[AMAL POV]
Two weeks passed before I returned to the marketplace. Two weeks of telling myself I needed supplies, that my visit had nothing to do with storm-gray eyes and the memory of a man who'd fought for a stranger's honor.
The lie became harder to maintain when I found myself choosing my cleanest robe, washing my hair with extra care, ensuring my veil was properly arranged. These were not the actions of a woman simply seeking soap and grain.
But I went anyway.
The marketplace buzzed with its usual chaos, but I found myself scanning the crowd for a familiar figure. He wasn't at the weapons stall where I'd first seen him, nor among the clusters of men discussing trade and politics.
Disappointment settled in my chest like a stone.
I was examining fabric at a merchant's stall when I heard his voice behind me.
"The blue brings out your eyes."
I turned to find Noah standing a respectful distance away, his expression unreadable. Today he wore a simple brown robe, but it was well-made, and he carried himself with that same unconscious authority I'd noticed before.
"You can't see my eyes," I pointed out.
"Can't I?" His smile was slight, mysterious. "I remember them from our last encounter. Very expressive."
Heat rose in my cheeks. "I'm not here to buy fabric."
"No?" He gestured toward the bolt of blue silk in my hands. "Then why are you caressing it like a lover?"
I dropped the fabric as if burned. "I was merely... examining the quality."
"Of course." His tone was solemn, but I caught the hint of amusement in his eyes. "And your professional assessment?"
"It's... adequate."
"Adequate." He picked up the fabric, letting it flow through his fingers. "Such high praise. I'm sure the merchant is thrilled."
Despite myself, I found my lips twitching. "Are you mocking me?"
"I wouldn't dare. I'm simply observing that you seem to have very particular standards for... adequacy."
"There's nothing wrong with having standards."
"Nothing at all. In fact, I find it admirable." He folded the fabric carefully and handed it back to me. "A woman should know her worth."
The words caught me off guard. Not the sentiment itself, but the way he said it—with genuine conviction, as if he truly believed it.
"You speak strangely for a merchant's son."
"Do I?" He tilted his head, studying me with those penetrating eyes. "How should I speak?"
"Less... freely. Most men don't discuss women's worth unless they're calculating a bride price."
"I'm not most men."
"No," I agreed, studying his face. "You're not."
We stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the marketplace noise fading around us. Then he gestured toward a nearby tea stall.
"Would you join me? I find myself curious about your assessment of their brewing standards."
I knew I should refuse. Should complete my shopping and return to the forest. But something about his invitation—casual, respectful, with no underlying demand—made me nod.
"For a moment. I have business to attend to."
"Of course."
The tea merchant, a round man with kind eyes, greeted Noah with obvious familiarity. "Ahlan, my friend! The usual?"
"Two glasses of your finest, Abu Mahmoud. And perhaps some of those honey cakes your wife makes."
"Certainly, certainly." The man busied himself with preparation, chatting about weather and trade while Noah and I found seats at a small table.
"You're known here," I observed.
"I visit frequently. Trade requires relationships, and relationships require time."
"What do you trade?"
He was quiet for a moment, considering his answer. "Information, mostly. I help people find what they need, connect those who have with those who want."
"A broker."
"Of sorts."
The tea arrived, steaming and fragrant. I lifted my veil just enough to sip, conscious of Noah's eyes on me. But when I glanced at him, he was looking out at the marketplace, giving me privacy.
"The honey cakes are excellent," he said after a moment. "Abu Mahmoud's wife has a gift."
I tried one, surprised by the delicate sweetness. "They are... adequate."
His laugh was genuine, transforming his entire face. "I'm beginning to think 'adequate' is your highest praise."
"It's not my fault if most things fail to exceed basic expectations."
"And what would exceed your expectations?"
The question was casual, but something in his tone made me look at him more carefully. There was an intensity in his gaze, as if my answer mattered more than idle conversation warranted.
"I don't know," I admitted. "It's been so long since anything surprised me."
"That's a tragedy."
"It's survival."
"Perhaps they're the same thing, in your experience."
I set down my tea glass, studying him. "You speak as if you understand."
"Understand what?"
"What it means to live with... limited expectations."
He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I understand that sometimes survival requires us to expect the worst from people. To protect ourselves from disappointment."
"And pain."
"And pain," he agreed. "But I also think that when we expect nothing, we often receive exactly that."
"Better than being disappointed."
"Is it?" He leaned forward slightly. "What if, by expecting nothing, we miss the moments when life offers us something beautiful?"
"Beautiful things are usually traps."
"Always?"
I thought of the handful of genuine kindnesses I'd received in my life—rare, unexpected, and ultimately overshadowed by betrayal. "Often enough."
"That's a sad way to live."
"It's the only way I know how to live."
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of what might have been pain. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"That the world has taught you to expect so little beauty from it."
His words hit me unexpectedly, creating a warmth in my chest that I wasn't sure how to interpret. I looked away, uncomfortable with the earnestness in his voice.
"You don't know me well enough to be sorry for anything."
"Perhaps not. But I know enough to recognize strength when I see it."
"Strength?"
"You survived whatever branded you. You've learned to live alone, to provide for yourself, to navigate a world that seems determined to diminish you." He paused. "That's not just survival. That's courage."
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. When had anyone—ever—called me courageous?
"I should go," I said finally.
"Of course." He stood as I did, ever the gentleman. "Will you... would you be returning to the marketplace?"
"Perhaps. Why?"
"Because I find myself hoping you will."
The admission hung between us like a bridge I wasn't sure I was ready to cross. Part of me wanted to ask why, to understand what he saw in a scarred, marked woman who lived in the forest like a wild thing. But the larger part of me was terrified of the answer.
"We'll see," I said instead.
As I walked away, I felt his eyes on me until I was swallowed by the crowd. And for the entire ride home, I couldn't shake the memory of his words—or the way he'd said them, as if he truly believed them.
That night, as I sat by my fire listening to the forest sounds, I found myself thinking about beauty and expectations. About the difference between surviving and living.
And about storm-gray eyes that looked at me as if I were something precious rather than broken.
The third week brought rain, heavy and persistent, that turned the forest paths to mud and made travel treacherous. I told myself this was why I hadn't returned to the marketplace—practical concerns, nothing more.
But when the sun finally broke through the clouds, I found myself preparing for another visit with more care than any simple shopping trip warranted.
The marketplace was busier than usual, vendors and customers alike making up for the days lost to rain. I navigated the crowded aisles with practiced ease, gathering necessary supplies while keeping half an eye out for a familiar figure.
I found him at the poetry corner, a small amphitheater where traveling bards and local scholars gathered to share verses. He was listening to an elderly man recite classical poetry, his attention focused and genuine.
Something about seeing him there, appreciating art for its own sake, made my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't name.
When the recitation ended, he applauded with the rest of the small crowd. Then, as if sensing my presence, he turned and met my eyes across the space.
His smile was warm, welcoming, and it made something flutter in my stomach.
"Sister," he said, approaching with that fluid grace I'd come to recognize. "I was beginning to think the rain had washed you away."
"I don't dissolve so easily."
"No, I imagine you don't." He gestured toward the departing poet. "Do you enjoy poetry?"
"I..." I paused, unsure how to answer. It had been years since I'd had the luxury of enjoying anything purely for pleasure. "I used to."
"Would you... would you like to hear something?"
"You write poetry?"
"Occasionally. When inspiration strikes."
I wanted to refuse, to maintain the safe distance I'd carefully constructed. But something in his expression—hopeful, almost vulnerable—made me nod.
He cleared his throat, suddenly looking younger, less sure of himself. When he spoke, his voice was soft, meant for my ears alone:
"Behind the veil of fabric and shadow,Eyes like stars in the desert night,Speaking truths that daylight cannot bear,Beauty that needs no light to shine bright.
The market sees only cloth and commerce,But I see grace in how you move,Strength in the line of your shoulders,Mystery in what you choose to prove.
You are not what they would make you,Not the mark upon your skin,But something wild and free and precious,A treasure hidden within."
The words hit me like physical blows, each line finding some hidden part of me I'd thought long dead. I stood frozen, unable to speak, unable to breathe, as his soft voice painted pictures of a woman I didn't recognize—a woman who was beautiful, worthy, precious.
"I..." I started, then stopped. What could I say? That his words had just undone months of careful emotional armor? That hearing myself described as treasure rather than property had made me want to weep?
"It's terrible," I managed finally.
His face fell slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend—"
"No, it's..." I took a shaky breath. what am i saying? "It's terrible because it's beautiful. And I don't know how to be beautiful."
"You don't have to know," he said gently. "You just have to be."
Before I could respond, he was moving away, leaving me standing in the poetry corner with my heart racing and my carefully constructed defenses in ruins.
I should have left then. Should have returned to the forest and the safety of solitude. Instead, I found myself following him through the marketplace, staying at a distance but unable to look away.
That's when I saw him talking to the flower seller.
An old woman with weathered hands and a kind smile, she ran a small stall filled with roses, jasmine, and other blooms. Noah was speaking to her in low tones, gesturing occasionally, his expression serious.
Then he was walking toward me, carrying a single perfect rose, its petals the color of sunset.
"For you," he said simply, holding it out.
I stared at the flower as if it were a snake. "I can't accept that."
"Because..." I glanced around, noting the curious stares of other shoppers. "Because people will talk. They'll think..."
"They'll think what?"
"That I'm a woman who accepts gifts from men. That I'm..." I lowered my voice. "That I'm available for certain transactions."
His expression darkened. "Anyone who would think that about a woman receiving a flower is not worth your concern."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to live with the consequences."
"Then we'll give them something else to talk about."
Before I could ask what he meant, I saw him glance toward the crowd, and something in his expression—a determination that bordered on recklessness—made my stomach drop.
"No," I said sharply, stepping back. "Whatever you're thinking, don't."
He paused, the rose still extended between us, his eyes searching my face. "I only wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." I kept my voice low but firm. "And I'm telling you no. I don't accept flowers from men, no matter their intentions. No matter how... kindly meant."
The hurt that flashed across his features was genuine, and for a moment I almost wavered. But I'd learned long ago that kindness could be more dangerous than cruelty—it made you hope, made you forget the world's true nature.
"I understand," he said quietly, lowering the rose. "I apologize if I overstepped."
"You did."
He nodded, accepting the rebuke with more grace than I'd expected. "I won't make the same mistake again."
The words should have brought relief. Instead, they felt like a door closing, and I hated that some part of me mourned the sound.
"Good," I said, and turned away.
I left the marketplace without looking back, my purchases forgotten, my carefully maintained composure cracking with each step. Behind me, I imagined I could feel his eyes watching my retreat, but I didn't turn to confirm it.
Three days had passed since the marketplace incident, and I'd convinced myself I was grateful for the solitude. The morning mist clung to the ancient oaks as I led Malik through the winding paths toward the stream.
His coat gleamed like polished obsidian in the dappled sunlight, and his steps were sure despite the treacherous terrain.
We were approaching the clearing where I often let him graze when I heard it—a low, pained groan that made my blood freeze.
Human voices in my forest. Impossible.
I pressed myself against a broad oak trunk, my heart hammering as I strained to listen. The sound came again, weaker this time, filled with an agony that spoke of serious injury.
Every instinct screamed at me to flee, to take Malik and disappear deeper into the woods. But something about that voice, something familiar in its cadence, made me hesitate.
Moving with the silent grace I'd learned from years of survival, I secured Malik to a low branch and crept toward the source of the sound. Through the undergrowth, I could see a figure slumped against a fallen log, dark hair matted with blood, expensive fabric torn and stained.
My breath caught.
Noah.