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THE TRAVELERS' FOOD STORES HAD DWINDLED—HAVING ended two whole days ago, at The Lion Tombs of Dadan, raided by the thieves and crooks that had come across the girls in the tomb of Mundir.

Dilruba Badawi of Hegra found it wretched that The Lion Tombs had borne the name that they had, and had been anything but. She has found them utterly mesmerizing, yes, but they had taken from her a sick revenge over every bit of her admiration—as though none of her silent praise, her fingers touching the walls, her emerald orbs fixated on the carved lions, her tendency to seek out the moon marked spots in the exposed burial chambers.. as though none of it had been wanted. As though all of it had been hated.

The Tombs had been the place of her violation—a vicious assault that did not belong to the time or place or the person. A violation that was so dirty and disgusting that she felt as though she had been the one to taint everything that tombs stood for—as though she had desecrated the place by just being there and being present and available so much so that a crook would come across her and touch her like he had, tying her wrist together and binding them to a boulder.

It was her fault for stopping at the tombs when she should've just gone onwards like the tahararat min alkhatiya had advised. Women traveling alone through the desert and with little defenses were indeed loot—toys—for the thieves and other evil intentioned travelers that came across them, yes, such a fact was an existing thing. But in Dilruba's case it could've been avoided had she merely just stifled the inquisitive part of her that fluttered a different way when she visited places where the stories and poetry she had often heard, took inspiration from.

If she had merely just gone onwards, none of what happened would've happened.

Dilruba shuddered again, feeling the feeling of hands on her body—all the places that had been touched and groped by a thief and crook whose distasteful face she had seen in her sleep for the past two nights, and had awoken sweating and trembling, unable to fall asleep again.

For it was true, all the terrible stories she had heard about women being captured and raped in the desert. All those stories were true, for yes, those women survived often, but then they merely breathed, not lived. They became living statues, only eating and breathing but no longer feeling. Dilruba had not been penetrated, for she felt no intrusion at her core, but she had been touched and it had still scarred her.

Allah, Dilruba's bolder peers in Hegra—court dancers that spent private time with clients after performing the events—they got touched and penetrated by many that they did not care for and even detested the sights of, but how come they were still intact? How come they were so strong to indulge in such a way and then forget about it afterwards? How come they moved on so easily and Dilruba could not even think about anything else but that despicable man's face for every minute of these two days?

She had broken down. All of her firm plans and decided moves had crumpled. She was stopping along the journey often now—every few hours to get off the camel and feel her feet in the sand, walking off a bit so that Kiah would not see her cry. Dilruba had started speaking less too, the last time she had said a word had been yesterday, and the girl could not even remember now what that word had been. At present she spoke only in soft smiles and nods to reassure her sweet companion that she was fine and that everything was alright—scarcely believing that fact herself.

She understood that she was traumatized slightly by what had happened—and what could've almost happened—to her, and that fact alone irritated her like nothing else. This was a common occurrence in the desert, most stories she knew in life were always tainted with such abuse made by the hands of rampant men. And had not Dilruba gotten off easy? Had not she been saved before her body had been violated in a way that would definitely have altered her for a longer time to come? So many women with worse outcomes would do anything to trade places with her, having been saved by a wraith as she was. So why did she not feel lucky?

Dilruba had tried many times in the past two days to push the matter away, to stifle it somewhere in the back of her mind, but it prodded to the surface often and she was sick of thinking about it, but could not stop. The occurrence and the thoughts of it were undermining her hold on herself, and her belief in herself. Dilruba hated that, Allah, she hated that so much.

She had thought about Mundir Zumurrud Dadan too, the wraith who had saved her—a young boy of nineteen who had swallowed large and sharp stones to bring upon his own death. She envisioned him speaking to her like he had that night, and she saw him in her mind's eye crushing the skull of her assaulter with a giant rock repeatedly. She could see the bits of bone and flesh sprinkle upwards into the air like tiny flecks of sand being manipulated by a strong wind, and she had heard the squelching sound of a head being caved in as the bones gave way.

"Tell Ya Aydi—my big brother, my strength, my friend—that I tried to repay him for his kindness to me, but it will never be enough."

The wraith's words still chilled her to her core, for two whole days they had simmered inside her, and though they had been intense and such a shock to hear, the sheer discomfort and ache of her assault had still won over Dilruba's countenance, plunging her into a dark dismay that each hour she desperately tried to struggle out of.

"My big brother is called Burhan Abelhamid."

Burhan. Somehow, everything always came back to him, especially now that she had distanced herself from him—at least in body, if not in her disloyal heart. Now that she was running away, his name seemed to follow her like a shadow cast upon the sand dunes, except, it was much more efficient a follower than perhaps even her own shadow could be.

Burhan had met the wraith Mundir, and he had done a kindness to the wandering soul of the boy—a soul doomed to stay tethered to the ground as a result of his suicide, for suicides were cursed and selfish acts that had consequences such as never entering either heaven or hell.

But what had that kindness been? What could Burhan have possibly done for the soul of a boy who had been dead for almost two centuries? What kindness could a man do for a mere soul that he hadn't done for more than a hundred innocents he and his men had slain attending a wedding? What kindness had been shown to a mere insignificant soul doomed for its own selfishness that hadn't been shown to the entire Sultanate of a prestigious city? It's throne robbed and given to someone else?

Dilruba could not fathom it at all, though her heart lurched at the realization that Burhan Abelhamid had managed to win over the heart of a young man's soul—even if that soul had stayed tethered for more than two centuries.

How could he have been so cruel and so kind at the same time? What was this selective compassion that could only be shown to some and was not spared for others?

The joint trade route towards the cities of Hegra and it's neighbor city Najran, was due—according to the tahararat min alkhatiya's given map—to become visible on the horizon any hour now, for the plains of Jabal Ithlib had just been left behind a few hours ago. Despite the sporadic bouts of pausing the journey and bringing all the camels—Dilruba's own purchased Bactrian camel, as well as the three camels that belonged to the thieves she had encountered in The Lion Tombs of Dadan—to a halt multiple times, she had still managed to complete the journey, well, almost.

The camels belonging to the thieves had been a strategic move to bring along, tying them behind her own camel so that they were all led in a queue. She supposed she could sell them if need be, to procure some coins or even food directly from any traveler she happened to come across. She had retrieved her jewelry back from the hands of the dead thieves, and was now in possession of the thieves' belongings too—everything that had been tied to their camel's backs. Those possessions had included dirty clothes that she supposed were considered a fresh change of attire for those rancid men, as well as a large sum of gold coins retrieved from each of the four packs of the thieves, buried in between their clothes. Along with a small leather bottle full of only a pint of water attached to each pack, there had been a tasbih each—a discovery that startled Dilruba to her core.

The prayer beads were a shock to find, and the Hegran girl had muttered a soft prayer under her breath. Religion was tucked away everywhere, and it was a moment of vulnerability as one discovered it where one had least expected to find it. Those men—cruel thieves and rapists as they had been—had carried with them a tasbih each, perhaps believing Allah's protection to shine upon them regardless of how they had behaved in life. Allah was merciful, yes, but you had to recognize your sins, ask forgiveness and repent. Why should He protect you just because you asked for it? Why should He disregard everything else just to aid you because you demanded it of Him, showing no effort to make Him believe that you had earned His aid?

Dilruba could not attempt to understand the relationship of man with religion, but she could only be mindful of her own relationship with it.

She had pocketed the tasbihs, deciding that she would sell these too if opportunity arose. For it wouldn't do to keep another man's tasbih—another man's relationship with Allah lacing every single bead on that chain. No. One bought tasbihs when they were fresh and new, brimming with devotion to submit to a whole new worship between a whole new man and the constant God.

Dilruba had money now too, yes, but they were those men's coins, and she couldn't use those men's coins, regardless of her bringing them along upon her journey. Those men had carried the loot of innocent people, they had robbed and thieved and not a single one of the gold byzantine coins she had found was earned through their own sweat and blood. It was black money, and Dilruba preferred not to be associated with it, regardless of how hard it would be to sell off the sickly looking camels for an adequate price.

The joint trade route that would eventually lead to Hegra's—and near Najran's—borders was about to appear, and surely the camel breeders traipsing the route looking to trade their animal wares had significantly healthier and attractive looking camels than the ones Dilruba had salvaged from the thieves. Though, on second thought, she feared that even these three camels were stolen goods. Still, she needed some money for food and to pay for some services and the entry into Hegra at the borders, so she hoped her helpless desperation earned Allah's mercy and He overlooked this one act.

Soon, the sight that she was anticipating, hovered into view and as relief took over Dilruba entirely, as she let herself forget the constant hold she had latched upon on time and let herself be carried away.

The trade route was busy, the ambience of it sounding like a thousand buzzing bees in the silent sky—from the distance Dilruba and Kiah were at present. They could see people—men, merchants, veiled women, all of them carrying wares or being carried themselves in dark coloured sedan chairs by others, or in compartments tied to the back of sturdy animals—the sight like that of a clumsy minimal space left between gilded marble tiles overrun by ants queuing and hurrying for a singular chunk of sweet a person in his hurry had dropped.

As they got closer, the ants transformed into people and the buzzing transformed into loud shouts and exclamations, the ambience becoming weightier and thicker upon one's senses, clouded both by the grunting of camels and the hefty haze of the sand in the air.

Dilruba and Kiah—both mounted atop of their own Bactrian beast, with the three camels tied behind—got sucked into the hustle and bustle of the trade route, blending in as though they had been amongst these merchants from the start.

Often, some people would turn their heads to stare, but the stares were only brief and held no meaning apart from a simple curiosity that was much too brief to even last—courtesy of the heat and the blaring sun weighing on every man and woman's temperament.

In fact, temperaments had indeed been altered such so that a few miles ahead, a veiled woman on foot screamed in frustration, letting go of the sack of.. fruits—apples, they had spilled out on the ground—that she had been holding. The man next to her—her husband or brother perhaps, with a pot belly and sun-weathered skin upon a stout form—put down his own sack of fruits right in the middle of the road and began calming her down as she continued lamenting and screaming. But his own efforts soon gave way for the people and animals passing by started to take bold advantage of the spilled fruits and the abandoned sack full.

The man turned away from his wife—or sister, perhaps—and began desperately gathering all the spilled fruit, quite comically so as he abandoned his task halfway to fight with another merchant—trying to yank out the singular apple the other man had picked up from the merchant's grip.

As Dilruba and Kiah passed the scene by, Kiah fluttered in her seat, desperately to grab some of the loot too, as she turned to look at Dilruba.

"No, Kiah," The Hegran girl narrowed her eyes, pulling her dark hood further. over her head.

"Don't create more mischief, the poor man is already getting too much of it. Besides, you do not even eat!"

Kiah shrugged in amusement, a light energy in her that was addicting—and Dilruba was once again reminded how grateful she was of her presence. The bring waved her tassel, pointing at one of the apples that had rolled further towards the side of the road and would be right next to their Bactrian camel's feet in a few moments. Then, Kiah pointed at Dilruba's chest.

"No, it's alright," Dilruba shook her head. "We shall have some money to get some food for me in no time, I'm sure. You don't have to steal for me, I don't want you to."

Kiah shook herself disapprovingly, and Dilruba felt some of the tahararat min alkhatiya's dissatisfaction at her. It wasn't that the former genie and the magic carpet were too much like each other—in fact, they were entirely different. It was just that both of them knew how.. strict she was with what she believed and how she kept her morals—Allah, she had chosen all those things over the only man who she had loved and given herself to!

But it wasn't a bad thing. She had been strong, hadn't she? Burhan was a killer and a usurper and she wasn't. She wouldn't ever hurt innocents like he did—Allah, she would die first before even harming someone who had never done anything to her. But the tahararat min alkhatiya liked to make her feel.. wrong, for it all. He liked to make her feel wrong for all of her beliefs—for even believing that the former genie should be living piously like all others of his kind.

But wasn't it all true? Religion deemed it all to be true, and even without religion, were piety and consideration for other people's lives not a foundational human aspect? Why was everyone around her content on making her feel wrong for her choices when surely they were right to make?

"And now even you think me wrong," Dilruba uttered, as Kiah shifted slightly. "Like it or not Kiah, I can never eat something stolen—or destined for someone else—even if its just an apple. That fruit is the struggling man's source of livelihood and I do not have proper untainted coin to pay him with at present."

Kiah's posture slumped, but there was a certain understanding in her manner—or had Dilruba just imagined it?—that calmed the Hegran girl slightly.

They had now neared the scene of the chaos, with multiple men and women helping themselves to the spilled fruit as the singular man failed to fend them off and his sister—or wife, maybe—still shrieked and cried, yanking at her veil in agony but not taking it off. She was being entirely ignored, but Dilruba's heart caught in her throat at closer observance.

It was the heat taking a toll on the woman, it was the heat—and perhaps anxiety and exhaustion—that was causing the woman's hysteria. Dilruba had seen panicked hysteria before, in one of her own peers in Hegra when the girl had broken up during a joint performance with Dilruba—dropping to her knees and pulling at her hair whilst she had screamed and raved, making most of the guests gape in utter shock at the turn the performance had taken.

"I can help her," Dilruba breathed, panic lacing her voice as she brought their camel to a slow halt and started digging in the sack of their belonging tied to the Bactrian camel's side.

"Kiah, stay," She spoke, "Take the reins, but don't move. If someone tries to steal, only then ride quickly a safer distance away. I shall catch up, I promise."

The being nodded, taking hold of the reins around her tassels securely as Dilruba jumped off the camel, tugging the hood deeper over her head as she slipped into the chaos being caused in the middle of the trade road. She dodged and dipped, making her way past men and women and largely being ignored courtesy of her dark covering cloak as though she was but a wraith—except she doubted even Mundir Zumurrud could've been this discreet, as grateful to the boy as she was.

Dilruba Badawi's maternal instinct had never been a hard thing to provoke, for it was something nurtured into her by the careful and warm, dark henna stained hands of Fatima aapa—making the girl ever conscious of rushing to help women younger than herself—or even older—should they need it. Dilruba spared nothing in often rushing to help even the bolder of her peers—girls who scowled and rolled their eyes at what they had nicknamed Dilruba's high and mighty piety, just for the Badawi girl's refusal to offer wealthy nobles more than just a performance.

The woman on the trade route seemed older than Dilruba—around late thirties with a facial skin worn down by the wrinkles and dryness brought on by the desert heat, and the dents and markings brought on by the infliction of acne in the woman's youth. Her eyes were a light grey, and the kohl she had applied days ago into her lash line perhaps, had now covered the circles under her small eyes, smudged—making her appear wearier and malnutritioned, more than she was.

Dilruba had successfully pulled the woman to a safe side, her arm around Dilruba's shoulder as she had supported the woman. Offering her water and bringing the amber perfume she had been given on her journey to the woman's nose to help calm her down.

The woman had struggled against what she had assumed in her further panic had been an attack, but then she had slowly given in with the scent of the perfume and then the water pushing past her lips and down her throat.

"It is alright," Dilruba's voice was soothing as she spoke, her eyes carefully on the woman as both of them entirely ignored the woman's companion struggling on the road trying to salvage the few fruits left, for most all merchants and travelers had chomped heavily into what they had managed to grab and were laughing at the struggler.

The woman took in a few slow breaths, eyeing Dilruba with slow curiosity. "Who are you dear?"

Dilruba Badawi blinked at the woman's voice—the warm notes of a gentle poetess—and smiled at her. Perhaps this woman was a poetess or storyteller, or perhaps she was just one of those women who had beautiful voices but had done nothing to employ monetary use of them, settling for lives behind closed doors and under heavy veils at their husbands' sides.

"Doesn't matter," Dilruba managed, feeling slightly wary of answering that question again. Last time, she had been bold about it, she had claimed to be the dancer and poetess that she was—but where had that gotten her with those men at the Lion Tombs?

"But I hope you are alright to continue your journey now," Dilruba raised a ripe green pear—the only food remaining in her own possession—over towards the woman. "Here, have this. Pears are cool fruits, it will make you feel better. I am sorry about the fate of your own fruits, though I do believe your.. husband has salvaged what he could."

The two women glanced towards the scene—or what was left of it—in the middle of the road. The man was now tying off the sacks with everything he had managed to salvage, which wasn't much, and the passing merchants and travelers had dispersed in amusement.

"He is my cousin, dear," The woman smiled, taking the offered pear carefully and looking at Dilruba with a lighter expression on her face and a slight glint in her grey eyes.

"I'm sorry," Dilruba rushed to apologize.

"It is quite alright dear," The woman shook her head, a laugh on her sun creased lips. "He used to be a brother to me, growing up. But then my father married us, so he is my husband too. Which makes you correct. Anyhow, it is I who should apologize for being so difficult. You see, I have a condition. I'm sick, they say. Mad, even. At least, it happens sometimes."

"Was it not hysteria?" Dilruba ventured, confused.

"No, dear. This happens to me no matter what state I'm in. No rhyme or reason to it. I have had it since I was born. I could be relaxed, sleeping in a nice warm bed and I will be inflicted with madness, waking up the entire street with my screams."

The Hegran girl blinked, nodding her head in understanding. Afflictions were as common in Arabia as limbs on a man, but Dilruba hadn't ever heard of this.. partial madness before. She knew people went entirely mad, but was this what came before complete madness? But was there no reason for it? If it was not overstimulation or even stress that caused the disturbance—like Dilruba's own peer once amidst their performance—then what was the reason for such madness?

People went mad with grief, or with the loss of love, or with betrayal. But what was the purpose of madness that came without any reason? How cruel and unfair! How terribly sad.

"I'm so sorry," Dilruba bit her bottom lip. "I'm really so sorry."

"Oh, dear," The woman's brows furrowed as she frowned. "Don't be sad on my account. I've had thirty-eight winters and summers to live with this, and I shall live more, Allah willing."

Dilruba smiled and nodded. "You shall."

"What is your name? Are you travelling alone?" The woman inquired then, peering behind Dilruba as if searching for an entourage. "Such a beautiful young girl like you should not be travelling alone. My mother would turn in her grave, she was completely against me or my sisters being alone like this!"

It was then that Dilruba realized the hood of her cloak—of Burhan Abdelhamid's cloak—had shifted backwards and fallen off her head, putting her face on display. Quickly, she pulled it forwards and adjusted it, a shy smile on her lips and a warmth on her cheeks.

The woman's genuine concern and praise reminded Dilruba of Fatima aapa, and the Hegran girl once again had something to look forward to upon stepping back in Hegra. Her work, her normal life, the governor's patronage, her spacious home flat—yes, but there was Fatima aapa too, the only family Dilruba had ever truly had.

"My name is Dilruba," The girl spoke then, her voice soft. "And I am actually travelling with a friend, so please don't be concerned about me. We are headed to Hegra, we were in Agrabah for.. a wedding."

"Oh!" The woman's grey eyes lit up. "We too were in Thāj for a wedding! My husband's brother got married, it was a very boisterous affair if I'm being honest. My husband's side of the family are quite loud people."

"But no matter," The woman shrugged just as Dilruba's interest heightened at the mention of Thāj.

"Dilruba is a beautiful name!" The woman took Dilruba's hands in hers. "My own is Basma Abood and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My husband and I too are heading for Hegra, we live there you see. Well, our families have lived there for forty years since my grandmother left Thāj and decided to make her abode in Hegra. After that we all just made our own decisions, some of us chose to stay in Hegra whilst others—like my husband's brother—went back to Thāj."

"That's so nice," Dilruba managed, slightly out of breath—elated—at the woman's confidence in her. How easy the act of confiding came for some people and how difficult it was for others.

"I've never been to Thāj, I would love to go someday," She confided too, "But as for the present, I'm glad we live in the same city. Perhaps you can visit me sometime? I shall love to host you. I—I recently lost my maid, but I won't let you feel that in my hospitality."

"Oh you are a dear," Basma Abood raised her hand and touched Dilruba's cheek kindly. "Of course I shall come! I will not be bringing my husband though, and no amount of your insistence will convince me. I carry him like I carry my purse, and who wants to deal with a purse at a friend's abode?"

Dilruba smiled at the jest.

"But come dear, let us at least join the latter half of the journey together," The woman put her arm at Dilruba's back gently. "We can part once we arrive in Hegra together and then see each other again at your invitation, how does that sound?"

Dilruba felt something relax inside her. She had been worrying how she would fare at the Hegran border entrance and how she could sale off the camels with her and acquire food, but if she had travelling companions who already had everything of their own plans prepared, perhaps she could—

"That will not be necessary, I think," A third voice interrupted Dilruba's senses, and she startled at the familiarity of it.

She turned to look at the source, and her eyes met those of the elusive Salman Chalhoub's—the advisor to the governor of Hegra, the womanizer, the jack at court, and the man who thought himself the worthy dealer of fates.

At the sight of him standing there—adorned in his robes and holding himself high though she was no taller than Dilruba herself—she was thrown back mentally, altered in a way. His presence here meant that he had indeed escaped from Jasmine's wedding, but had been in Agrabah since, only deciding to leave for Hegra at the same time that Dilruba had—or perhaps, he was just plain following her, but the latter seemed unlikely since she had been places where he could not breach or would not trod on for fear of dirtying the hems of his gilded robes—like Burhan Abdelhamid's guild and home, and the city dungeons of Agrabah.

"You are speaking to Dilruba Badawi, my good woman," Chalhoub continued, a smug grin on his face that he flashed to Dilruba before his expression stiffened when he looked at the woman.

"She is the governor of Hegra's most prized possession, and I am sure he would not like her to be escorted in less than worthy company."

The woman blinked in confusion before a hurt seeped transparently into her eyes as she glanced towards Dilruba.

"No," Dilruba shook her head, her heart tightening in her chest. "There's no such thing. I can travel with whomever that I want—"

The woman shook her head rapidly in response, dipping it down as she fixed her gaze on the ground at the Hegran girl's feet—her demeanor entirely changed and closed down upon the mention of the governor.

"Oh no, please," Basma Abood hastened, her voice stammering. "I should not have dared to think myself worthy of travelling alongside one of the governor's women. I apologize!"

"Leave," Salman Chalhoub uttered then, and the woman nodded, stumbling on her feet as she hurried to walk backwards and away, not even daring to show her back to Dilruba.

Dilruba Badawi was shocked at the behavior, was this how some people in Hegra thought of her? As the governor's woman when she only had his patronage and not his bed? She was not the governor's woman. Allah knows he had a harem full of women and it were those women who deserved the respect and perhaps even fear that was currently being shown to Dilruba. But of course, how would homely women like Basma Abood know who was the governor's woman and who wasn't? No common eyes were privy to the governor's harem, and Dilruba herself had only visited thrice this year on celebratory occasions along with her other court dancer peers. So of course, if a man like Salman Chalhoub deemed a woman to be the governor's woman, as far as someone like Basma Abood was concerned, she was.

"Salman!" Dilruba turned to look at him, anger and frustration brimming inside her as her green eyes hardened at him. "How could you? She was just trying to help—you shouldn't have—"

Salman Chalhoub grinned, exhaling a laugh before suddenly his demeanor changed and his facial expression shifted—turned stoic—as he observed her.

"Don't, Dilruba," He shook his head once. "Don't throw stupid tantrums about meaningless things when we have a lot to unpack about your.. escapades, in Agrabah."

Dilruba blinked, anger diffusing into fear inside of her as she held onto her composure. How much did he know? The last time they spoke in Agrabah was at Jasmine's wedding, Salman hadn't known then that she was acquainted with the thug and usurper that he was anticipating the attack of on The Sultan of Agrabah. Allah, even Dilruba hadn't known that then. But what about afterwards? If Salman Chalhoub had hung around in a conflict ridden Agrabah after the Princess' wedding like old dyed linen drying on a clothesline, then did he know of what had happened to Dilruba?

Did he know that she had been discovered with Burhan Abdelhamid and had been thrown in the dungeons? That she had been broken out of there a few days later by the usurper? Allah, did Chalhoub believe what her uncle and cousin already did—that she was complicit with the usurper?

"What escapades?" Dilruba managed bravely. "The Princess' wedding celebration got attacked, so many guests were butchered. You disappeared, Salman. My cousin's friends helped me escape from there."

Salman grinned, shaking his head. He paused for a beat, observing her.

"You were thrown in the city dungeons, Dilruba," He breathed then, amusement flashing in his eyes.

Dilruba's heart tightened.

"And I want to know how that came about. I thought you were killed in the attack, but then there were rumours that the attacker had been found and The Sultan had them thrown in the dungeons," Chalhoub raised his shoulders. "So naturally, I paid a visit to the dungeons. Only to find you there."

Dilruba shut her eyes tightly, thinking of how this man—to whom she would never give even her highest self—had seen her at her lowest point. Allah, how she must've looked to him—broken, battered. Still, he had seen her and had left her there.

"Oh how you looked Dilruba," He trailed, his voice infused with mock pity. "Possibly the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid my eyes upon, reduced to.. scum, like that."

"But then," His voice raised in interest, "You were broken out of the city dungeons by none other than Burhan Abdelhamid, The Sultan of Agrabah's worst nightmare. The famed usurper and deadly swordsman—the man who currently has the entirety of Agrabah in his control."

Dilruba swallowed thickly, her eyes sharpening in interest. Had Burhan succeeded in taking hold of the whole city with his men?

"Not only Agrabah," Salman continued, observing her interest. "But Abdelhamid has managed to take over Qaryat Al-Fāw too. The Sultan of Agrabah and The Sultan of Al-Fāw—on their way to fight for Agrabah—are currently steering their armies back to Al-Fāw through the mountains and a deadly battle is about to follow."

Dilruba blinked, her eyes stinging with tears she tried desperately to hold back. Burhan had said he would come for her—send for her—once he had control over Al-Fāw, but he would have to face a battle first. A battle against two whole armies, Allah, would he succeed through that? Would the mushaewadh Burhan and his men had been serving, help them? Would Burhan survive? Would Dilruba ever discover his fate?

"What I want to know, Dilruba," Salman Chalhoub's voice brought her back to the hustle and chaos of the trade route they were standing on the edge of, as carriages and stores of camels and goods passed by.

"Is why you were thrown into the dungeons and why the usurper broke you out," Chalhoub grinned. "Your maid tells me that she saw you with the criminal twice, before the attack at your cousin's wedding."

"My maid?" The Hegran girl ventured shakily, and it was then that Salman gestured to his waiting sheltered wheeled carriage parked at the side and Dilruba saw the familiar faces of Salman Chalhoub's concubine and her own lost maid Ahya, peeking out at the both of them.

Dilruba blinked, her heart hammering in her chest. Ahya was alive? But hadn't Dilruba felt the hollow in her chest? Hadn't she been sure that Ahya had been killed? Hadn't Dilruba felt it? Indeed she was relieved that the girl was alive—happy even, but.. Dilruba's intuition was wrong. Her feelings had been wrong about this. Allah, how wrong were her feelings about other things? Would they fail her again?

"Take her," Salman Chalhoub uttered then, and Dilruba turned back to face him, confusion on her face.

But before she could understand the look on his face or the two words he had uttered, she was grabbed by both her elbows at her sides, two of Chalhoub's men grabbing her hard as she struggled in shock.

"What are you doing? Let go of me!" She gasped, shock in her voice.

"You, Dilruba Badawi," Salman ventured close to her, his facial features sharp. "Are complicit with Burhan Abelhamid and I am going to find out how. If you met him twice before the attack and he hasn't killed you yet after breaking you out of the dungeons, you are clearly important to him."

Dilruba's eyes stung then, how could she have dared to hope for a normal life for herself once she arrived in Hegra? Hadn't the tahararat min alkhatiya warned her that nothing would be the same?

"I am the governor's advisor first and foremost," Salman leaned in closer to her his breath on her cheek. "But if he found out about all of this, he will use you to manipulate the usurper and will turn that beast's eyes upon all of us and Hegra. I won't have that, do you hear me? I won't have the governor's ambition condemn us all, I have seen the blood and mess at Princess Jasmine's wedding, I saw the fate of Agrabah, I know what Abelhamid is capable of."

"Then let me go," Dilruba tried, struggling against the men's grips. "Let me go Salman, you have no need to—"

"Oh I have," He tsked, his breath now on her lips as he hovered still close to her. "You opened your fucking legs for him, didn't you? Abelhamid is in love with you, isn't he?"

Dilruba's gaze glassed up, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"If you can give yourself to a killer within the limited time you were in that city, you can give yourself to me."

Dilruba Badawi blinked, her heart stopping in her chest as her eyes peered in his.

"You will stay with me, Dilruba," Salman Chalhoub straightened and distanced himself, pinning his arms behind his back. "We will go to the governor and we shall come up with something to tell him. After which, you will become a part of my harem, and if Burhan Abelhamid cares for you as I think he does, I will have him at my bidding."

"No!" Dilruba cried out, furious and desperate. "Burhan doesn't! He will do nothing for you. If the governor finds out you plan to have Burhan's bidding at all—"

"Ah, the familiarity in your words, Dilruba," Chalhoub shook his head. "You give yourself away by every word you speak. The governor will not believe you over me. Let me be clear, there are witnesses that you were in the dungeons and were broken out by Abelhamid—a very kind woman in the cell opposite to yours already agreed to be taken to Hegra to my abode. Of course, a few hits to the head earned her compliance."

Dilruba shut her eyes at the thought of that woman, her heart stricken. Was this the fate that she had asked Burhan to free that woman for?

"So I have more evidence of your.. treachery, than you have of my intended one."

The Hegran girl ground her jaw, trying to hold a brave face as she looked defiantly into the man's eyes.

"The best option for you is to comply, Dilruba. Give in to your fate, surely you do not think yourself deserving of good after how you have betrayed your own cousin and uncle and cost so many lives? Surely you planned to punish yourself? Surely me offering you the comfort and protection of my harem is much better than what you deserve? Come now, surely you are not so ignorant to not see that."