Al-Mu’tasim strode down the narrow corridor, boots heavy against the stone, heading toward a chamber deliberately concealed from the main halls.

  Ruqayyah followed a step behind, still wrapped in the prince’s oversized cloak. The scent clinging to it—horse sweat mixed with agarwood and something distinctly his—had begun to feel strangely familiar.

  He stopped abruptly before an old wooden table lit by a single thick candle. On its surface lay the crumpled parchment seized from the assassin.

  He stared at it without speaking.

  His jaw tightened. His hand gripped the table so hard the wood creaked beneath his fingers. It looked like anger held in check—or something deeper.

  “Amir?” Ruqayyah ventured softly, borrowing the title the assassin had used. “What does it say?”

  He did not turn. A rough exhale escaped him. “It is naught but ink scratched by fools. These traitors believe they may shape the realm with their wretched verses.”

  He made to sweep the parchment to the floor, but Ruqayyah moved faster. She caught it before it fell.

  Her eyes skimmed the slanted, tightly packed script—eyes accustomed to manuscripts and marginalia.

  “This is no poem, Amir,” she said, clear and steady. “It is a list of names. Logistics for a faction at the western gate—complete with the watch rotations they have bribed.”

  The air seemed to freeze.

  Al-Mu’tasim turned slowly. His gaze, sharp as honed steel, fixed on her—wounded pride flickering beneath suspicion.

  “Thou… canst read this?” he asked, low. There was something raw in his voice, as though literacy were both miracle and insult.

  “Of course I can,” Ruqayyah replied evenly, forgetting that in this century, even princes were not always granted letters.

  Silence settled between them.

  The oil lamp flickered, casting his shadow vast against the damp stone wall. He did not sit. He stood near the narrow window, back to her, war cloak whispering each time he drew breath.

  When a man’s voice carries that kind of weight, it seems to vibrate through everything near him.

  Gherrrr.

  Ruqayyah still held the parchment. Her fingers trembled now—not from the assassin, but from the realization that what she held was a fuse already burning.

  “Why art thou silent?” Al-Mu’tasim said curtly. “Hath the ink turned blind?”

  She swallowed. “Not blind. Dangerous. Al-Fadl ibn Sahl—my father—his name is here. Marked as the primary target.”

  He faced her again, stepping closer, boots striking marble with deliberate force.

  “Dost thou fear for thy father,” he asked, bracing both hands on the table, “or for the standing of thy house? Al-Fadl guides my brother Al-Ma’mun’s policies. He hath made many enemies in Baghdad.”

  He nodded toward the parchment. “Read the final line. Now.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  She drew a steadying breath and deciphered the unvoweled script.

  “…present the head of the Sorcerer of Khurasan on the feast day, and Baghdad shall return to its rightful heir.”

  The Sorcerer of Khurasan. A bitter nickname for her father.

  “They mean to kill him,” she whispered. Aisha’s grief surged through her, merging with her own instinct to protect.

  Al-Mu’tasim gave a mirthless huff. “At least thou hast a father worth mourning. Mine died ere I could read a single line of his testament.”

  The bitterness in his tone was sharper than any blade.

  “Amir,” she said gently, her hand almost moving to touch his—then stopping, mindful of law and propriety. “You may not read these letters. But you read men. That is worth more than a thousand poems.”

  He flinched, just slightly. His eyes dropped to her hand hovering near his, then he withdrew as if from flame.

  “Presume not to know me, Little Girl,” he snapped. “Keep thy pity. Tonight thou remainest here, under my guard. Thou art too perilous to wander with such knowledge.”

  “So I am a prisoner?” she asked, sinking into the hard wooden chair.

  “Nay,” he said without turning. “A book I have borrowed.”

  A book. What a peculiar thing to call her.

  Just as his hand touched the heavy door, his posture stiffened. From beyond came the whisper of silk and bright, coquettish laughter.

  “Damnation,” he muttered, swiftly drawing a veil over his face.

  “Amir?”

  “My brother’s concubines,” he said under his breath. “Should they spy thee here, word will reach the Caliph ere dawn. And that would mean death—for us both.”

  She studied him coolly. “It seems thy sword is less sharp than the tongues in these corridors.”

  He ignored the jab, glancing toward a small window facing the river. “Follow me. Speak not, if thou desirest to see tomorrow.”

  Without warning, he seized her wrist and pulled her through a hidden door behind a bookshelf, out into the chill Baghdad night. They did not return to the main palace. Instead, they rode hard toward the Tigris docks, where the parchment’s trail led.

  Holding hands was hardly proper—but circumstances have a way of bending rules.

  Baghdad was not asleep.

  They crouched behind ancient pillars inside a grain warehouse near the harbor. Al-Mu’tasim moved like a hunting cat—silent, coiled. He had insisted she come, both to protect her and to decipher the chaotic markings on the newly unloaded crates.

  His voice was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her ear.

  “I know,” she whispered back, though her pulse raced for reasons beyond fear. They were pressed far too close in the shadows.

  Sudden footsteps. Torchlight.

  Not rebels—city officials. A muhtasib and a local cleric.

  “Who goes there? Show yourselves!”

  Al-Mu’tasim cursed softly. If he revealed himself as prince, the mission would collapse and Al-Ma’mun’s wrath would follow. If they were found alone together—unwed—the scandal would be ruinous.

  “Stand forth!” the official barked, cornering them. “Alone in darkness? Have you no shame?”

  Ruqayyah froze. Moral police. Ninth century edition.

  “We are—”

  “She is my wife!” Al-Mu’tasim cut in sharply, pulling her toward him.

  Her face collided with the hardened leather of his armor. She felt his heartbeat—fast, matching her own.

  “Thy wife?” the cleric said skeptically. “Where are thy witnesses? Thy contract? Ye look like fugitives from decency.”

  “We are travelers newly come from Khurasan,” Al-Mu’tasim replied, voice flat as stone.

  “I do not believe thee,” the official said. “Then renew thy vows before us. Else we escort thee to the qadhi.”

  Ruqayyah looked up at Al-Mu’tasim in horror.

  A translucent blue screen flickered before her eyes.

  [Ping! Host. I advise an emergency marriage contract to preserve identity and reputation. If apprehended as an illicit pair, the Al-Fadl name will fall, and Al-Mu’tasim will lose his command.]

  Seriously? Marriage? To him? I’m still a teenager!

  [Host. This is no time for argument.]

  Al-Mu’tasim lowered his gaze to hers. There was desperation there—and something else. Something unguarded.

  “Do it,” he murmured hoarsely. “’Tis the only path left.”

  She had no choice.

  Under swaying torchlight and the stale scent of grain, he clasped her hands. His were rough, warm against her cold fingers.

  “I accept this marriage,” he declared, voice resonant, naming as mahr the silver ring he stripped from his own hand.

  A strange current ran through her at the contact.

  An Indonesian boarding school girl—now secret wife to an Abbasid prince in a musty warehouse. Fate, it seemed, had taken leave of its senses.

  When the officials finally departed, Al-Mu’tasim did not release her at once. He drew her closer, until their foreheads nearly touched.

  “Now thou art mine,” he said, voice low, edged with possessiveness. “Dream not of fleeing, my wife.”

  Her heart did something unfamiliar in her chest.

  Well, of course it did.

  She was, after all, only human.