I pounced home, very angry. I don't even know if it was anger, but it felt like it. How dare he play with me like that? How dare he stir something inside me I can't name, then pretend it never happened? I'm human, you know.
When I reached the prince's court, the scent of incense and roasted lamb filled the air — dinner time. The maids met me at the entrance, bowing low as a soft melody echoed behind them. I was sweaty, my skin still tingling with the aftermath of training. Yet, after a moment, the exhaustion disappeared, as though the power within me dissolved it.
"Your Highness," they chorused, their heads still bowed.
"Where is Bahati?" I asked, brushing past them.
"In the pantry, my lady. Washing some dishes."
I stopped, turning sharply. "She's not some lowly maid. She's my friend. From now on, she will never do labor unless it's for me."
The maids exchanged uneasy glances. "Yes, Your Highness."
"Now please, leave me. I'll bathe alone tonight."
They hesitated but obeyed, their slippers whispering against the marble as they disappeared down the white hallway.
I walked to my chambers — the silence a kind of ache. The moonlight poured through the latticed windows, and the sound of distant drums from the outer courts reminded me of home.
The bath was warm and perfumed with sandalwood. As the water touched my skin, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My reflection in the water shimmered, shifting — almost like the face of another woman. A goddess maybe. Or someone I no longer recognized.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember Tan — the songs we used to sing under the giant trees, the laughter, the earth beneath my feet. It was all fading, like smoke. I'd give anything to go back to those moments.
But destiny doesn't return what it takes
I got ready and wore a silvery-white sari; it was light and airy, flowing like liquid silk, revealing only what it chose to. My legs, the curve of my collarbone — the rest was a whisper of light. I dusted my lids with silver shimmer to mirror the moon outside, unsure why I even bothered. Perhaps I wanted him to see me, even if I didn't want to admit it.
The dinner hall was quiet, kissed by moonlight that spilled through the tall arches. A round table stood in the middle, set only for two. The air smelled of roasted almonds and jasmine. It was always his ritual — dining alone under the moon — but tonight, he'd made space for me.
When I entered, Prince Khalid was already seated. His robe was black with threads of silver that caught the light, his expression unreadable. He gestured gently.
"Sit."
I did, folding the sari beneath me. My eyes caught his for a second, then slipped away.
He studied me in silence for a while, before saying, "Why the long face?"
"What… me?" I asked, feigning surprise.
He tilted his head, amused. "Do you see anyone else here?"
I didn't answer. I busied myself with the jeweled goblet in front of me, tracing its rim with my finger. "I'm very well, my prince," I finally said softly. "Just a bit tired from the training today." I touched my back, pretending to feel pain that wasn't there.
"Ahhh… I see."
He leaned back, watching me. "You've grown stronger."
"Or maybe just stranger," I muttered under my breath, forgetting who I sat with.
He smiled faintly — not mocking, not stern, but almost… proud. "Perhaps both."
A silence settled between us, thick but not uncomfortable. The moonlight danced between our shadows. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could sense the storm inside me — the confusion, the fear, the… longing.
——————————————————-
The Silver Falcon Wing shimmered like moonlight turned to marble. Candlelight dripped over the walls, tracing the silver filigree, softening the grandeur into something intimate.
Prince Khalid sat across from me — still, composed, every motion deliberate. Even the way he poured wine seemed like a ceremony.
"They say," I said, swirling the cup between my fingers, "that the chefs of the Silver Wing outdo even those of the Main Palace."
He gave a faint smile. "You believe every rumor you hear?"
"I believe the ones that taste good." I sipped, savoring the warmth. "So far, this one's true."
He looked down, amused despite himself. His control was almost theatrical — every smile he tried to suppress only made me want to provoke another.
The wine worked its way into my veins, softening the edges of my restraint. I talked about Tan — the rivers that shimmered like melted glass, the scent of the first rains on red soil, the songs my mother used to hum. He listened in silence, eyes steady, though something unguarded flickered there — longing, or pity, or both.
"Your eyes," he said finally, "they change color when you speak of home."
I blinked. "Do they?"
"They're gold now." His tone was quiet. "Like the flower."
My throat tightened. The flower — that impossible vision that had taken root in me, blooming inside my chest like a secret sun. Since that night, I hadn't felt like myself. I felt more — and less.
"Perhaps it likes being remembered," I said softly.
Khalid leaned back, studying me. "You've become something people can't explain, Iana. Even I can't."
"That frightens you?"
He looked away. "It intrigues me."
The air between us thickened. My pulse matched the flicker of the candles.
"You're always so careful," I said. "So precise. Don't you ever get tired of it?"
"Duty doesn't get tired."
"That's not an answer."
He sighed, setting his cup down. "You wouldn't understand."
I leaned forward, smiling. "Try me."
Something broke then — a small crack in his composure. He smiled, slow and reluctant. "You never follow rules.
"And you never break them," I shot back.
"That's how I stay alive."
"That's how you stay half-alive."
He laughed — actually laughed — a low sound that made something inside me stir.
The laughter faded into a silence that felt almost fragile. His gaze lingered, longer than it should have.
Later, when the room spun faintly and the candles blurred, he rose to help me up.
"You've had too much," he murmured, his hand steady at my waist.
"Maybe you should have stopped me," I teased, though the words slurred a little.
"I tried. You don't listen."
He carried me through the quiet halls — his scent like oud and rain. My head rested against his shoulder, and for a moment I forgot everything but the sound of his heartbeat, slow and relentless.
When he set me down on my bed, the spell should have ended. But I didn't want it to.
I caught his sleeve. "Stay."
He froze. My fingers brushed the fabric — soft, cool, silver. His gaze fell to my hand, then rose to my face.
"Iana…"
"Just for a moment," I whispered. "Before you turn back into the dutiful prince."
His jaw tensed. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Then tell me."
He didn't move. The space between us burned. His eyes searched mine, and for a heartbeat, the rules he lived by seemed to slip away. He leaned closer — close enough that I could feel his breath, taste the ghost of wine between us.
But then he drew back, as if fighting something invisible.
"Rules keep us safe," he said, but his voice betrayed him.
"Safe from what?"
"From ourselves."
He turned to leave. I wanted to hate him for it — for being stronger, or perhaps more afraid.
When the door closed, the room felt emptier than before.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my skin still humming where he'd touched me. The glow beneath my ribs pulsed faintly, like the golden flower inside me had been awakened again.
And I couldn't tell if it was the magic, or him.