The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the palm trees swaying in the courtyard. From the terrace above, Azmir Khalid watched the courtyard below, where a single lantern still burned outside Aleerah's chambers.
He had not gone to her for more than a month now, though every bone in his body had longed to.
Oh, he had wanted to do much. He had to train harder than usual with his men to stop himself. Yet, here he is, staying in the shadows –as he is doing now– with eyes tracing the faint outline of her figure as she sat by the window, her shoulders slumped, her head bowed.
He had seen her father earlier in the day, an old man, leaving the palace with hurried steps. Azmir had not approached neither had he sooken, but he had seen enough.
The way Aleerah had clung to her father, her face pale with tears. The way her father's hands shook as he blessed her before leaving.
And then, later, the way Aleerah sat alone, unmoving, her veil undone, her gaze lost in the darkness.
Azmir's fists clenched against the marble railing. Every part of him screamed to go to her, to storm into her chambers, to pull her into his arms and swear she would never be alone again.
But when he remembered the look in her eyes, the fear, the submission, the way her fire dimmed whenever he drew close, his resolve faltered.
He did not want a wife who trembled like a prisoner in chains. He did not want her obedience born of fear. He wanted the Aleerah he had first seen: the girl with fire in her eyes, the one who dared look at him not as a Sultan, but as a man.
Yet now, she had hid that fire from him.
And he… he could not bear to destroy what little remained of her spirit by forcing himself upon her.
So, he turned from her chamber once again, the ache in his chest sharper than any blade he had ever faced on the battlefield.
"She thinks I do not want her," he muttered under his breath, his voice low, bitter. "And perhaps… perhaps I am a coward for letting her believe it."
The lantern below flickered, its glow dancing against the walls. He closed his eyes, pressing his palms against the cold stone of the terrace rail.
The war council awaited him. Plans demanded his mind, maps demanded his hand. Yet none of it consumed him the way she did.
A wife untouched.
A fire he dared not touch for fear of extinguishing it.
A woman who had already begun to believe she was unwanted.
Azmir opened his eyes, his jaw set hard.
One day soon, he swore to himself, he would make her see.
One day, he would claim her with a devotion so fierce it would silence every whisper that dared call her unworthy.
But for tonight, he stayed in the shadows, unseen, letting her believe the lie that cut them both.
And the Sultan of the empire turned away from his own chambers, carrying a loneliness heavier than any crown.
---
The palace was now full of whispers.Aleerah heard them everywhere now; slipping through the lattice screens of corridors, curling like smoke through the marble halls, echoing faintly when she walked past gatherings of servants who bowed too quickly. They thought she did not notice, but she always did.
The Sultan has not touched her.
It's been two months now.
What kind of bride bears no heir?
Perhaps he regrets lowering himself to a commoner.
Each word clung to her skin, staining even the moments when silence should have comforted her.
It had been days since her father's visit, and still her chest ached with the memory of his trembling hands pressed against hers. He had looked so thin, his eyes lined with the burden of a man carrying two worlds, his family in the village, and the daughter he had surrendered to the empire. He had tried to smile, but Aleerah had seen it, the shadow behind his eyes. The shadow of debts unpaid, neighbors who mocked, her mother's worry, gnawing away at him.
When he left, it had been as if he took with him the last breath of home she still carried.
Aleerah sat by the window of her chamber now, staring at the gardens below. The jasmine flowers swayed in the evening breeze, with their white petals glowing faintly under the sinking sun. She used to love this view, the stillness, the beauty. Now it is as if it mocked her. What use was a garden in full bloom, when her heart lay barren?
A knock at the door broke in her thoughts.
"My lady," Amina's soft voice drifted in, cautious, as if she was afraid to disturb her mistress's fragile quiet. "Shall I bring your supper?"
Aleerah shook her head. "I am not hungry."
Amina hesitated, then stepped inside anyway, setting a tray of figs and honeyed milk on the low table. She glanced at her mistress, worry deepening the furrow between her brows. "You have not eaten since morning. Forgive me, but you cannot go on this way."
Aleerah managed a small smile. "You sound like my mother."
"Perhaps she is right to worry," Amina whispered, lowering her voice. "When your father came… I saw the tears you both tried to hide. My lady, you must eat. You must be strong."
Her maid's words pricked a tenderness she could not bear. Aleerah turned back to the window, blinking against the tears in her eyes. "Do you know what I asked him?"
"What, my lady?"
"If the villagers still taunted them. If the debts still chained their days. If my mother still lay awake at night, fearing for me." Her voice trembled. "And I—his daughter, his blood—I could not ease his burdens. I could not even tell him the truth of my own heart. That I sit here, day after day, unwanted in a palace too large for my soul."
Amina moved closer, her hands hovering as if she wished to embrace Aleerah but dared not without permission. "Your father came because he loves you. He wanted to see with his own eyes that you were well."
"But I am not well," Aleerah whispered, the words a crack in the dam she had been holding inside. "Every night I lie awake, waiting… waiting for footsteps that never come. I am his wife in name, but nothing more. What will the court think? What will the people think? That he despises me? That I am not worthy of giving him an heir?"
Her voice broke then, and she pressed her hands to her mouth to muffle the sob. Amina knelt quickly, wrapping her arms around her despite propriety. Aleerah leaned into her maid's embrace, trembling.
When the storm of tears eased, Aleerah pulled back, her lashes wet, her cheeks flushed. "Do you know, Amina, what frightens me most?"
Amina shook her head.
"That perhaps they are right. That perhaps one day, his fire will fade, and I will be left discarded. And then…" Her words faltered, her heart twisting with the memory of Sharifah Zuleikha's cruel voice. Even when you bear him an heir, only Allah will save you if he tires of you.
She bowed her head, her hands clenching tight in her lap. "I want to believe he is just. That my father did not place me here in vain. But sometimes I think… perhaps it would have been easier if he had let me remain a peasant girl, gathering wood, selling flowers in the market, living free of these golden chains."
The admission left her chest hollow and her throat raw.
Amina was silent for a long moment, then she took Aleerah's hands gently in hers. "My lady… perhaps this is a test. Allah tests those He loves most. And sometimes, in the waiting, in the silence, strength is born."
Aleerah's lips quivered as she tried to smile, "Strength," she echoed, her voice breaking.
When Amina finally left, Aleerah remained by the window, the night stretching long before her. The stars scattered like diamonds above, and she tilted her face upward, her whisper no louder than a prayer.
"Ya Allah… grant me patience. Grant me the courage to endure. And if there is love meant for me in this palace… do not let me die before I taste it."
Her voice faded into the silence as Aleerah sat alone, her heart a fragile flickering against the darkness.