That night, she sat by the window of her chamber, gazing at the moon above the domes of the palace. Its silver light softened her face, but her thoughts were jagged, restless.
How long could she survive in these halls where every word was a dagger, every smile a trap? The Sultan's absence only deepened her isolation. He had left her to fend against wolves with nothing but her fragile dignity.
Yet even as bitterness touched her lips, another feeling stirred –longing. Though he frightened her, and his presence unsettled her very soul, she wished for his strength, his shadow, even his burning gaze. Anything but this silence.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and whispered into the night, "Why did you choose me, Azmir Khalid, when would leave me alone?"
That night, Aleerah had a dream about her village. Olive trees swaying in the wind, of the smell of earth after rain, of her mother's voice calling her inside before dusk. She reached out in the dream, desperate to cling to that life. But each time, the branches turned to gold chains, and the air grew heavy with smoke.
When she woke, her pillow was damp with tears.
---
The afternoon sun had bled into shades of orange and gold as it dipped behind the palace walls, painting the marble corridors in fire and shadow. Aleerah sat by the window of her chamber, staring out at the inner garden where the jasmine vines curled lazily across trellises. The scent of the flowers drifted toward her, soft and sweet, but today it carried little comfort. Her mind had been restless since dawn, circling the same unanswerable thoughts.
It had been weeks since the Sultan had left to plan for war, weeks since his shadow had fallen across her chambers, weeks of silence. Loneliness had carved itself into her heart like an unwelcome guest. She felt trapped within walls adorned with gold yet hollowed with emptiness.
Her thoughts were broken by the sound of hurried footsteps. The servant entered, bowing low, his voice careful.
"My lady… your father requests an audience."
The words struck her like a rush of wind. She stood too quickly, her heart racing. "My father? He is here?"
The servant nodded. "He waits for you in the small receiving hall."
Aleerah's hands trembled as she gathered her veil, smoothing it over her hair. She had not seen her father since that day he had begged her to endure, to submit, to protect herself by yielding to the Sultan's will. His words had haunted her in the nights that followed, echoing with every moment she felt Azmir's piercing gaze or every moment he turned away with cold restraint.
She hurried through the corridor, her steps were urgent, as her breath caught in her chest.
And then she saw him.
Ibrahim. Her father.
He stood within the receiving hall, his figure slightly stooped, the years and burdens weighing heavily on his once-strong shoulders. His robe was clean but plain, the fabric worn from long use, yet he carried himself with quiet dignity. His beard was more silver now, his face more lined, but his eyes were the same ones that had watched over her since childhood. Steady and full of emotions.
"Baba," Aleerah whispered, her voice breaking. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees before him, seizing his hands and pressing them to her forehead. "You came."
Ibrahim's fingers trembled as they cupped her face, rough from labor yet tender in their touch. His thumb brushed her cheek as though he were memorizing her all over again. "Of course, my daughter. How could I not? Your mother has been restless, her heart uneasy since I returned the last time. She insisted I come again, to see with my own eyes that you are well."
Aleerah swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. "And are you… are you disappointed?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "Disappointed? No.I am relieved."
But even as he spoke, she saw the flicker in his gaze, the heaviness beneath his forced calm.
Her chest tightened. She clung to his hand. "Tell me, Baba. How is Mother? How is my brother? Do they manage well? Do the villagers still–" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do they still taunt you?"
His silence was louder than any answer.
Aleerah's heart sank. She pulled his hand tighter between hers. "Please, do not hide it from me. Tell me."
He sighed, his shoulders slumping with a weariness he tried to mask. "People talk, Aleerah. Their tongues are sharp, but words are wind. Yes, some still whisper. Some laugh behind our backs. But we endure. Your mother, she holds her head high, though I see her heart tremble when she believes no one is watching. And your brother, he has grown too fast. He stands tall, answers boldly when boys mock him. Sometimes I fear he carries more anger than wisdom, but he is strong, my daughter. Stronger than I ever was at his age."
Aleerah's eyes filled with tears. "They should not have to suffer because of me. Because I am here, in this palace, dressed in silks while they endure shame."
"No," Ibrahim said firmly, his hand tightening around hers. "You must never think that way. You did not choose this path. You did not chain yourself to this throne. This was forced upon you, for survival... for protection. Do not take the blame that belongs to fate."
Aleerah looked into his eyes, and though his words were steady, she saw behind the calm, behind the strength there was pain. A heaviness he carried like a hidden wound.
Her voice trembled. "Baba, you are hiding something from me."
He smiled, weary but gentle. "I hide nothing."
She shook her head, tears spilling. "I see it in your eyes. Tell me the truth. Is it debt? Is it hardship? Are they… are they suffering without me?"
He hesitated, just for a breath, before shaking his head. "We are managing, Aleerah. Do not trouble your heart."
But she knew. She knew he would never lay his burdens upon her, not while she was caged within these walls.
"Stay," she begged suddenly, clutching his sleeve. "Stay the night with me, Baba. Please. Just tonight. I want to feel as if I am home again."
His hand lingered on hers, trembling faintly. For a moment, she thought he might give in. But then he shook his head slowly.
"Your mother waits for me. Her heart is restless until I return. If I linger too long, her worry will grow heavier. I cannot leave her so."
Aleerah's lips quivered. "But I need you."
He bent, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, his breath uneven. "And I need you, my daughter. But I am here now. I have seen you with my own eyes, heard your voice, felt your touch. That is enough for me to return to her with peace."
Her tears flowed freely now. "Then promise me you will come again. Promise me."
"I promise." His voice cracked softly, though he quickly steadied it. "I will come as often as I can."
She searched his face, desperate. "Do you remember what you told me last time? To be submissive. To endure. To yield, so that I might survive?"
He nodded slowly.
Her voice broke. "I have tried, Baba. I have tried so hard."
His hand covered hers, firm yet trembling. "That is all I ask of you, my daughter. Strength is not always in defiance. Sometimes, it is in patience, in the quiet suffering that Allah alone witnesses. Every tear you hide, every silence you bear, it is written in the heavens. And Allah does not forget. You will be rewarded very soon."
She sobbed softly, pressing his hands to her face. The roughness of his skin carried the scent of home, dust, woodsmoke and the faint trace of earth after rain. The scent of safety.
"I miss you," she whispered brokenly.
"And I, you," he murmured, his own voice catching. He kissed her brow gently. "Be strong, Aleerah. For yourself, for us. One day, perhaps, this fire will pass, and you will find peace again."
When at last he rose to leave, she wanted to cling to him, to wrap her arms around him and beg him never to step away again. But she only stood in silence, her tears falling as she watched his retreating figure.
At the doorway, he turned back once, his gaze lingering on her. Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the marble corridor.
Aleerah stood frozen, her heart aching with the unspoken truths between them: her family bore burdens in silence, just as she bore hers. Each one of them hiding their wounds to protect the other.
She pressed her trembling hands to her chest, her whisper barely audible.
"Ya Allah… give me strength. For him. For all of us."