No matter how Zaima tried to reassure me that I wasn’t the problem, I couldn’t shake the nagging voice that spoke to me from the depths of my mind. Abyad’s sudden disappearance that morning had left me feeling more empty than I’d ever felt before. Nothing could rival that fulfillment, of his arms wrapped around me as that smile met mine. No amount of riches or splendor could give me the same satisfaction of how I felt last night. Only him. Only Abyad.


    “I assure you, Al’Hala. Abyad isn’t upset with you. I saw him headed towards the Western Wing this morning, he was glowing.” Zaima said with a doting expression.


    I swallowed heavily, looking at myself in the full-length mirror. Only a single ray of light lit the room from between the still-novel curtains that had been put up. Though the room was aglow, it felt so much darker than usual. Crimson was an interesting choice, as it lit the room in a red haze. The gown I wore was of a similar fashion to the one I’d experimented with last night, Zaima had done more digging since we’d last seen each other, finding as many gowns as possible with the same revealing slit and tight bodice. Its color was a deep shade of gray, sophisticated and elegant. I pursed my lips, wondering if I truly was as beautiful as Abyad claimed. The reflection looking back at me was noteworthy, but I was so used to seeing it by now that I didn’t bat a lash. This body was nothing more than a means to take me from one place to another; but it wasn’t as if I were allowed out of the Grand Building right now.


    Mother was incessant in making sure I stayed in the Grand Building ever since I’d made my display of will power to the sparring grounds. She made it a point for anything I asked for to be brought to me, and Bròn was kind enough to fill me in on why no one was allowed to set eyes upon me. I was dead—at least, to the majority of the Kingdom and its people. The neighboring Kingdoms were sent letters from Shahin announcing my death, without consulting Mahsul. When Bròn broke such news to me, my heart nearly stopped beating. My existence may as well have been a speck of dust on the shelves of our libraries, it was so short-lived in people’s minds.


    “Al’Hala? Did you hear me?” Zaima asked.


    I pulled myself from the memory, returning my eyes to hers in the reflection of the mirror. My head bobbed, and I tore my eyes from the glass.


    “Yes…” I replied.


    My demeanor had become more like the shade of gray I wore that day; subdued, quiet, brooding. I only felt myself smile once in the last 24 hours, when I’d locked eyes with Abyad last night in bed. The deliberation I’d sat in for the last week brought me to a number of revelations. If I were dead, that meant I wasn’t going to take the throne. I saw that as both a good and bad thing—good, because there was no longer the pressure to give birth to an heir in my near future. Bad, because…that’s rather self-explanatory.


    “You’re not yourself, Hala.” Zaima stated, crossing her arms as I sat down in Abyad’s armchair. No matter how hard I tried, my right side never moved precisely as I willed it.


    “It’s hard when the entire world believes me to be dead.” I snapped in response.


    Zaima shirked at my words, her shoulders hunching at their harshness. She was too sweet of a girl to be so cruel to.


    “I’m sorry…” I murmured. Her eyes met mine, and she nodded in acceptance of the apology. I was still grieving my body’s condition, and the added disparity of my perceived death only fueled the tension within me.


    The maiden eyed me with a dampened expression, walking to the arm of the chair and hugging me from the side. A young girl, wise beyond her years—more courageous than I to brave touching me in my disgruntled state. I knew I looked like a lion ready to pounce. Her hand traveled to my hair, fingers meeting my scalp as she brushed through it tenderly.


    “For what it’s worth, Your Highness,” Zaima said just audible enough for me to hear. “I think they’ve kept you in the dark for your safety.”


    I nodded, my heart sinking with her words. Bròn told me the details he didn’t dare share with Abyad, how Shahin nearly lost his mind when he found my body. The way the servants were ordered to incinerate the double, to keep people from seeing the wounds on my back, and use a maiden of similar appearance to take my place for the funeral. He ordered a young girl be shipped from Mahsul, killed using poison, to place in that casket just below the Peonies of our garden. I felt so guilty for the loss of that young woman’s life, but Bròn assured me that she was suffering long before her death. If Father and Abyad had been told of this, they may have allowed a declaration of war then and there.


    ————


    After Zaima left me to my own devices, I tried to take my mind off of Abyad. I had been cross-stitching until my vision went double, there was little light in the room aside from the lamplight, fueling my frustration. Curse words fell from my lips as I stitched and restitched the same Peony leaf over and over again, disliking the way the thread laid over itself on the Aida. I finally tossed the embroidery hoop to the edge of my bed, frustrated with the whole ordeal as I forced myself to stand. I began to pace like a caged, injured tiger. Maybe this was all a horrible nightmare. Maybe I was actually dead. Maybe Cursed Ones were a falsity, and I’d slipped out of consciousness during a torture session long enough to imagine the last eight months back home. Maybe…


    I locked eyes with my own reflection mid-limp. The vanity mirror showed my body from the hips up, cutting off my head from view. I caught the sight of my full chest, while my hand roved the indentation of my waist to my stomach. Turning to the side, I eyed the small pouch of fat that I’d gained. Maybe I’d wake up and it’d be gone. Maybe I’d wake up and find myself a teenager in Shahin’s palace once more; helping Uyum and Melodi fold towels and dust the shelves of the library; helping Madam Denge cook Ghirson meat balls. My hand moved from the pouch of fat, to the small of my back. Maybe…


    Maybe I’d wake up in Shahin’s arms after I’d been loved so brutally my wrists were dappled with water-colored bruises, his eyes fluttering open as he smiled at me. Maybe those hands would press into my hips, gripping me and tugging them closer in a plea to hike my leg up over his. Maybe he’d love me again when I woke up from this awful nightmare, where a Child of Calamity had brought me home and let another girl take my place in that casket. Maybe…


    “Hala?” Smooth as the butter Madame Denge used in her dishes, Abyad’s voice filled my ears. My head whipped around in a panic, tears I hadn’t even noticed falling from my eyes. I wiped them away, swallowing the lump that had tangled itself in my throat. The suffocating shadows of the room seemed to lighten as he closed the door behind him, the orange light of the lamps adding a mesmerizing haze to his blue eyes.


    “Where have you been?” I asked quietly, my voice hollow. Distant.


    “I had a meeting, why are you crying?” His voice raised in pitch as he walked to me, urgency in each graceful step. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me to him. My hand met Abyad’s chest, preventing him from pulling me into a full hug.


    “I was…just remembering things. That’s all.” I lied. I couldn’t tell him I was fantasizing about the days when Shahin was the one taking me to a bed, peeling clothing off of me between harsh kisses. Abyad’s right hand moved up to my shoulder blade, warm and large, while his left lingered on my waist.


    “What did you remember?” He asked, his eyes narrowing as his face corded into a ghost of a grimace.


    I remembered the idea of love I’d been accustomed to. I remembered how my body was before I woke up half a year past my 18th birthday. I remembered the time before the torture, those three years spent being fortified into a false sense of security—when the light in my eyes was still fueled by excitement for life and hope for the future. The fading sunlight danced off of his features, the concerned expression deepening as I kept all of those words to myself.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    “How cruel time has been.” I put it shortly.


    Abyad’s Adam’s apple bobbed at my response, his brows furrowed in a disheartened manner. He forced me to his chest, head sitting atop mine as he drew in a shaky breath.


    “I’m sorry…” He said weakly. “This will all be over soon, Themaz.”


    His words were hard to accept. I wanted to go outside so badly, to see the Kingdom I called home. Staying in this room was what had kept me caged within my mind, haunted by such memories. I wanted to feel the breeze against my face; smell the brine as it grew stronger upon stepping to the shore. I missed freedom. I hadn’t truly been free since I was a teenager, sneaking into the brothel and meeting Madam Tayir. Her words were what I’d used when asking Abyad if he was the man who truly loved me. The events of last night felt like a blur by now.


    “Abyad…” I finally peeped. “I want to go somewhere. I want to see Mahsul’s streets again.”


    He let out a breath, and I knew what he was thinking. He didn’t want to sound like Shahin. He didn’t want me to stay locked in this room for another nine years, unable to explore and quench the wanderlust that flowed so freely through my veins. I was wild at heart, despite the things I’d been put through. My eyes wanted to feast upon new sights, and he was apprehensive of how to do it. Abyad drew in a breath.


    “I’ll take you somewhere.” He said softly.


    As his grip loosened from around me, I looked up at him. He wore a mischievous smile, as if he’d already concocted a plan for us. Once he let go of me, he walked to the door shooting me one final glance.


    “Be ready in ten minutes.” He said. “And don’t wear anything…like that.”


    ————


    Ten minutes later, I donned a more traditional, robe sitting at my vanity and pinning the headscarf I wore to cover my hair and face. I looked like a pious noblewoman, covered head to toe save for my eyes and eyebrows. Just as Abyad said, he knocked on the door right on time. When I gave him the okay to come in, he revealed his own disguise. Such a man couldn’t get away with a simple change of clothing, he was too handsome. Instead of dressing down, he’d dressed up—probably knowing I’d have to put on something only the richer of nobility would be able to afford to hide my identity.


    “Where did you find those clothes?” I asked him, eyeing the white and gold jacket he wore.


    “An old outfit from a Social further east…they see the events as displays of wealth.” He scoffed, brushing an invisible fleck of dust from the right sleeve.


    “Yer lucky I’m bored’a the Western Wing.” Bròn interrupted, materializing from the desk’s shadow. “I ain’t doin’ this for ya again.”


    I looked at Abyad with bemusement, and he shot daggers to Bròn. What was in the Western Wing? I wanted to ask the question, but we were shrouded in darkness before I could open my mouth. I had forgotten how comforting the darkness was, how the smell of hazel was still present despite my lack of a visible nose. The sound of crickets and owls filled my ears, the wind swooshing softly as we traversed shadows. We materialized moments later, in the back alley of a town at least two days’ travel away. Bròn looked at me softly, before hardening his expression when looking at Abyad.


    “You tell her, or you can walk back yerself.” He chuffed, before disappearing into the shadows once more.


    I raised an eyebrow, but Abyad ignored it and took my arm into his. The bustle of the city was enough to send my senses into overload, a dense crowd walking lanterned streets. Mahsulians donned their finer clothing, women of all statuses wearing headscarves. I blended in wonderfully, save for the difference in the quality of fabrics. Most of the men wore common festive garbs, save for men who could easily be pinned as nobles. It hit me in that moment: this was the last day of Jidhaq. My eyes met Abyad’s, and he smiled.


    “You made such a request just in time to see the celebration.” He said.


    My heart swole—maybe timing wasn’t always so cruel. The smell of spices and baked goods made its way through the Unghol I wore, filling my nostrils. My stomach growled in response, making Abyad chuckle as he guided me to a stall. The man in charge smiled at Abyad, keeping his eyes off of me out of respect as he prepared two kebabs of fish meat. My free hand took the kebab as my eyes wandered the crowd. The women of Mahsul truly were beautiful, with thick eyebrows and an array of complexions. We always trended muscular and full-figured, save for the occasional lithe and sinewy woman who’d started their fasting a bit too early. My hand went under the Unghol, putting the fish kebab to my mouth as I took a small bite.


    “Why this city?” I asked. “Why didn’t we just walk around Main Mahsul?”


    Abyad sighed, walking me towards a building’s wall. The dark grey bricks of concrete had been stacked in a checkered pattern with light grey bricks. He tugged my hand as he leaned into the wall, his eyes glued to his surroundings. As the fish traveled down my esophagus, I willed it to stay in my stomach.


    “This city isn’t seen on the way to Otlak.” Abyad said. “The citizens are allowed to take part in Ghaldhi tonight.”


    I raised an eyebrow, unsure as to why all of our cities couldn’t celebrate the last night of Jidhaq with Ghaldhi. Abyad’s eyes met mine, filling with pained revery. He had horrible news to tell me, and my entire body began locking up as if predicting his words from his expression alone.


    “Shahin is in Mahsul. In the Western Wing of the palace. He’s here to discuss reparations for your supposed death.”


    I dropped the kebab, hardly a quarter of the way eaten. A waste of food. The bit of it that had managed to make it to my stomach came up, and I had to round the corner of the building to make it to a trash bin. The Unghol flew up just in time as I retched, and retched, until my stomach couldn’t bring food up any longer. I imagined Shahin crouching down as I laid restrained to that oak table, eyeing me with glee as I bled out before him.


    Pathetic. His voice echoed.


    Pitiful.


    Disgusting.


    I couldn’t stop the dry heaving, even as I felt Abyad’s warm hand on my back stroking me gently.


    “He’ll be gone in three days, Hala. You won’t cross paths with him—so long as you don’t leave your room. I have a plan, and if it all goes well: Otlak will fall from within.”


    Abyad’s voice was so distant, even though he was right beside me. It sounded like I was under water, hearing him speak.


    “Why…?” I asked. The words came without me even thinking about them, garbled between heaves. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”


    “I couldn’t risk you falling back into how you were when you first got home, Hala—look at you, now, Jumme Inaa, I know…I know now that it was wrong to keep it from you. I’m sorry.”


    I had to breathe. In and out. The air sputtered in my lungs as waves of cold blood pulsed down my legs. He had a point—hearing that Shahin was within walking distance of me was enough to make me feel suffocated; not just by the long and heavy fabric I wore, but by my own skin. My head fell to the side of the trash bin, its cool metal sobering me as my chest burned from the food that had come up, and the pure rage that was now boiling within me.


    “I want to go home.”


    No, I didn’t.


    “Are you sure?” He asked, I hesitated.


    “Yes.” I finally said.


    I was so weak as Abyad helped me back towards the same alleyway we came from. I’d never been more glad to don a headscarf. I wasn’t as religious as my parents, I’d never wanted to be—especially not after my nine years in Otlak. What cruel God would force a person through such atrocities? But in that moment, I was thanking whoever wove fate that I’d chosen to wear that head covering.


    ————


    Bròn took one look at me and knew I’d been informed of Shahin’s presence back home, taking me by the shoulders and pulling me in for a side hug. The men exchanged looks before we disappeared into the shadows—Abyad’s face was lined with guilt, while Bròn wore an expression that said ‘I told you so.’ Bròn brought us back to my room faster than we’d left, the winds whistling violently as we traveled.


    Once we materialized in my room, I ripped the head covering off. Bròn disappeared with Idris behind the door, his shoulders hunched in a way I hadn’t seen since our childhood. I peeled off the rest of my garb, switching into a night robe and plopping into my bed with a soft thump. Their voices could be heard behind my door, uncaring as to if their argument could be heard. My body was begging for rest, after the sensory overload of the city and the news that had been broken. I wished I could sleep for four days straight, just as I did my first week home.