The mirror of the stream didn't lie.
After three months in the forest, my reflection had become that of a wild thing. My hair hung in tangles beneath my veil, my skin bore the marks of thorns and weather, and my clothes—what remained of them—were patched and stained beyond recognition.
But it was the smell that finally drove me to action.
"Astaghfirullah," I muttered, catching a whiff of myself as I bent to wash in the stream. "Even you're starting to avoid me, aren't you, Malik?"
My faithful companion lifted his head from his grazing, water still dripping from his muzzle. He had the decency to look innocent, but I'd noticed him standing downwind of me lately.
"Don't deny it," I said, scrubbing at my arms with coarse sand. "I need proper soap. And a real razor for this pathetic excuse for a hunting knife. And..." I paused, considering the growing list of necessities. "And things that only a marketplace can provide."
The thought terrified me. After months of solitude, the idea of facing other people, of navigating conversations and transactions, felt overwhelming. But my crude stone tools were barely adequate for hunting, and my attempts at making soap from ash and animal fat had been disastrous.
"Three hours' ride to the east," I told Malik as I prepared for the journey. "That should put us well beyond the Second Prince's territory. Inshallah, we'll find what we need and return before nightfall."
The marketplace materialized from the desert like a mirage given form.
Tents and stalls stretched across a natural basin between two hills, their colorful awnings snapping in the wind. The air hummed with voices—haggling, laughing, calling out wares. The scent of spices, roasted meat, and humanity itself wafted toward us on the breeze.
But it was the women that caught my attention first.
I had thought my own veiling was modest, but these women moved like walking shadows. Black fabric covered them from head to toe, leaving only a narrow slit for their eyes. They glided between the stalls like ghosts, their ages, their faces, their very humanity hidden beneath layers of cloth.
"Subhan Allah," I whispered, adjusting my own veil self-consciously. Here, I would blend in perfectly. Here, I was just another anonymous figure in a sea of anonymity.
I left Malik at the edge of the marketplace, tethered in the shade of a lonely palm tree. "Stay here, habibi," I murmured, pressing my forehead to his neck. "If anyone asks, you belong to no one. You're just a horse who chose to rest here."
He whickered softly, understanding as always.
The market was a labyrinth of smells and sounds that made my head spin after months of forest silence. Vendors called out their wares in voices that competed with the braying of donkeys and the bleating of goats. The press of bodies around me felt suffocating, claustrophobic.
I found what I was looking for in a small stall tucked between a spice merchant and a seller of copper pots. The elderly shopkeeper had kind eyes and weathered hands, and his display of knives, razors, and metal tools made my heart skip with relief.
"Ahlan wa sahlan," he greeted me warmly. "Welcome, daughter. How may I serve you?"
"I need a good knife," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Something sharp. Strong."
He nodded, reaching for a blade with a carved bone handle. "This one serves well. Good steel, good balance. Feel the weight."
The knife was perfect—sharp, well-made, affordable. But as I reached for my coin purse, my sleeve slipped back, revealing the faded but unmistakable mark on my wrist.
The brand of the royal household. The mark of a slave sold to the king.
I yanked my sleeve down quickly, but not quickly enough. A low, rich voice spoke from behind me.
"That's exquisite craftsmanship, Uncle. The Damascus steel?"
I turned, and my breath caught.
The man examining a curved blade at the next display was undeniably handsome. Tall and lean with the fluid grace of a predator, he moved with an economy of motion that spoke of deadly training. Dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, catching the light like polished obsidian. His skin was the warm bronze of someone who spent time in the sun, and when he glanced up, his eyes were the color of the night dessert—dark brown shot through with gold.
There was an intensity about him, a barely contained energy that seemed to shift the very air around him. He wore simple merchant's clothes, but they couldn't disguise the powerful lines of his shoulders or the way his presence seemed to command attention without effort.
"Ah, Noah!" Uncle beamed. "Yes, yes, the finest steel from the northern smiths. Feel how it holds an edge."
Noah. The name suited him—strong, memorable, rolling off the tongue like honey.
He tested the blade's balance with practiced ease, his hands moving with the confidence of someone well-acquainted with weapons. Long fingers, callused from swordwork, handled the steel with obvious respect.
"You have excellent taste," he said, and it took me a moment to realize he was addressing me. His voice was smooth, cultured—the kind of voice that suggested education and refinement.
"Thank you," I replied simply.
Those dark eyes studied me with obvious interest. Not the crude assessment of the men who had pursued me, but something more thoughtful—intelligent, perceptive, genuinely curious.
"You're not from the village," he observed, his gaze lingering on my face with an appreciation that made my heart race.
"No."
"Traveling alone?"
"That's not your concern."
Instead of taking offense, he smiled—a slow, devastating expression that transformed his already handsome features into something that could make angels weep. "Perhaps not. But a woman traveling alone in these lands..." He paused, his gaze assessing but not unkind. "It can be dangerous."
I bristled slightly at the assumption. "I can take care of myself."
"I don't doubt it." His smile was practiced but not unpleasant as he looked at the knife in my hand. "But even capable people benefit from knowing the local... complications."
Before I could respond to that intriguing statement, a commotion erupted near the cloth merchant's stall. Raised voices, the sound of fabric tearing, a woman's cry of distress.
The transformation was immediate and striking. The casual merchant's son vanished, replaced by something harder, more focused. Noah's entire posture shifted, muscles tensing with obvious readiness, his hand moving instinctively toward his blade.
"Stay here," he said, his voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
I should have listened. Should have completed my transaction and left. But curiosity—and perhaps concern for the woman in distress—made me follow at a cautious distance.
Three men had cornered a young woman near the fabric stall. Her veil had been torn, revealing a face streaked with tears and terror. They were laughing, making crude comments about her appearance, their hands reaching for her despite her obvious distress.
"Please," she was saying, "I've done nothing wrong. I just wanted to buy cloth for my sister's wedding—"
"Pretty little thing," one of the men leered. "Why don't you show us what else you're hiding under all that fabric?"
Noah appeared behind them with silent precision, and I noticed how the quality of his stillness had changed—alert, dangerous.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying a quiet authority that made all three men turn. "I think the lady has made her feelings clear."
The largest of the three, a man with scarred knuckles and the look of someone who settled disputes with violence, sneered. "This isn't your business, boy. Move along."
Noah's smile was beautiful and terrifying. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
"Or what?" The scarred man stepped closer, his companions flanking him. "You'll make us leave?"
"If necessary."
What happened next was impressive to watch. The scarred man reached for Noah, confident in his size advantage. Noah moved with fluid efficiency, redirecting the man's momentum and sending him sprawling into a nearby stall with minimal effort. The second attacker came at him with a knife, but Noah's blade was already in his hand, deflecting the strike and opening a shallow cut across the man's arm in one smooth motion.
The display of skill was undeniable—this was someone with serious training.
The third man, seeing his companions dealt with so efficiently, raised his hands and backed away. "We were just having fun," he mumbled. "No harm meant."
"Then I suggest you find a different kind of fun," Noah said, his voice deadly calm but somehow still musical. "Somewhere far from here."
The three men gathered themselves and fled, muttering threats and curses. Noah sheathed his blade with the same efficiency he'd drawn it, then turned to the young woman with obvious concern.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice gentling.
"No, no, I'm... thank you. Thank you so much." She clutched her torn veil, trying to restore some modesty. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't..."
"You're safe now," he assured her. "Do you have someone who can escort you home?"
"My brother is in the next village. I came with the grain merchant, but he's not leaving until sunset."
Noah nodded, then gestured to an older woman who'd been watching from a nearby stall. "Umm Fatima, could you look after this sister until her escort arrives?"
The woman nodded immediately, coming forward to wrap the girl in a protective embrace. "Of course, of course. Come, child. Let's get you some tea and fix that veil."
As they led the girl away, I found myself reassessing the man beside me. The way he'd moved, the automatic deference of the other merchants, the quiet authority in his voice—this was clearly not a simple shopkeeper's son.
He turned back to me, and I saw something different in his expression now. Less of the polished merchant's charm, more genuine interest.
"You didn't have to do that," I said.
"Yes, I did." He cleaned his blade on a cloth before sheathing it, and even this simple action was graceful. "Some things are worth fighting for."
"Such as?"
"The right to move through the world without fear. The right to be treated with basic human dignity." His eyes met mine steadily. "The right to exist without being hunted."
The last words gave me pause. There was something in his tone, in the way he looked at me, that suggested personal experience with being pursued.
"You speak from experience," I said.
"Don't we all?" He gestured toward the weapons stall, and I caught a glimpse of old scars on his forearm—thin white lines that spoke of battles fought and survived. "Shall we complete your transaction? I imagine you have places to be."
I nodded, following him back to old Rashid's stall. But as I paid for my knife and gathered my other purchases, I remained aware of his presence. The way he carried himself, the respectful distance he maintained, the alert way he scanned the crowd—all of it suggested someone accustomed to potential danger.
"Will you be returning to the marketplace?" he asked as I prepared to leave.
"Perhaps. Why?"
"Because if you do, and if you find yourself in need of assistance, I'm usually here on market days." He paused thoughtfully. "Or perhaps you might simply wish for conversation with someone."
There was something in his tone that made me pause. Not seduction, but genuine curiosity about who I might be.
Instead, I found myself asking, "Market days, you said?"
"Every seven days. I'll be here." He studied my face for a moment.
As I walked away, I could feel his gaze following me until I disappeared into the crowd. Only when I reached Malik did I allow myself to think about what had just occurred.
A man had defended another woman without hesitation. Had offered assistance without obvious expectation of payment. Had looked at my slave brand with something that might have been recognition rather than judgment.
And he had spoken to me as an equal—not as a marked woman or a potential conquest, but as someone whose thoughts and stories might be worth knowing.
"That was unexpected," I told my companion as we began the journey home. "A merchant's son who fights like a trained warrior and speaks like he's seen more of the world than most."
Malik snorted, as if to say that humans were endlessly complicated creatures.
"You're right, habibi. But I find myself curious about this Noah. There was something about him..." I considered what exactly had caught my attention. "Something that suggested he understands something I don't."