"Please… my Sultan, I beg you!" The man's voice trembled, cracking against the vast silence of the court. "I beg you… marry my daughter!"
The courtiers gasped. Whispers ricocheted off the marble walls like startled birds. A commoner, standing before the Sultan, daring to speak of marriage—boldness bordering on insolence.
"Father, step back," a minister hissed, tugging at the man's sleeve. "Do you not see the Sultan is in audience? Do you not know your place?"
"I… I know my place, but my daughter—my poor, sweet daughter…" The man's knees threatened to buckle under the weight of desperation. "She is alone. She has no dowry. She works day and night just to keep us fed, and I fear…" His voice faltered. "I fear she will fall into the hands of men who… who have no honor."
Another courtier sneered. "Have you lost your senses, old man? Do you not see that this is the Sultan's court? You dare speak of your daughter to him?"
The man's eyes shot to the Sultan. There he sat, regal and unyielding, draped in gold and silk, every inch the ruler of a kingdom. And yet… the Sultan's dark eyes were fixed on him, unreadable, measuring, waiting.
"My daughter," the man continued, voice shaking but gaining courage, "she is pure. She is good. And I… I fear for her. I beg of you, great Sultan, take her as your bride. Protect her… keep her safe from those who would take advantage of her because we are poor. Because she is… because she is me."
The court erupted. Gasps, murmurs, sharp hisses of disapproval. "How dare he!" one woman exclaimed, clutching her jeweled necklace. "A commoner, standing before the Sultan, daring to ask for his hand for a daughter of no rank!"
"Silence!" the minister thundered. "Do you not see the audacity? The impertinence? Step back, old man, before–"
The Sultan raised a hand. The entire court fell silent, eyes darting between the trembling man and the ruler whose gaze cut sharper than a blade.
"Speak," the Sultan commanded, voice low, measured… but with a weight that made even the boldest courtier flinch. "Tell me your name, and tell me why you think your daughter is worthy of my attention."
"My name is Harun… Harun of the village of Kharim," the man said, swallowing hard. "And my daughter… my daughter, Aleerah, is honest, diligent… she is the only light I have left. I brought her with me. I beg you, Sultan, see her. Protect her. Take her as your bride… so she does not fall into ruin."
A laugh rippled through the court. "Take her? This man wants the Sultan to marry a commoner! To make her… what? Queen of the realm? Foolishness!"
Even more shocking, murmurs ran that the Sultan was expected to pick a bride from the noble families, a union of politics, alliances, and wealth. No commoner, no impoverished girl, had any right to enter the Sultan's thoughts, yet here stood a man daring to ask for exactly that.
The Sultan's eyes darkened. He did not speak. He simply leaned back in his throne, watching, calculating, measuring. Something about the girl's simplicity, her purity, the desperate love of her father… it struck him with the force of a storm. And already, before he had seen her, before he had heard her voice, something sharp and consuming ignited within him.
"Let her in"
---
The heavy doors at the end of the hall groaned open, and a hush swept through the court. There she was. Aleerah, simple, unadorned, yet radiant in a way no jewel could ever match. Her dark eyes widened as she took in the grandeur of the palace, the glimmering chandeliers, the sea of noble faces.
The courtiers stiffened. Many looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze, afraid that her beauty and presence might somehow shame them by contrast. Aleerah's father, Harun, bowed deeply beside her, his hands trembling.
The Sultan did not move. He did not speak. He only watched, his eyes narrowing, sharp and deliberate, tracing her every movement. How she held herself. How she took a small, careful step forward, head held high despite obvious fear. How her hands clutched the thin shawl around her shoulders, a silent shield against the grandeur and intimidation of the court.
Every whisper in the hall faded from his hearing. All that existed was her.
"She is… remarkable," the Sultan said finally, voice low and deliberate, yet carrying across the hall with effortless authority. "Remarkable, and yet…" He paused, eyes locking on her. "…unclaimed. Untouched by the decadence of the court. Untainted by ambition. Tell me, Aleerah… do you understand what it means to stand here, before me?"
Aleerah swallowed. Her voice trembled, but she forced it steady. "I… I understand, my Sultan. I am honored by your presence."
A ripple of laughter ran through the nobles. "Honored? She calls the Sultan honor? Does she even know the rank she dares speak to?"
The Sultan's gaze shifted to the murmuring courtiers. His eyes darkened. A flash of something dangerous passed through them, sending a warning, a claim, and a storm "Silence." His single word was enough to still the entire hall. Even the ministers dared not breathe.
He turned back to Aleerah. "Your father begs me to protect you… to make you my bride. And yet I see in you a defiance, a fire I cannot ignore. You have lived in shadows, hidden by poverty, yet here you stand with courage few possess.Do you agree to be my bride?"
Aleerah's heart pounded as she nodded her head. She had never imagined the Sultan would speak directly to her, much less with such intensity. She felt a shiver, part fear, part something more dangerous, more intoxicating.
The Sultan leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes boring into hers. "From this moment, know this… you are no longer merely a girl from Kharim. You are chosen. Chosen by me. And I…" He paused, his gaze softening ever so slightly, "…I will not allow anyone to touch what I have claimed. No one."
A hush fell over the hall. Even Aleerah's father gasped, caught between relief and terror. The Sultan's words carried a weight no one could deny. And in that instant, the court understood what Harun never could: this was no ordinary marriage.
Aleerah stood frozen, feeling the gravity of her new fate. And the Sultan? He had already begun to map every step she took, every breath she drew, and every heartbeat.
From this moment forward, she was his world.
---
The morning sun spilled across the palace gardens, but the Sultan did not notice. He sat in the high gallery overlooking the courtyard, draped in gold and silk, his gaze fixed on a single figure: Aleerah.
She moved with quiet purpose, sweeping the palace floors alongside the servants, her hands nimble, her posture modest, yet every step held a grace he could not ignore. The courtiers whispered that the Sultan had no bride yet, but he had already decided. His claim on her began the moment she had stepped into the court.
"She seems… fragile," one minister murmured, approaching cautiously. "Perhaps not suited for–"
"Fragile?" the Sultan interrupted, his voice low, almost a growl. "Do you see her hands? Do you see the way she carries herself, despite poverty, despite fear? She is not fragile. She is… untamed. And she belongs to me."
"Let it be known that the preparation for the Nikkah will begin immediately."
The minister paled, backing away. Even the most seasoned advisors had learned the dangers of questioning the Sultan when his gaze sharpened like a blade.
From the gallery, the Sultan traced Aleerah's every motion. He noted the tilt of her head as she dusted the floorboards, the way her dark eyes flitted nervously toward the palace gates, perhaps dreaming of a world beyond the walls. Every small gesture set fire to his mind. Every breath she took became an obsession he could not quell.
Later, when she carried a basket of fruit through the main hall, their eyes met again, accidentally, or perhaps deliberately, he could not say. The moment she recognized him, her cheeks flushed pink. He did not break eye contact. He let the moment linger, a silent claim etched into the space between them.
By nightfall, he found himself in the private wing of the palace, ostensibly attending to state matters, yet his ears straining for any sound of her movements. Every footstep, every laugh, every whisper reached him like a drumbeat he could not ignore.
The Sultan's obsession grew, subtle yet undeniable. He began giving her tasks that kept her near, arranging moments where she would cross his path without realizing she was being watched. Every glance, every brush of her sleeve as she passed him, made his chest tighten with a fire he had never known.
And the palace knew. The servants whispered of the Sultan's unusual attention. The nobles murmured warnings, claiming a commoner bride would never suit a ruler of his rank, but their words did not reach him. He had made his choice. Aleerah was his.
As Aleerah retired to her modest chamber that evening, she felt the weight of his gaze, even unseen. Somewhere deep within the palace, the Sultan was watching, memorizing every detail, every nuance. And in the stillness of the night, a single thought consumed him:
She is mine. No one else may claim her. Not the nobles, not the world, not even herself.