CHAPTER THREE

I n the wake of Nizam’s return to Baysaht, Princess Layna found herself immersed in wistful daydreams. The palace, with its sprawling gardens and sun-kissed halls, echoed with the silent melody of her hopeful heartbeats. Memories of Nizam’s warm smile and their moments together played like a sweet refrain in her mind.

She envisioned letters, sealed with Baysaht’s regal emblem, arriving and weaving the start of a blossoming relationship. Daydreams painted pictures of a life where love and duty walked hand in hand, transcending the mere politics of a royal marriage.

Yet as days turned into weeks, her initial excitement gave way to a gnawing uncertainty.

The eagerly anticipated letters did not arrive.

Each visit to the couriers’ quarters, once a source of hopeful joy, became a daily ritual of disappointment. The servants, initially enthusiastic, began casting sympathetic glances in her direction, their silence speaking volumes.

On one particular visit, Layna nearly ran into Burhani, who stood just outside the door with a cruel smirk on her beautiful face. Unlike her father, Burhani had deep ochre skin, piercing blue eyes, and waist-length black hair that she often wore in a tight braid. Lord Ebrahim had never revealed her mother’s identity, but it was evident from Burhani’s striking features that she was Navrastani.

“Still no letter, Princess?” Burhani sneered, arms crossed over her chest. “I wonder what kind of impression you made. It’s a shame I wasn’t here to see it.”

Layna tensed at the jibe. “Good day to you, Burhani,” she replied tightly.

“Good day, indeed,” Burhani chortled, her full lips curled in a mocking smile. “Must be difficult, no? Waiting on a letter that never arrives.”

Layna took a deep breath. “Your company is always such a pleasure, but I have duties to attend to. I’m sure you do as well.”

Burhani chuckled. “Of course, Princess.” She didn’t budge, forcing Layna to walk around her.

Fists clenched tightly at her sides, Layna quickly walked away. Burhani’s voice followed her down the hall. “If you do get a letter, be sure to let me know! I’d love to hear what the elusive Prince Nizam has to say.”

Layna gritted her teeth, Burhani’s words cutting deep. Still, she kept her back straight as she gracefully walked away, frustration and sadness clamping around her heart like a vise.

Behind her, Burhani watched with a satisfied smirk.

Weeks stretched into months, and the vibrant colors of the palace gardens faded as the cooler season arrived. Layna’s heart, once uplifted by the promise of Nizam’s letters, now felt heavy, anchored in bleak dejection by his silence.

This period of waiting, of hope turned to disappointment, marked a profound change in Layna. The innocence of first love gave way to a more guarded heart. Now viewing the world through a lens tempered by realism, she dismissed the tales of love and chivalry that had once captivated her.

She threw herself into her duties with newfound determination, focusing wholeheartedly on the welfare of Alzahra and its people. Her painful heartache forged a stronger, more resilient queen-to-be, one who understood the price of personal desires in the face of royal responsibilities.

Soraya, ever perceptive, noticed the shadow that had fallen over her sister. One quiet evening, as they sat in Layna’s chambers, Soraya reached for her hand. “He doesn’t define your worth, Layna,” she murmured softly. “In a few months, you’ll meet plenty more suitors at the royal ball. Besides, I didn’t like him much anyway.”

Layna knew her sister was right, yet the sting of rejection was sharper than any sword. Had she been too na?ve to believe in a fairytale ending? Was the connection with Nizam merely a fleeting wisp of romance, destined to dissipate? She couldn’t fathom why the seemingly smitten prince had made no further attempts at courtship.

If nothing else, Layna yearned for closure.

Despite the months-long silence, the princess was too proud to write to Nizam herself. While she was usually unbothered by breaking societal norms, her pride held firm in this situation. She would not make the next move. Her father’s council informed her that Nizam had safely returned to Baysaht and was actively ruling alongside King Amnaar.

The information served as a bitter reminder. If Nizam had wished to continue their courtship, he had every opportunity to do so. His silence was a clear message—he simply didn’t want to continue what he began in Alzahra.

Instead, he haunted her thoughts like a persistent ghost. This realization was painful, but Layna knew she must accept it and move forward with her dignity intact.

Perhaps, she told herself, this was for the best. Her mother had always cautioned her about entanglements of the heart. In moments of solitude, Layna often reflected on her mother’s lessons. Queen Hadiyah had always emphasized the delicate balance between personal desires and royal duties.

“A heart in love can be a vulnerability for a queen,” her mother once said, her voice laced with decades of wisdom.

As they walked through the gardens one evening, Queen Hadiyah spoke of destiny and duty, her words floating on the gentle breeze. “My dear Layna,” she began, her eyes reflecting the moonlit sky, “there is something you must understand about the path you walk as future queen. Your role, your very destiny, might have been written in the sands of time long before you were born. Your heart, while your own, is tied to the fate of Alzahra. The choices you must make may not always align with the desires of your heart.”

“But isn’t love important, Mama? Can’t it guide my choices as queen?” a young Layna asked, her eyes wide and filled with hope yet untrampled.

Queen Hadiyah stopped and took Layna’s hands. “Love is a powerful force, my child, one that can inspire and empower. But as queen, your first duty will always be to your people. The luxury of following your heart is not yours to claim.”

Layna felt a strange emotion, a wave of sadness mingled with something foreign, realization dawning that her destiny was not hers to shape.

As queen, she would be powerful yet, in many ways, tragically powerless.

“The crown is not just a symbol of power; it is a promise to our people. A promise that may require sacrifices your heart might not be prepared to make.”

In the quiet hours of the night, Layna stood on her balcony, gazing at Alzahra City. Rooftops stretched out for miles, and in the distance, she could just barely discern the high walls that protected her beloved city. One by one, lights flickered and winked out as her people settled into sleep.

Layna glanced up at the moon, hanging brightly in the star-speckled sky. The cool breeze carried a soothing touch, as if the moon itself was wrapping her in an embrace, offering comfort for her wounded heart. As she felt its gentle light on her skin, a chord of deep peace strummed through her, vibrating outwards, spreading to her fingertips and toes.

She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar calmness settle over her.

The moon whispered secrets of resilience and freedom, beckoning her to the world beyond the palace walls. One day , she thought wistfully. Under the moon’s soothing aura, Layna felt a shift within her, a new strength emerging from the ashes of heartache.

With each passing day, her resolve grew stronger. She found release in sword fighting. The training grounds became her sanctuary, where she could cast off the mantle of royalty and be her true self. Under the swordmaster’s guidance, she honed her skills, each session pushing her limits.

But it was during the night, under the moon’s glow, when Layna truly found her strength. She preferred these solitary training sessions, where the silvery light seemed to imbue her with sharper focus and greater stamina. The moon’s presence somehow made her feel powerful. In these moments, her sword strokes felt more fluid, her movements more graceful, as if she were part of the night itself.

Her sparring sessions with left-handed Soraya, once challenging, now saw Layna emerging as the clear victor. Even when she managed to persuade some of the palace guards to train with her, there was a noticeable difference in her prowess.

As the months passed, and the illusion of love with Prince Nizam faded into distant memory, Layna emerged stronger and more grounded in her identity. Her path was not about finding love or approval from a suitor.

She was the future queen, and she needed to prepare for her destiny.

One evening, under the moon’s watchful gaze, Layna practiced her swordplay alone on the training grounds. Eyes blazing, she repeatedly struck the wooden practice dummy. She circled her motionless opponent, her sword trailing in the sand. Catching her breath, she again furiously attacked the wooden figure with renewed energy.

“I must say, one would be wise to never cross you,” a deep voice drawled from behind her. Panting, Layna paused mid-step and spun around, her eyes locking onto an unfamiliar man before her.

He stood tall, his broad shoulders pulled back in confidence. Clad in simple attire—a plain black tunic and loose-fitting trousers—he melded with the night. A large sword hung casually at his hip. His tunic stretched taut over his muscled chest and biceps, the fabric practically straining to contain his strength.

This intruder was positively lethal. Intense hazel eyes pierced through her, unsettling in their directness. The breeze ruffled his unruly dark hair, and the stubble shadowing his jawline gave him a raw, masculine edge.

For a moment, Layna found herself taken aback, her composure wavering under his scrutiny. She felt an inexplicable vulnerability, as though he could see past her royal facade to the woman hidden beneath.

Yet, as quickly as it came, the feeling was replaced by a surge of annoyance. Who was this stranger who dared intrude upon her solitude?

Her warrior instincts kicked in, and Layna tightened her grip on her sword. She squared her shoulders and firmly planted her feet, preparing for any threat.

The man noticed her change in stance and had the audacity to smirk.

With narrowed eyes and a voice sharp with irritation, she addressed him. “Do you often sneak up on others in the night like a scurrying mouse?”

The stranger’s smile broadened. “My sincerest apologies, Princess. I didn’t mean to scurry . I’m Prince Zarian of the Nahrysba Oasis.” He continued to smirk at her, oozing arrogance, as if she were the punchline to a joke that only he understood.

To make matters worse, he might have been the most handsome man she had ever seen, which only made her hate him more.

“ Prince Zarian?” Layna arched an eyebrow as her gaze trailed over his simple attire. “I wasn’t informed of your arrival.” She tightened her grip on her sword. Her emotional turmoil with Nizam had left her wary of strangers, especially princes.

Unbothered by her appraisal, he stepped closer. “I’m not one for grand entrances and formalities. I prefer a more subtle approach.” He took another step closer. “Again, I’m sorry for startling you,” he added, extending his hand in greeting.

He didn’t seem very apologetic.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Layna retorted hotly, still simmering with annoyance. “You didn’t startle me.” She swiftly sheathed her sword and angrily strode past Prince Zarian and his outstretched hand.

Fuming, Layna marched through the palace corridors until she reached the east wing. Pausing outside her parents’ chambers, she fell into a familiar childhood habit. She and Soraya had always found a thrill in eavesdropping, a remnant of their more mischievous days. The door was slightly ajar, and she could hear the hushed, urgent voices of King Khahleel and Queen Hadiyah.

Straining to listen, she caught fragments of their conversation—whispers of a “prophecy” and the “Medjai,” but the details eluded her. These words sparked a vague memory dancing at the edge of her thoughts, but it was too indistinct to grasp. Brushing it aside, she focused on her immediate concerns.

Layna pushed open the heavy door and barged in. Her parents looked up, eyes wide, surprised by her abrupt entrance.

“Why is Prince Zarian of the Nahrysba Oasis here?” she demanded, words tumbling out in a flurry of frustration. “And why was I not informed? Is he another suitor?”

Her parents shared a brief glance before her father cleared his throat. “No, my dear, he is not a suitor. Prince Zarian is here as an adviser on matters of state and defense. His arrival was meant to be discreet.”

Hadiyah’s eyes softened as she looked at her daughter. “We didn’t want to burden you further, especially after…recent events,” she added, acknowledging Layna’s heartache.

Layna’s shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of confusion and suspicion mingling with her emotional fatigue. “But we don’t have a formal alliance with the Oasis,” she said, the fire of her anger fading into a flicker of curiosity. “Why would their prince come here?”

“King Tahriq, Zarian’s father, and I are old friends,” Khahleel explained, casting a meaningful glance at Hadiyah. “With tensions rising with Zephyria, I thought we could benefit from his expertise in palace security and other crucial matters.”

Layna nodded slowly. Who was this Prince Zarian, and what role was he to play in Alzahra?

“Layna,” her father continued, his voice softer than usual, “Prince Zarian is an esteemed guest. I expect you to extend the hospitality that befits your upbringing. Remember, you are destined to be queen, and part of that destiny is learning to master your emotions.”

Layna bowed her head slightly. Despite the gentleness in his tone, the reprimand stung, reminding her of the heavy responsibilities on her shoulders. “Yes, Baba,” she acquiesced quietly.

After leaving her parents’ chambers, a whirlwind of thoughts clouded Layna’s mind. Eager to gossip about Prince Zarian’s arrival, she set off to find her sister.

Layna traversed the palace, her footsteps echoing through the vast corridors. She checked Soraya’s usual haunts—the palace greenhouse, the library, even the quiet alcove in the gardens where her sister often escaped with a book—but she was nowhere to be found. That’s odd , Layna thought. Where could she be?

With a sigh, Layna headed back to her chambers. As she passed through to the private balcony, the cool evening breeze carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine, her gaze drifted to the training grounds below. There, under the soft light of torches, she saw a solitary figure practicing with a sword.

It was Prince Zarian.

In the dim light, he moved with a captivating grace and ferocity. His tunic lay discarded, revealing a muscular, well-defined physique. The torches cast a warm glow over his tanned skin, highlighting the contours of his muscles and the sheen of sweat that already glistened on his back.

Layna’s eyes traced the curve of his biceps, each movement accentuating the strength in his arms. Her eyes followed his every thrust, the sword an extension of his arm. She was reluctant to admit, even to herself, that he was incredibly skilled.

She caught sight of a tattoo on his left pectoral. The ink, a rich, deep black, stood out starkly against his sun-kissed skin. The tattoo was a circular design, and at its center, a crescent moon was cradled within the sun. Thick black whorls branched out in symmetrical designs until just below his collarbone.

An unexpected feeling stirred within her, a mix of intrigue and something more primal. She watched, transfixed, as Zarian executed a series of complex maneuvers, his body moving with a rhythm and assurance that spoke of years, perhaps decades, of training.

Mouth suddenly dry, Layna swallowed deeply and tore her eyes away from the prince. She stepped back from the railing, the image of Zarian’s fluid movements etched in her mind. The night air felt uncomfortably heavy on her skin.

Returning to her chambers, she prepared for bed, her mind a tangle of confusion and questions. She tossed and turned as sleep eluded her. Zarian’s impressive display, his strange tattoo, and the sculpted strength of his body consumed her thoughts.

The next morning, Layna quickly dressed and headed to breakfast. She greeted her parents and Burhani before sitting beside her sister, swiping a pastry from Soraya’s plate. Her younger sister rolled her eyes.

A few minutes later, Lord Ebrahim and Prince Zarian entered, deep in conversation. The two men fell silent as they walked in, but Layna could have sworn she heard Lord Ebrahim mention something about the Medjai.

“Welcome, Prince Zarian,” King Khahleel said, standing to greet him. “We are honored and look forward to your stay here.” Turning to the table, he explained, “Prince Zarian will be providing counsel on palace security and other defense matters.”

“Thank you, King Khahleel,” replied Zarian, nodding his head. “The honor is mine.”

Lord Ebrahim made introductions as they were seated. “This is my daughter Burhani, and these two ladies are Princesses Layna and Soraya,” he said, gesturing around the table.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Burhani and Princess Soraya,” Zarian greeted. Turning to Layna with a smirk, he added, “Princess Layna, I believe we’ve already met.” Layna smiled tightly and busied herself with her plate.

Soraya looked inquisitively at her, but Layna gave her a meaningful look. Later , she conveyed silently with raised eyebrows. She nabbed another pastry from Soraya’s plate, prompting a deep sigh from her sister.

“You certainly have an impressive appetite,” Zarian said to Layna with a teasing smile, nodding at the pile of pastries on her plate. “Do you always start your mornings by raiding your sister’s breakfast?”

Soraya snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her hand, but Layna caught the sound and glared at her.

Turning back to Zarian, Layna shot him a withering look. “It’s only fair. She always takes the best ones.”

Burhani leaned closer to Zarian and loudly whispered, “Don’t listen to her. Princess Layna is just used to getting what she wants.” Layna noticed Burhani’s eyes lingering appreciatively on Zarian’s biceps, the fabric of his navy tunic straining across them.

The princess bristled. “I think Burhani is just jealous of my impeccable taste in pastries.”

Burhani opened her mouth to respond, but Soraya quickly interjected. “Prince Zarian, how long are you staying in Alzahra?”

“For as long as I’m needed,” he said with a cryptic smile and a wink.

Layna furrowed her brow, ready to press further, but then Queen Hadiyah engaged Zarian in conversation, and the meal continued without further comment.

After breakfast, Layna sought out Zarian in the hallway. “Prince Zarian,” she called, quickly catching up as he turned around. “I, um, I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night. I was caught off guard,” she stammered, playing with the sleeves of her abaya.

The prince gave her a charming smile, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. They were the color of the desert at dusk, reflecting both warm golden sands and deep shadowed dunes.

“It’s alright, Princess,” he responded, still smiling. “I look forward to getting to know you better.” He glanced around the hallway before leaning casually against the wall. “I’m still getting situated in the palace. Perhaps you could show me around?”

“Oh, unfortunately my schedule is quite busy this week. Royal responsibilities and all,” Layna said, wringing her hands. “Perhaps Soraya would have time.”

“Of course,” Zarian agreed, the corners of his mouth twitching. The intensity of his gaze unsettled her, assessing and appraising, as if he was trying to read her thoughts.

She took a steadying breath and straightened her spine, forcing her hands to her sides. “Enjoy your stay,” Layna said primly and glided away, head held high.

Zarian lingered, watching her retreat.