Morning came dressed in gold.
We were washed with cold water, wrapped in plain white linen, and painted lightly with kohl under our eyes—so we looked presentable when our lives were decided.
They led us to the Grand Court of Katara
The hall was vast—its ceiling held up by black marble pillars shaped like twisting flame. Golden braziers burned at every corner, their embers floating upward like fireflies. Rows of nobles sat on cushioned seats, layered in silk, gemstones, and feathers. Musicians plucked at koras and drums. Wine flowed. Spices—cardamom, cinnamon, smoked pepper—hung in the air.
And at the far end…
Upon a throne carved from ivory and obsidian sat Emperor Khalfani.
His crown was shaped like a phoenix in mid-flight. His skin was dark bronze, his jaw sharp, his eyes—impossibly—were blue. Not the blue of water or sky. The blue of fire. Cold flame. Terrifying.
Beside him lounged Amanirenas, his prized khalifa.
She was breathtaking.
Skin like polished mahogany kissed by desert sun. Thick black curls jeweled with pearls. Eyes the color of emeralds dipped in stormlight. Her arms were adorned with gold serpents, and her lower half—barely concealed beneath layers of sea-green silk—hinted at the scales of her mermaid blood. When she smiled at the Emperor, the court fell silent.
"Khalifa," Khalfani said, voice like velvet over fire. "Dance for me."
She rose. The music swelled—drums, flutes, the soft rattle of beads.
Amanirenas moved like water. Like sin. Hips slow, arms flowing, her body a dream and a temptation. Men forgot to breathe. Women clutched their chests. Even I—dirty, broken, terrified—could not look away. She danced as though the world belonged to her.
When she finished, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her hand.
Then he stood.
"Bring them before me," he commanded.
Us. One by one.
The first girl—tall, beautiful, skin like caramel, eyes like night—was declared fit for the royal harem. She cried with joy.
The second—trembling, pale—was sent to the dungeons for her father's crimes.
Then—
"Iana of Tan," the herald announced.
I stepped forward.
The Emperor's cold blue eyes devoured me. From my tangled braids to my dry lips. His mouth curled.
"So this is the jewel of Tan?" he laughed. "Thin as a reed… and a face only a mother could love."
Laughter rippled through the hall. Hot shame crawled up my neck.
My fists clenched.
He stepped closer. His shadow swallowed mine.
"What shall I do with you, little desert flower?" he murmured. "You are certainly not worthy of me."
He turned.
"But perhaps…"
His gaze found his brother—Prince Khalid, seated quietly among the nobles. White robes. Silver falcon sigil.
"You are worthy of him."
He seized my wrist and placed my hand into Prince Khalid's palm.
Gasps. Whispers.
Prince Khalid stiffened—shock, humiliation in his dark eyes—but bowed his head.
"As you command, brother."
My heart sank inside my chest.
I couldn't look at anyone.
He led me out.
My knees almost buckled, but then—gently—he pressed a cool silver cup to my lips.
"Drink," he said softly.
I looked up.
And his eyes… were not cruel.
"We haven't officially met", he said, adjusting the fold of his white robe with a practiced, careless motion. I let the cup tremble in my hands and tipped the water to my lips. It tasted of silver and cold stone—everything I hadn't felt in days. My throat drank it like a prayer.
"You're no husband of mine," I thought. But I couldn't say it out, I simply shook my head. The words couldn't come out before I could swallow them.
He watched me with a slow, almost amused patience. "Well, the sooner you believe that, the better for both of us." His voice was even, but the sun caught his eyes—a flash of pale flame. For the first time since the court laughed me to death, I felt something like steadiness.
He reached and held my bruised hands. His palms were warm. My skin was salt and dust; his touch smelled faintly of orangewood and old paper. I flinched, then leaned into the steadiness. I had been away from home for such a long time it felt like I had been erased—my name, my bed, the creak of Father's chair—everything stripped. I had wanted, absurdly, someone to be real in this place. His fingers closed around mine like a promise.
"Let's take you home," he said.
———————————————————
His courtyard was a private thing of white marble and shadowed colonnades—an oasis folded inside the palace's roar.
Lavender trees lined the walk, their purple heads bobbing, scent thick and sweet.
Pathways of pearl-smooth tiles reflected the sky like mirrors; servants moved like silent tides, their sleeves whispering silk.
He walked before me, hands tucked behind him, the hem of his robe kissing the floor with soft sound. I followed with the others—two servants, my limp dignity—and felt the hum of court in every stone: the memory of footsteps, of laughter that still echoed in chandeliers.
When we reached the room, it was white and small and perfect, like a lifted sigh. A balcony opened onto the city; from there I could see the river peel away from the palace like a silver ribbon.
He stood at the balcony and let the air fill his chest. It smelled of jasmine and smoke and distant sea; it smelled like a world that could still hold me. He dismissed the servants with one quiet command. They melted into the corridors like smoke.
He turned to me, and for a moment the room narrowed to the space between us. He was handsome in the sort of way that made cruelty credible: strong cheekbones, a shadowed jaw, eyes that could hold laughter and steel beneath the same lid. But the smile didn't reach whatever hollowness lived behind his gaze. There was, I thought, a loneliness in him I recognized—the kind that keeps your throat dry at dawn.
"Why don't you protest?" I heard myself say, before the question could be reined in. My voice was thinner than I wanted.
He blinked. "Ah—she speaks," he said, lighter than I expected. Playful, then steady. "Say no." I fearfully added.
"Tell him you won't do this." The words were nearly a plea.
He folded his arms and watched me closely, like a man studying a delicate instrument. "Tell me," he said, low and easy, "why don't you want to marry me? Is it because I'm not worthy of you, or because you are not worthy of me?"
The question made the room tilt.
"Because I'm confused," I admitted. The truth made my throat ache. "I don't know you. I don't know where I am. I'm afraid."
He crossed the space between us in two strides and came close enough that I could see individual threads in the gold of his eyes. He reached for the hair at my temple and tucked a damp lock behind my ear. The contact was electric and tender both; his fingers smelled of citrus and leather. My pulse skittered against the ribs like frightened birds.
"I think you're beautiful," he said simply, as if confessing something holy.
My heart banged against my chest so loudly I was certain everyone in the palace could hear it. For an instant, I felt the ridiculous and dangerous warmth of being seen. Then he stepped back, so sudden it left a small, raw ache where his fingers had been.
"I want to know what my brother is up to," he said, voice worn thin by calculation. "But I can't do that if my head is not clear."
He gave a small, wry laugh that sounded like someone trying to hold a sword and a bowl at once. "Unlike him, I cannot command storms with a word.
I am human—my influence is limited in the court. I can use my voice, perhaps my counsel, but not the flames he bends." He cocked his head. "So I will see to it that you are safe, at least for now. Before you can find your way home."
"Do you believe I can go home?" I asked because sometimes asking the question aloud kept the nightmare from swallowing me whole.
"No," he said bluntly, and I felt the ground drop. "No, honestly." He breathed out, as if the answer cost him something. "The only way you can leave this place alive is to become something they want to keep. A powerful khalifa. Otherwise—your body may go, but your soul will not return."
Those words were a falling stone in my belly. I had never imagined survival would demand anything so complete. I swallowed hard; the taste of stone, of iron, of kinship gone.
"Stick with me," he added, then reached and took my dainty hand again. His palm was callused, patient. "You'll be safe. I promise."
Safety. The word felt fragile and heartbreaking and obscene in a palace that had chewed up my father's crown like an old bone. I clung to the smallness of it anyway.
Without warning, beneath his steadying grip, a warmth spread across the scrape at my wrist—the place where a rope had bitten me. It began as a prickle, like the first drops of rain on hot skin, then seamed itself together in a way that made me gasp.
The raw edges drew close; the bruise paled as though a light was being poured into my flesh. It was not a dream; I watched it happen, watched the color return to my skin as if someone was painting me whole again.
He stared, astonishment splitting his composed face into something younger, more vulnerable. "What—" he breathed.
I pressed my healed hand to my chest and felt the quick drum of my pulse. The shock reverberated down my arm as if a bell had rung. For a ridiculous moment I thought I might laugh, out of terror, joy, or some insane mixture of both.
"You didn't," he whispered, looking at my hand as if it were a new moon. "I thought—no one could—"
"I don't know how," I said. The words were small. The truth sat between us like an ember.
He reached out and touched my palm again, more gently this time, as if verifying the miracle. The contact trembled across my skin, and for a heartbeat the palace and its cruel laughter fell away. He did not say anything then; instead he wrapped my fingers in his and drew me a little closer, a deliberate, careful move that felt more like shelter than possession.
"Rest," he murmured. "Gather some strength. Tomorrow you will present yourself, and the court will continue to press its teeth. But tonight—stay. If you must be a prisoner, at least be fed."
I wanted to cry, to laugh, to throw myself to the marble and beg for home. Instead I let the small, steady warmth of his hand keep me from falling apart. In a palace built on fire and gold and ruin, there was, for the first time in many nights, a place that felt like breathing.
And when I closed my eyes, the last thing I heard was his voice, barely a promise and almost a sure.
"Sleep, Iana. For tomorrow, they will decide what they will take from you. But I will not let them take everything."