Night had fallen over the desert like a thick velvet curtain. The sky, vast and infinite, was draped in a coat of stars, and the surrounding silence gave it a sacred aura.
Nahia advanced slowly in the darkness, guided by an ancient memory. Each step of her mount seemed to bring her closer to a past she had never truly left behind.
In the distance, a familiar silhouette appeared.
The oasis.
Her heart clenched at the sight. She gently pulled the reins, stopped, and let her gaze absorb the landscape. The rustling of palm trees, the gentle splash of water... everything seemed just as she had left it a few months earlier.
And yet, she had changed.
How many nights had she fled silently here, just to breathe? How many times had she hummed that old lullaby, her gaze lost on the water, like a talisman against the pain?
She remembered her fingers sliding through her long dark hair, heavy, as if clinging to a simple, essential gesture that kept her from sinking.
She dismounted, gently touched her horse's neck.
— We'll rest a bit… It's almost over, she murmured.
She tied the horse to a palm tree and let it drink freely, then turned around. Eyes closed, she let the memories wash over her.
She slowly removed her veil, then her djellaba, revealing a thin, light dress. Her hair, so long it brushed her knees, fell like a black cascade over her golden skin.
Without a word, she slid into the cool water of the oasis.
It was a release.
The water enveloped her, carried her, washed away an invisible weight. For the first time in weeks, she breathed deeply. Her shoulders relaxed. Her face softened. She wanted to hold on to every sensation, to imprint in herself the peace this place offered her.
May this place, silent witness to so much sorrow, also keep the mark of her reclaimed serenity.
Hours passed.
When she finally emerged from the water, the night breeze caressed her skin with an almost maternal softness. She knelt by her bag, packed away her damp djellaba and veil. Tonight, she didn't want to wear anything anymore.
No weight. No modesty. No past.
She climbed back onto her mount.
The moon lit her path. Barely a few kilometers ahead, she spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance.
The tent.
Her sanctuary.
But something immediately unsettled her.
The tent was no longer the same. It had gained height, strength. The thick cloths were neatly stretched. A soft, golden light filtered from inside.
Strange. Unexpected.
She hesitated.
Her first instinct was to turn back, to sleep under the stars and leave at dawn. But her gaze met her horse's. The fatigue in her legs. The burn in her throat…
She no longer had the strength.
She dismounted, gently pushed the entrance fabric. Ready to apologize. To ask, if necessary, for just a corner of floor to sleep.
But inside… no one.
The tent was empty. Yet everything suggested it was inhabited. Velvet cushions. A canopy bed. A carefully set table. The place was clean, orderly. Almost luxurious.
— Who lives here? she whispered, lost.
She called out. No response.
Drawn into a strange dream, she stepped in. Tied her hair with a ribbon. Then sat.
Before her: fresh dates, bread, cheese, milk. She hadn't eaten since dawn.
She helped herself.
But just as she brought a bite to her lips, a deep, dark voice echoed behind her:
— I hope you have an excellent reason for helping yourself without permission, madam.
She froze. Every muscle tensed. That voice… That voice was not unfamiliar.
No.
Impossible.
The voice came again, closer:
— Turn around, madam. I like to see the faces of those I speak to.
Heart pounding, she slowly turned her head, then her body. And when her eyes met the man standing before her, she felt the ground vanish beneath her feet.
It was him.
The Sheikh.
She remained frozen. A shiver. A breach in time.
He stood there, a few steps away. Even more imposing under the tent's dim light. Dressed in a dark, elegant tunic she had never forgotten. His eyes, still piercing, stared at her intensely.
But there was no anger. No reproach. Only astonishment. And perhaps… a hint of emotion.
— You… she breathed.
Her throat tightened. Her hand still trembled, suspended in the air, a piece of bread between her fingers.
A heavy silence fell.
Nahia, still seated, kept her hands on her knees. Assad, standing, watched her silently. Shadows danced around them, cast by the flickering oil lamp.
Finally, he broke the silence. His voice was softer than she expected:
— We haven't seen each other face-to-face in a long time…
She looked up, surprised.
— Since you asked to change posts, he added. I'd see you pass sometimes. I pretended not to see. And you… you fled every time you saw me.
She looked away, troubled. She hadn't expected this lucidity. Nor this confession.
— I came to visit my uncle. He lives in a small village, not far from here, she said, trying to change the subject.
She wanted to escape the tension. But the mention of that man made Assad stiffen. He clenched his fists involuntarily.
Nahia noticed.
— What is it? she asked.
He looked away, jaw tight.
— Amira told me about him. About his wife. What she did to you… and your sister. And about his silence.
Nahia's breath caught in her chest. She didn't answer. The memories surged, bitter and brutal.
— I wish you had told me, Assad murmured. Even if you had no reason to. Even if I was nothing. I just… I just wanted to listen. So you wouldn't carry it all alone.
She lowered her head. It wasn't the time. Maybe it never would be. Yet those words… they felt like a hand reaching out. Late, but welcome.
Silence again.
Then she stood up suddenly. She wanted to leave. To escape the tent. This tension.
— I'll go. I didn't know this was your tent.
But in her haste, she forgot her attire. Her white dress, still wet, clung to her skin. Her headband slipped. Her hair spilled out, a shiny black cascade down to her thighs.
Assad froze. He didn't look away.
— By Allah… he whispered, almost breathless.
Nahia, startled, followed his gaze. And understood.
Shame rose in her, violent. She looked around for her bag. Nowhere to be seen. She tried to move away. But Assad was already at the entrance. Motionless.
— Your Highness, let me pass, she said, trembling, arms crossed over her chest, trying to gather her hair to cover herself.
He didn't answer. His gaze locked on hers. Not even blinking.
She stepped forward, tried to go around him. But just as she brushed his shoulder, he reached out and gently closed the tent flap behind her.
She turned quickly.
— Your Highness…
He said nothing. His throat tightened with each breath. He was struggling.
Against himself. Against that old fire.
That fire he had felt growing for months.
She was there. Beautiful. Fragile. Shattering.
And he had never been able to resist her.
Not just her beauty. But that strength intertwined with pain. That light she carried, despite everything.
She stepped back.
But he gently grabbed her wrist. A slow, almost hesitant gesture.
— Nahia…
She closed her eyes. Hearing her name like that… made her falter.
— I can't take it anymore, Nahia… So stop me. Tell me not to do it, he murmured.
But she said nothing.
She stood there, facing him. Breath short. Trembling.
He stepped closer. Slowly. Placed his fingers on her cheek, as if afraid she might vanish.
The touch of his palm was both a burn and a caress.
Nahia didn't move. Heart in her throat, she looked at Assad, unable to flee, unable to speak. Only her breathing betrayed the storm within.
He said nothing.
His eyes, dark and shining, searched hers for a truth she couldn't give him.
Then, slowly, he lowered his hand.
He wanted to contain himself. He had to. But he couldn't anymore.
Not tonight.
Not with her, so close, so bare.
Without another word, he pulled her to him.
The kiss wasn't rough. Nor wild.
It was long. Slow. Laden with restrained pain. With desires long suppressed. With a longing no words had ever dared name.
His lips sought hers like a promise of what they had never had but always wanted.
She answered. Because she was done resisting.
Everything was new. Yet everything felt strangely right.
As if their skins had waited for this touch.
As if, without ever knowing each other, their hearts had always understood.
He carried her to the cushions, laid her down with infinite gentleness.
She closed her eyes, let herself go.
Everything she had held in for so long was finally breaking free.
The night was long. Silent.
No words.
Just breaths.
Gestures.
Inaudible murmurs on skin.
When the pale light of dawn began to slip under the canvas, Nahia was still curled up against him.
Her face buried in his neck. Her breath calm. Her hand on his chest.
Assad hadn't slept.
He watched her.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But for the first time in years, he felt like he belonged.
With her.