact that you were to meet with your ministers and advisors to discuss the probable threat to the crown.

Halfway through the friendly duel between father and son, Jeongin stepped into the clearing. His arrival was accompanied by a tut. “He won’t rest, would he?”

“You know how he is,” you responded. Minho’s stubbornness wasn’t new to his cousin. It was the very thing that made him wait for you all those years and the very thing that made him survive an entire night with a poorly treated wound. He was simply too stubborn to let fate have its way.

The two of you watched as Minho let his guard down, revealing a clear chance for Seungmin to send his wooden sword hurtling to the side and unarm him. The young prince’s delighted hurrahs mingled with the king’s laughter. The sight made your heart swell with love.

Jeongin interrupted the moment when he cleared his throat, speaking low enough for you to hear without drawing the attention of the rest. “I believe the ministers have assembled by now. You should begin the meeting.”

•✵•

The meeting hall was silent as you explained the details of the attack, with Jeongin’s help, and laid out your orders for each sector. You didn’t hold meetings by yourself often, but Minho’s absence didn’t change the ministers’ perception of your words. They were commands to be obeyed, not negotiated.

Or at least most believed that.

“I don’t see the benefit of doing all this,” the Minister of Trade objected when he saw everyone’s compliance. You made sure to keep your face void of irritation when you responded, “There has been an attempt at the king’s life. By lying idle, one would be committing treason-”

“We shouldn’t be taking orders from you, a woman!” his chair screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly, demanding, “Where is the king?”

His outburst gained muted reactions of shock and disbelief from the attendees. Jeongin, who stood behind your seat, stepped to your side, grip tightening around the hilt of his sheathed saif. You caught the Minister of Knowledge rolling her eyes in utter disgust.

Your court was never one to differentiate between man and woman. Minho had ensured that. Yet, there were always outliers.

The new Minister of Trade seemed to have something against your involvement in ruling the kingdom. Ever since he took over his late father’s role in court, he’d been actively expressing his opinions on your role. Minho would silence him with a single venomous word, dubbing his beliefs rather barbaric.

But Minho wasn’t around. You’d have to deal with the minister on your own.

Looking ahead, you spoke loud and clear for the entire hall to hold its breath. “Minister Jihoon, you are dismissed.”

That gained a sputter from him, “W-What? You can’t dismiss me, woman!”

“What did you just call me?” you snapped your gaze toward him, hard and cold. He dared to challenge you, but you weren’t letting him have the satisfaction of destroying your composure. “I am the Queen of Darilmalek, Minister Jihoon. This, too, is my kingdom, my palace, and my court. If you cannot cooperate with my rule then you are not fit to be a member of my court. You are dismissed.”

•✵•

A faint rap at your door interrupted your silence and you answered, “Come in!”

You weren’t exactly surprised when Minho walked into your study, but you shook your head, nonetheless. He told the royal medic he’d rest for the evening. “What did you bribe the guards with?”

He gave you a roguish grin. “One can’t deny a king.”

“Right,” your gaze followed him as he ambled along the length of the room, “Except, maybe, his queen.”

“Except his queen,” he echoed, eyes glinting playfully.

Minho stopped by the window behind your desk. The sun had begun to set, and it showered the crown city in glorious orange and pink light. He let out a soft breath, marveling at the beauty of the scenery as he asked, “How was the meeting?”

You’d returned your attention to the parchment strewn across your desk when you answered absentmindedly, “It was fine.”

Minho hummed, pausing before adding, “I heard you dismissed Jihoon.”

Your pen froze on the document before you. News traveled fast in the palace. You opted for clearing your throat, not turning around to meet your husband’s gaze. “He proved to be a hindrance to the court.”

“He disrespected you,” Minho corrected. “Serves him well.”

Somehow, hearing his words eased your worries. Though they quickly re-emerged tenfold.

You hoped the minister wouldn’t become a thorn at your side.

•✵•

Seungmin’s little feet swung as he sat at the wide table, waiting for his tutor to arrive. He didn’t duel with his father that morning, so he was earlier than he should’ve been for his classes.

Deciding he was finally bored of waiting, the young prince sprung to his feet and skipped toward the library’s entrance. The guards stationed by the door ushered him inside gently when he poked his head out, but he spotted his friend and trainer, Minhyun, at the far end of the hallway and placed a finger on his lips. He was going to surprise him.

The guards, having noticed the weapon master, agreed to let him go, and the young prince scurried after his distancing friend.

With careful, hushed steps, Seungmin crept on the unsuspecting trainer until he was close enough to pounce on him and yell, “Surprise!”

Minhyun didn’t jump in surprise as the prince hoped but he let out a loud, joyous laugh and caught the boy dangling on his torso. “Seungmin!”

“Shouldn’t you be in class now?” he smiled at him kindly, brushing the hair out of his adorable face. Seungmin’s eyes seemed to sparkle when he answered, grinning as the man set him down, “Master Jaebum wasn’t there, and I became bored, and then I saw you!”

“Alright,” Minhyun patted his head, “but you have to return to class now or else you’ll be in trouble.”

“Okay.” the young prince’s smile melted into a pout and the trainer found himself shaking his head with an echo of a chuckle. He crouched to be at the prince’s level. “Tell you what. After your classes, I can let you watch the older boys duel. Alright?”

The stars in the boy’s eyes returned, and he threw his short arms around his trainer. “Really? Thank you, Minhyun!”

Minhyun gave his tiny frame a squeeze. “Really. Now go before Master Jaebum chides you for tardiness.”

And with that, the young prince scampered away, retracing his steps back to the library. His tutor should’ve arrived by that time.

But as he approached the hallway leading to his destination, a soft murmuring caught his attention and his steps faltered near an empty study. The door was left ajar, allowing the air to carry the whispers of those inside.

Seungmin leaned closer, eyes widening as he eavesdropped. What could they be talking about?

“Well, we’ll have to do something about her before we all find ourselves dismissed...”

Seungmin didn’t understand much of what the adults talked about, but he knew that there were people who disliked his mother. Were these people planning to hurt her like they hurt his father?

“Poison. The king has ordered an increase in guards around the palace, and his fool of a cousin follows y/n everywhere-”

Seungmin didn’t hear the rest. A soft gasp had left his lips when he heard his mother’s name. These people were planning to hurt her.

The patter of footsteps alerted him, and he scrambled away. They were bad people, and he had to tell his parents.

But Seungmin didn’t get far before he felt a forceful grip seize his little wrist. “Where do you think you’re going, young prince?”

•✵•

“Have you seen the young prince?” the old scholar asked as he doddered past grim-faced guards. They gave him no new answer. The prince was last seen with the weapon master, who, when asked, said Seungmin returned to the library for his classes after talking to him.

It wasn’t like him to escape from his classes. Jaebum sighed, tapping his staff, where could he be?

He caught the Commander of the Darilmalekan army as he was leaving his study and waved a frail hand. “Commander Jeongin!”

Jeongin snapped his head toward the elder, confusion quickly wrinkling his features. “Master Jaebum. Shouldn’t you be with Seungmin?”

The scholar walked toward him as he spoke, “Indeed, commander, but it has been more than an hour since the start of our classes and the young prince hasn’t shown up yet. It isn’t like him to be late.”

Strange, Jeongin frowned. He was with Minho when they sent the prince to the library. Seungmin was there before his tutor arrived.

Did he escape?

“Did you alert the guards?”

“Yes, commander, they are looking for him as we speak-”

“There is a missing person in the palace?” Minho’s voice came from behind Jeongin and the scholar folded in a deep bow. “Mawlai.”

The king acknowledged him with a firm nod of his head. “Master Jaebum. Shouldn’t you be tutoring my son at this hour?”

“Na’am, my king. But Prince Seungmin seems to be missing.”

Missing? Minho inhaled to settle the fearful jitter that broke out in his heart. He couldn’t help but assume the worse. After all, he sat with the prince in the library before ordering his guards to stay back and following Jeongin to discuss their latest finds.

Master Jaebum offered weakly, “The weapon master claims to have seen him head to the library earlier today.”

Minho considered the information and nodded to the nearby guards. “Then we will start from there.” he regarded Seungmin’s tutor before adding, “You can find a place to rest now, Master Jaebum. Thank you for reporting this issue to us.”

“Shukran, mawlai.” the old scholar bowed lightly before wobbling away.

Wasting no time, Jeongin and the few guards followed their king as he hastened toward the royal library. Shouts of the young prince’s name ricocheted off the palace walls as they stalked forward. With each passing second, Minho felt as though the grip of worry that clasped his heart tightened.

Why did the library feel so far?

When they finally reached their destination, they found that a set of guards was already searching for the prince in the library. The group decided to split and inspect every room and study around the library.

Jeongin chose to leave the rooms closest to the library and head to the end of the hallway. There, he opened one door after the other, calling the young prince’s name and becoming more desperate as the minutes passed. He tried looking past furniture and confused staff, but to no avail.

The young prince was nowhere to be found.

Until he reached one of the spare studies. The door didn’t budge when he first pushed it. He assumed it was due to its age, so he tried again, using more force this time.

When the door remained shut, Jeongin’s suspicions spiked. No.

No, no, no! He pulled out his saif and lodged it inside the lock, twisting it to the side aggressively. The lock snapped and the door swung open.

Jeongin didn’t know what to expect behind the door, but what greeted him was far worse than anything he could’ve imagined.

•✵•

You only noticed the trembling of your fist when Minho placed a warm hand over it. It didn’t help, for his hand was tense despite his efforts to comfort you.

But how could you be comforted when your precious son lay unconscious on your bed? Severe trauma disfigured his body. His breaths, so shallow you’d mistake them for stillness. You didn’t want comfort. You wanted vengeance. Revenge. It was so beguiling and overwhelming it silenced the world around you.

You wanted to reach out, cradle your little prince’s face and cry the nightmare away, but you feared your touch would pain him. The Atiba’a and Sahara of the palace treated his wounds and healed his broken bones, though they could do nothing to awaken his slumbering mind. His body needed to rest, they advised. Still, at their best, evidence of the sickening attack painted the young prince’s soft skin with distressing hues.

This happened on palace grounds, and the mere thought of it sent a blinding flash of anger across your vision. Who could’ve dared? Who could’ve encompassed such cruelty?

It mattered not. This was a direct stab at your family, and you were going to wreak vengeance on the foolish soul that dared to lay a finger on Seungmin.

Next to you, Minho stood rigid for long before muttering something under his breath and turning toward the door. You caught his wrist, stopping him from walking any farther.

He didn’t resist, feeling as vulnerable as a leaf amid the fierce wind. His hand trembled, and you could only whisper with the little strength left in you, “Stay.”

You looked at him, taking in his bloodshot eyes and the grimness of his blank expression. He was ruined. You couldn’t begin to imagine his state when he saw his son in Jeongin’s arms, battered and bruised, bloodied and broken.

Minho promised nothing would befall him. You underestimated the threat, and you were paying for it dearly.

You didn’t break eye contact. “He needs you.”

Minho took in a shaky breath. “I need to find who did this-”

“He missed you.”

Something melted in Minho’s gaze. Warmth, perhaps. It encouraged you to speak louder. “Every day and every night of those weeks, he would ask about you. He couldn’t wait to see you again. You can’t leave him now.

“He needs you. He needs your protection. He needs you beside him.”

When your voice shook and faltered to a stop, Minho looked away. He hated how weak he felt. He was a King, honored by the stars and heavens above, yet he felt like a boat at the mercy of a storm. Helpless, doomed.

He didn’t want you to see him in that broken state, but when you tugged at his arm to face you, his feet carried him to your embrace. It was as if his body knew more than his stubborn mind led him to believe. That even if he shattered to pieces, you’ll hold him together.

Always.

•✵•

“Mawlati, please, have a drink,” the maid that entered your study said. She balanced some cups and pot of a steaming herbal concoction on a thin bronze tray as she stepped towards your desk carefully.

You made it clear that you didn’t want food nor drink. You hadn’t the heart for it, not when a near-killer was roaming the palace.

You didn’t look up from your papers when you answered her, “Rena, I recall telling you I didn’t want food. Or drink.”

“Please. Mawlati, you have been in your study for the entire day,” she insisted, a strange air of nervousness around her. It was true. You locked yourself with your work ever since leaving Seungmin’s bedside. There was more work to be done, bigger investigations to be carried. You were reasonably busy.

Jeongin, who was reviewing reports from your spies around the kingdom, spoke to the young lady in a calm, yet firm manner. “You heard the queen. Please, don’t bother us further-”

“Actually,” you stifled a yawn. Perhaps it was time for a refreshment, “I might need a cup of tea”.

“N-Na’am, mawlati.” the maid hurried to place the tray on your desk and pour a cup of the steaming drink with shaky hands. You raised a brow when she set the cup on the table hastily. Her behavior was strange, to say the least. It was unlike your servants to be afraid of you.

Shrugging it off, you reached for the cup and raised it to your lips. A mere moment before you tipped its contents into your mouth, you caught a whiff of the drink. So faint you could’ve easily missed it. It wasn’t floral or earthy as you’d expected. It was rather acrid.

With a frown, you set the cup down and picked up a bronze spoon to stir its contents. There was nothing odd about the drink. It was a clear liquid, several herbs floated in it. But the smell...you couldn’t pinpoint its cause.

Until you recalled your maid’s strange behavior.

“Rena.” her lowered head snapped up when you called her name, and you didn’t miss the way she fidgeted with her hands. You set the spoon down, watching as droplets of the liquid touched the wood of your desk and discolored it. When you looked back up, Rena’s eyes glassed over with fear. “Pour me another cup, will you?”

She obliged wordlessly, and when she set the cup down, you mustered a weak smile. “Drink it.”

The maid hesitated. “Mawlati, I can’t-”

“I’m ordering you to drink what you’ve graciously brought for me,” you interrupted. This time, the smile was gone. There was something wrong with the drink, that would explain her nervousness.

She remained still and you stood, clutching your cup. “Now, Rena.”

Nothing happened. Then the maid reached for the lone cup with a stiff hand. She lifted it slowly, and you watched intently as she placed it against her lips. She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself, before dropping to her knees along with the cup. “I’m sorry, Your Highness!”

“I knew it,” you muttered. Sudden anger coursed like fire in your veins and you flung the cup to the side, hearing it clang against the wall as its contents splattered the floor. “Poison!”

Someone was trying to poison you.

Jeongin sprung to movement, unsheathing his saif and pressing it to the maid’s back as he demanded, “Who gave you the poison?”

She didn’t answer him, her pleas for mercy and forgiveness muffled by her sobs against the floor. You could only watch in apathy. There was no empathy in your heart for her.

Guards had barged into the study then, having heard the commotion. They circled the room, shouting orders at each other and alerting their fellow guards of the incident.

Alas, the maid’s cries went unanswered and Jeongin pressed his sword harder. “Who gave you the poison?”

She broke under the pressure, shouting, “It was the Minister of Coin! He promised me great riches. Please forgive me, Mawlati!”

Your blood ran cold. The Minister of Coin? But why would he-

“Commander Jeongin!” a voice tore through the clamor of the guards dragging the maid away. Jeongin’s eyes found the man calling for him. It was a guard, and he seemed a little out of breath. “Yes?”

“Sir,” the guard stopped before him and bowed lightly. His next words sent your mind into a flurry of confusion and fear. “The Minister of Coin has been found dead.”

“Dead?” Jeongin’s expression darkened. Wasn’t he the person who tried to poison you? “How?”

“Stabbed and left to bleed in the palace garden,” the guard informed him. “That is not all, sir.”

Jeongin was familiar with life in the palace. People came and went, times changed, loyalties flickered. But the influx of new, contradictory information left him rather lost. Dejected. For a moment there, he thought they’d finally caught the traitor conspiring against the royal family, only for his discovery to be crushed by the guard’s news.

He was lost in thought when he answered, “Say it.”

“The Minister of Trade is nowhere to be found.”

•✵•

It didn’t make sense.

The Minister of Coin was a kind, frail man. Perhaps old enough to be your father. He greeted you warmly when you first arrived in Darilmalek, and as far as you could recall, he’d never shown any hostility towards you, or Minho, or Seungmin.

And yet, Rena said he was the one who gave her the poison.

And he was dead.

The evidence was not aligning in a way that made sense.

A loud knock interrupted your train of thought and you answered, “Come in.”

“Commander.” a guard poked his head into the room, prompting Jeongin to step toward the door and meet him. “Yes?”

You couldn’t quite hear what was shared between them, but it was a few moments before the guard left and Jeongin strode toward your desk, urgency stiffening his legs. An unreadable expression illuminated his sharp features when he spoke, voice gentle. “Y/n, Seungmin is awake.”

•✵•

You didn’t remember running across the palace before, but there you were, unbothered by the stares of the staff as you rushed to the royal chambers.

The guards made way for you when you burst through the room, barely catching your breath.

There he was.

There sat your little prince, tucked under his father’s arm. He called for you, voice weak yet joyful, and your vision blurred. Your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of your relief and the pure, rampant happiness pumping out of your heart.

It felt like forever until you finally held him in your arms, the kisses you pressed against his hair blending with the salt of your tears.

And it would be forever until you let go.

•✵•

The end of your misery was finally within your grasp. You felt it in the songs of the wind as your gaze burned through the traitor kneeling before you.

The Minister of Trade.

Seungmin said that he was the one to physically assault him on that fateful morning. That, on its own, was a crime punishable by death and in an instant, troops were sent to scavenge the land for the shamed minister.

They found him hiding as a humble farmer in the city of Arba, where it all began. At first, he fought being brought to the palace and denied his involvement in any treasonable activities. It wasn’t long before the truth came to light, under the pain of a whip and the darkness of a dungeon.

This was where his crimes ended, condemned by the law, vulnerable to the eyes of the public and the Aliha that watched from above. This was where your torment ended.

Minho placed an encouraging hand over yours. It was time to begin the trial.

You cleared your throat and announced, “Minister Jihoon of the Trade sector, you are facing several charges for treason and conspiracy against the Darilmalekan crown and its court.”

Whispers exploded among the people upon hearing your words. The minister’s head hung low under the scathing sun, weakened or ashamed. It mattered not to you. His head should hang low.

“You have devised assassinations on the King and the Queen of Darilmalek, and you have executed a physical attack on the crown prince. You have inflicted internal and external injury on a child.”

The crowd roared with anger. Treason was a crime on its own, but it was a moral violation to assault a child. You didn’t raise a hand to calm the people when a few stones flew at the minister. The pain would never compare to what he’d put your son through.

“Furthermore,” your voice rose above the clamor, “you have blackmailed the Minister of Coin into becoming a vessel in your plans then carried out his murder in fear of being exposed.

“What do you plead?” your tone was stone against ice, and the minister remained silent.

“Well enough. Your crimes are unforgivable violations of the laws of our land and as such,” you paused, letting the winds carry your verdict in their song, “you will pay your price in blood.”

If you have read this far then you are contractually obligated to tell me your thoughts! Well, not really, but do drop by sometime! Thank you for reading and I hope you have a marvelous day! ♡

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