The morning sun, after weeks of torrential rains that had turned the world outside into a melancholy grey, finally broke through. The stone walls of the secluded country estate, Hatim's private refuge, seemed to glow, absorbing the light and radiating a fragile, hard-won warmth. The air, crisp and cleansed, carried the scent of wet earth and jasmine.
Inside, the serenity was a deliberate construct. Here, Hatim was not the Sultan—he was simply Hathi, a man desperately seeking respite from the smothering duties of the palace. His nerves, perpetually frayed by court conspiracies and the endless procession of war reports, had begun to settle only in the presence of Arshi. This house, brightened by the sun and her gentle company, was a sanctuary he hadn't known he needed.
The tranquility shattered with a sudden, violent crash.
A loud clatter of porcelain and metal echoed through the polished halls, followed by a terrified, strangled gasp. Hatim, who had been lazily stretching on the vast, canopied bed, flinched as if struck. The noise was an ugly, dissonant note in the carefully arranged silence.
"Fools! Imbeciles! You dare disturb His Majesty's repose with your peasant clamor?!" a woman's voice, sharp and laced with petty authority, hissed from the hallway.
Arshi, already dressed in a simple, dark green tunic and wide silk trousers, moved instantly. Her heart hammered with a familiar dread. The sound of a broken tray and an angry voice brought back a visceral memory of her own time in chains, where a small mistake could invite a world of pain.
She swept into the hall. Standing over a shattered porcelain tray—bits of silver spoon and scattered, rich porridge pooled on the marble—was Zuleika, the head chambermaid, a stout, middle-aged woman whose face was contorted with cold fury. Cowering beneath her, shoulders drawn tight and trembling like a cornered animal, was a young maid.
"What is going on here?" Arshi's voice was low, cutting through the high-pitched scolding like a knife.
Zuleika and the young girl froze, their eyes wide with shock. They had not anticipated the Queen herself would intervene in such a mundane, albeit disruptive, domestic crisis.
"My Sultana…" the young maid started, her voice barely a squeak.
"My Sultana, I was just about to administer the correct punishment to this foolish, clumsy girl! She has ruined the Sultan's breakfast and spilled his vital tonic! An offense against His Majesty's health!" Zuleika finished her breathless complaint, dropping into a deep, defensive bow, her eyes burning with self-importance.
Arshi ignored Zuleika completely. Her gaze, steady and filled with a profound, almost devastating empathy, settled on the small, defeated figure of the trembling girl. The maid's clothes were unkempt, crumpled, and too large for her gaunt frame; her body language spoke of chronic mistreatment.
"What is your name, young one?" Arshi asked, her voice impossibly gentle.
The girl stared blankly, unable to process the question. "Pardon?"
"I asked, what your name was."
The girl and Zuleika exchanged quick, terrified glances, certain that this soft questioning was merely the preamble to a more sophisticated punishment. Arshi's lips curved upward in a faint, compassionate smile. She stretched out her hand and slowly, deliberately, placed it on the young girl's head. The girl winced, instinctively flinching, expecting a slap—a reflex learned from years of servitude.
"Nafisa," the maid finally managed to whisper, her voice thick with emotion. "My name is Nafisa, My Sultana."
"Nafisa," Arshi repeated, the name tasting sweet on her tongue. "You have a beautiful name. It means that you are valuable. You are so precious, young one." Arshi gently cupped the girl's thin, cold cheek in her hand, staring into her eyes—eyes that held the vast, silent grief of a lost childhood.
Nafisa's face flushed pink, a rare spark of warmth in her terror. Arshi then took the girl's hand, a firm, non-negotiable grip, and turned away from the debris and the gaping Zuleika. The head chambermaid remained, frozen in her bow, abandoned in the hall with her shattered tray and her shattered authority.
"How long have you lived?" Arshi asked as they walked toward the kitchen, the girl's small hand gripped safely in hers.
"I am eleven years of age, My Sultana."
In the vast, efficient kitchen, Arshi busied herself with ingredients, tying her hair back in a simple side bun, Nafisa watching her every move. The girl was a ghost of a child, separated from her mother at seven, captured by slave traders, and brought from the distant Octavia Kingdom to Aleppo. Arshi knew this life. She had scrubbed floors, avoided eyes, and lived on the edge of punishment. Nafisa was herself, reborn in a gaunt, eleven-year-old form.
"Why did you pull my hand, My Sultana?" Nafisa finally asked, her curiosity overcoming her fear.
"Why did you choose to follow me when I did so?" Arshi countered teasingly, carefully observing the girl's reaction. "You remind me of my little sister."
Nafisa's eyes widened, her jaw slack. "Pardon?"
"I have a younger sister, and you remind me of her," Arshi explained, her voice dropping, suddenly serious. "How can I watch a young girl such as yourself being bullied like that? That is why I pulled your hand. Because that is what a big sister should do. It is a promise I made to myself a long time ago."
Nafisa stared at her new Queen, unable to reconcile the image of the powerful Sultana with this unexpected, protective mercy.
"We are done now," Arshi announced, holding a fresh tray laden with a new breakfast and a steaming cup of the Sultan's tonic. She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Now, shall we go and serve that annoying husband of mine?"
"Let me help you with that, My Sultana!" Nafisa rushed forward, eager to perform a service, any service, for her protector.
"No. I can handle this on my own." Arshi politely refused, gently pushing the tray out of the girl's reach. She forced an encouraging smile. "I have other, more important work for you."
"But I have to go clean the mess I made in the hall, My Sultana. Zuleika…"
"That is not your chore anymore, Nafisa. You are to serve me from now on, directly. Or do you dare to disagree with your Queen?" Arshi gripped the tray tightly, avoiding eye contact as she delivered the instruction. She paused at the door, turning back to see Nafisa still trailing her. "Do not misunderstand me. I do not intend to force you. A slave is also a living human being with a right to rest. Currently, I wish for you to go and take a rest. That is an order."
The command, delivered with kindness, was the only form of absolute mercy Nafisa had ever known.
************
Arshi walked toward Hatim's rooms, the tray steady in her hands, but her mind was reeling. She was still worried about Nafisa, about her sickly appearance and the shadow of the palace's deep, institutional cruelty. The sheer scale of the Sultan's neglect—a mirror of the dead children she had seen in the market—was now visible in her own hallway.
How were people truly being treated in the palace? She had been a slave, too. She remembered the gnawing cold, the constant anxiety, the relentless physical ache. What if I was still one? The thought was a chilling counterpoint to the velvet and silk of her new status.
She reached the door. The guards bowed, their movements seamless, and opened the door to the inner chamber. She entered, the heavy door closing silently behind her.
Hatim was already sitting up, propped against a mound of pillows, trying to disguise the fact that he had hastily gathered a small mountain of parchment and maps he had been studying, spreading them haphazardly on the bed.
"Do you feel a little better, My Sultan?"
Arshi approached him, placed the tray on the bedside stool, and then, with a gesture of familiar intimacy, placed one hand on his forehead, mirroring the pressure on her own.
"Your temperature is steady," she noted, flicking his head playfully—a stunning breach of royal protocol that only she would dare. "Why are you up so early, disturbing your royal rest?"
Hatim touched his forehead, then smiled. Her touch was the true medicine. He watched as Arshi efficiently began clearing the documents he had scattered over the bed, organizing them into neat piles on the other empty bedside table.
"I was just having a bit of trouble sleeping," he admitted, watching her neat, practical movements.
"Oh my, is that so?" she replied, climbing into the bed and settling beside him, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder.
He stared down at her, pulling her close. "What brings you here this early? Did the chaos of the kitchen finally reach my ears?"
"I am naturally concerned for my husband's health," Arshi shrugged, the scent of jasmine on her hair filling his senses. "Am I not allowed to be worried about you?"
Hatim smiled, kissing her temple. "I have been doing some thinking, My Sultana. Do you not think that it is about time we return to the palace, together? The court awaits its Queen, and I miss my proper seat of power. I will not confine you within the palace if that is what you deeply fear, Arshi. I swear it."
Arshi paused, her smile fading. The thought of that vast, echoing prison, where little girls were starved and beaten, caused a cold knot in her stomach. Yet, the Nafisa incident had changed her perspective. Running was not an option; intervention was the only path. The palace was not merely Hatim's seat of power; it was her new sphere of influence, a place where her word now carried weight.
"I agree," she said, her voice quiet but firm.
Hatim could not believe it. He shifted slightly, turning to fully see her face, needing confirmation that she genuinely meant it. "Do you really?"
Arshi looked at him, his face, despite his current weariness, was the most handsome she had ever seen. "I will go wherever you will go, Hathi."
"Are you certain about your answer, my flower?" he pressed, relief mixing with surprise.
"Yes. I will be more than happy to be wherever you are, as long as you keep your word," she said, her eyes now searching his, testing the depth of his devotion.
"My word?" he raised a confused brow. "I do not understand, my love. Which one?"
Arshi stared at him before answering, sighing deeply. "You will not confine me within the palace walls, Hathi. You will not allow me to become a gilded prisoner, cut off from the suffering of your people. My duties must extend beyond my chamber, and my freedom must remain intact. If I am to be your Queen, let me be a Queen of justice, not just of ornaments."
Hatim relaxed, his broad shoulders dropping. He smiled, pulling her comfortably into his embrace. "I always keep my word, Arshi. And I promise you this: your freedom shall be absolute. You are the only person who sees the rot hidden beneath the silk, and I need your eyes to clean the wounds of the Empire." He kissed her temple, a solemn, silent vow. "I also believe you just invented a new job title: Queen of Justice."
****************
"I almost forgot," Arshi said, shifting on the bed, her energy returning with her resolve. "I brought you your breakfast, along with your medication."
Hatim groaned, a deep, theatrical sound of supreme martyrdom. He was a Sultan who faced executioners and invading armies without flinching, yet a spoonful of bitter liquid turned him into a pouting child.
"You are ruining the mood, My Sultana. I do not really feel like taking anything poisonous today. Please call someone to take it away this instant." He wrinkled his nose in genuine disgust.
"And why should I do that?" she challenged, rising on one elbow to face him.
"Because I hate bitter things, you are aware of that. It is foul! It tastes like a mix of dried scorpion dust and old shoes."
"Is that really the reason, Hathi? Or were you not sick at all? Is this all just an excuse to avoid dealing with the stacks of reports waiting for you?" she teased, her eyes sparkling.
Hatim chuckled, pulling her closer to him until their bare legs touched beneath the blanket. "Do you want me to prove to you whether I was sick or not?" he whispered, his meaning entirely clear.
Arshi drew a lazy, provocative line with her finger on his chest, her smile turning sardonic. "I am the one who woke up very early and made that 'poison' for you. It's an herbal blend for your stomach. I would be more than happy if you drink it before it gets cold, Sultan."
He sighed in defeat. Her quiet demand was more powerful than any court edict. He got up, poured himself a cup of the steaming, cloudy medicine, and forced it down his system. After gulping the bitter, weird-smelling drink, he ended up making a face of pure, comical disgust, shuddering violently.
Arshi burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the room—a sound he cherished.
"There is something I am truly curious about," Hatim scratched his throat dramatically, trying to get rid of the lingering taste. "What was that concoction made of, truly? The smell of it inside my skin makes me feel like I have drunk a witch's potion instead."
"Did you just call me a witch?" Arshi pretended to frown, though her eyes betrayed her amusement.
"I was just curious about the ingredients, my flower. My tongue feels more bitter as I speak. Tell me, what herbs do you keep that taste so deeply of bitter duty and unavoidable responsibility?" He knew exactly what she had given him—a taste of the life he was running from.
"You are being so overdramatic, Hathi. Every medication—"
Before she could finish her statement, he had lunged, his body weight pressing her back into the soft mattress.
"Let us continue from where we left off two nights ago," he mumbled, his lips hovering over hers, his eyes dark with immediate, demanding desire. "If you want to." He pressed his lower body firmly against hers, reminding her of the undeniable power he held.
***************
His mouth covered hers, the kiss long, warm, and passionate, a deep consumption that instantly left her breathless. The taste of the bitter tonic was on his tongue, a flavor of necessity and surrender that somehow heightened the sweetness of the exchange.
Arshi surrendered to the sensation, wrapping her hands behind Hatim's back, her fingertips stroking the sculpted muscle of his shoulders. She exerted her own pressure, returning his kisses with an equal, desperate hunger, wanting to feel the full, undeniable hardness of him against her. This was not a plea for release; it was a demand for connection.
He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into her heavy-lidded eyes, his breathing ragged. "How sensitive you are. A mere kiss, and you are already like this." His voice was thick with admiration.
Arshi could not recall when or how her clothes had been shed, but she lay before him, naked and unashamed, utterly aware of Hatim's gaze on her skin, her body illuminated by the pale sunlight. Her figure was exquisite, a well-balanced curve of bosom and hip, her waist perfectly defined—a body forged by hard work and resilience, now elevated by love.
He landed a soft kiss on her lips, then began his slow, meticulous exploration of her body, tracing a path down her cleavage, over her flat belly, and down her inner thighs. His touch was an agonizing tease, his fingertips moving gently over her pleasure points. He slid his hand between her legs, finding her already slick and ready.
"I will be extra gentle this time," he mumbled against her skin, his words a heavy, necessary promise.
"Do not be gentle," she managed to gasp, gripping his arms, her eyes meeting his. "Be… thorough. Take the hesitation away. Take the fear away."
He understood. He didn't hesitate again. He positioned himself between her thighs, his eyes locked on her face, watching for any trace of the pain that had ended their first encounter. He entered her slowly, meticulously, allowing her time to adjust, but with a firm, non-negotiable intent.
The full, deep pressure returned, but this time, it was not the shattering, slicing pain of the first night. It was an overwhelming fullness, a stretch that quickly gave way to a radiant, incandescent pleasure. Arshi cried out, not from pain, but from the sudden, powerful wave of sensation that flooded her.
Hatim began to move, his pace measured, his focus absolute. With every deliberate thrust, he was not merely taking pleasure; he was erasing the shadows of her past and the fear of the future. He drove deep, pulling back just to the edge of connection, then pushing in again, staking his claim.
Arshi found herself moving in perfect, reciprocal rhythm beneath him, clinging to him, her hands clawing his back. All thought of the palace, of Zuleika, of Nafisa, and of the bitter tonic vanished. There was only the sound of their skin sliding against one another, the scent of their shared passion, and the growing, unbearable pressure within her core.
He felt the change, the reciprocal, demanding shift in her body, and he let out a low, guttural roar of pure satisfaction. He released his control, driving his pace faster, stronger, and more primal.
She felt the world contract to a single, white-hot point of sensation. Her body arched violently, her hips lifting to meet his final, desperate thrusts. The feeling was a glorious explosion, a tremor that ran from the base of her spine to the tips of her fingers. She cried out his name—Hathi!—a raw, unburdened sound of total release.
Hatim, feeling her final shudder envelop him, allowed his own control to shatter, collapsing over her, his seed spilling into her warmth.
They lay tangled, bodies glistening, breathing the same air in ragged, shallow gasps. Hatim remained heavy upon her, protective, claiming, and completely spent. After several long minutes, he slowly eased himself off her, his body still trembling, and pulled her close, tucking her head onto his chest. He kissed her crown, his lips brushing her sweat-damp hair.
"My Queen of Justice," he murmured, his voice husky with love and exhaustion. "Do you see now? We will face the palace, and the world, together. My word is my bond."
Arshi didn't reply, her exhaustion profound, yet she managed to smile against his chest. She had agreed to return to the palace, not as a victim, but as an intervention. She would use her new power to protect the helpless, starting with little Nafisa. And tonight, she had learned a new truth: her heart, and her body, belonged absolutely to the Sultan who had just surrendered his own formidable will to her.