Aleerah was in the inner garden when a servant approached, bowing low.
"Lady Aleerah," he said carefully, as though her name itself might sting the air, "Her Highness, the Sultan's aunt, requests your presence for tea."
Her fingers froze on the stem of the jasmine she had been plucking. The aunt. The whispers about her floated through the corridors, the woman who once ruled the palace like a queen before Azmir ever ascended the throne. The one whose voice alone could scatter servants, whose tongue could cut more sharply than any blade.
Aleerah's heart gave a tight, painful throb. She smoothed her veil and rose, her movements calm though her pulse drummed like a trapped bird. She could not refuse.
The chamber she entered was heavy with oud and incense, perfumed air clinging thickly to her lungs. Curtains of silk shimmered faintly with the light of bronze lamps, their folds casting shadows that made the space feel like both a sanctuary and a trap. At the center sat the aunt, Sharifah Zuleikha, poised like a queen in exile. Her dark eyes glittered beneath thick strokes of kohl, her robes spilling around her in rivers of crimson and gold embroidery. She did not rise to greet Aleerah.
"So," Zuleikha said, her voice like velvet laid over steel, lifting her cup with elegant disdain, "this is the commoner my nephew has shackled his empire to. His plaything."
The words stung, though Aleerah had prepared for them. She bowed deeply. "I am honored by your invitation, Your Highness."
"Spare me your sweetness." The aunt's lips curved, but it was no smile, it was a knife with polished edges. "You do not belong here. Not in these halls, nor on that throne beside him. Do you know how many noble houses bled and schemed for the place you were handed like a trinket?"
Aleerah's throat tightened. "It was not my choice, my lady. My father sought only to protect me."
Zuleikha leaned forward, bracelets clinking softly with the sound of chains. "And do you think protection lasts forever? My nephew is a man of fire. Today, he burns for you. But fire dies, child. Fire always dies. When his obsession fades, what will you be? A peasant girl with no name, discarded like ash. And the court–" her voice darkened, rich with contempt, "–the court will devour you whole."
The words struck Aleerah harder than she wanted to show. Her gaze lowered, lashes trembling, her fingers tightening in her lap until her knuckles blanched.
Zuleikha's tone softened, almost tender, though her eyes glinted like sharpened steel. "If you are wise, you will not provoke him. Yield, obey, survive. That is all a girl of your standing can hope for."
Aleerah's chest rose with a tremor. Her father's warning echoed through her mind –his voice breaking as he begged her to submit, to endure whatever the Sultan demanded. The memory pressed hot tears to the back of her eyes, but she would not let them fall here, not in front of this woman who seemed to feed on fragility.
"I will honor him as my husband," she whispered, her voice frail yet resolute.
Zuleikha tilted her head, studying her with the cold curiosity of one examining a bird with clipped wings. Then, with a dismissive flick of her jeweled hand, she turned back to her tea. "See that you do. For if he ever tires of you–even when you bear him a son–only Allah Himself will save you from what comes."
The words clung to Aleerah like a curse as she bowed once more and left the chamber, her breath uneven, her spine stiff though her heart quivered within.
Behind her, the aunt's laughter echoed low and cold, like a prayer turned wicked.
---
Aleerah walked back through the marble corridor, her slippers soundless on the polished stone. Her steps were light, as palace etiquette demanded, but her heart carried a weight she could not shake. Every word the Sultan's aunt had spoken pressed into her like thorns, each one drawing silent blood.
If he ever tires of you… even after you bear him an heir… only Allah Himself will save you.
She paused in the shadow of a carved column, her hands trembling against her chest. Her father's voice whispered in her memory, soft, pleading: Submit, my daughter. Do not draw his wrath. Endure, and you will be fine.
And yet, no prayer eased the cold that seeped into her bones now. The palace air felt heavier, its gilded beauty hollow, a cage with no escape.
By the time she reached her chambers, she had schooled her face into calm, her chin lifted, her features a mask. But her maid, Amina, who had served her since childhood, noticed the flicker of unease in her eyes.
"My lady," Amina murmured, helping her remove her veil, her own hands gentle, almost motherly. "You are pale. What has happened?"
"Nothing," Aleerah said quickly, though the lie lay bitter on her tongue. "It was only… a conversation."
But she could not still the tremor in her voice. And Amina, though she bowed and asked no further, lingered close, her presence was like a silent shield against the shadows that trailed Aleerah into the night.
She will have to survive.