SAMPLE CHAPTERS ONLY

“All these ploys the palace has taught me, do they make me a bad man, Buraq?” He runs a hand down the forelock of his horse. “Perhaps they do. But at least all goes as planned.”

Her father was a vizier of Khalid bin Abd al-Malik. When the caliph passed away, her father left the advisory council. Soon after, he departed this world too.

Then the governor of Qahira made a claim for the throne. War broke out. He lost everything, including her. Her family left Baghdad, and all the old chapters of his life were torn from the scroll of his story.

Until now.

Now he has by fate found her again, his token of those golden days. So if anything beautiful has returned to him, he should keep it close to his heart.

“How fortunate to be reunited with you again, but I’ve overstayed my welcome here.” He gazes out at the valley rolling before him, its hills rising and falling like the waves of his life. “Baghdad is your home, and it’s time to take you back there, malikati.”

⁀➴

The evening is battling to last when the troop of men unload their horses on the outskirts of Isfahan. Despite the exhaustion etched on their faces, they move quickly to set up tents for the night.

Not a minute has been wasted since her abduction. They must reach the palace as soon as they can. Within a few days, she will be too far away to turn back to the comforts of her home. Her heart grieves with every step of the journey.

The commander dismounts his horse and offers her his hand. She ignores him and swings down from her horse herself. He lets out a short, mocking laugh. She dares to glare at him.

“Men,” he calls out, his gaze never leaving hers. “Prepare a good meal for our guest.”

She bites her tongue. Despite the circumstances, she doesn’t allow herself to cower before the man.

“We don’t treat thieves very well.” Muawwiz reaches behind her and tugs his horse by the noseband, moving it away. “But you’re the general’s kin, and he and I go back a long way.”

His tone is edged with resentment. Perhaps there is some rivalry between him and Eskander. Or perhaps that’s simply how the commander is. From the very first glance, there has been nothing chivalrous about him.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

She presses her lips together, her glare sharpening.

“Don’t tell me then. But how did you get the caliph’s seal?”

“I’m not answerable to you.” She finally breaks her silence.

His eyebrows twitch. “Who are you answerable to, then?”

“The Khalifa. It’s his seal, not yours.”

He laughs, amused, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe her naivety. “In all my years serving al-Shafay, I haven’t once seen him. What makes you think you will?”

She frowns.

Who is al-Shafay? Her curiosity resurfaces. Why has no one seen the ruler of such a mighty kingdom? How is it even possible?

She swallows her questions and meets Muawwiz’s impenetrable eyes.

“The fact that no one before me had his seal.” She clutches her dress, her heart pounding. “Does your caliph feel so threatened by a girl that he must take her from her home like this?”

Muawwiz doesn’t respond to her bold words. He only stares, and Noura takes a tentative step back.

“So,” he says, a sly smile creeping across his lips, “you admit that you stole the seal?”

She clenches her jaw. Whatever explanation she gives him—even the truth—he will never believe her.

“How did the caliph know I have the seal?” She tests her luck. “How is it that, of all the houses, you appeared at mine so quickly?”

“Why do you think he’s the caliph, girl?” Muawwiz taunts. “He knows everything that goes on in this kingdom.”

“No wonder his seal was stolen.”

“I wonder if you really are so innocent, or simply good at pretending?”

He latches onto her arm, yanking her forward. Her body jolts, and she shoves hard against his chest. But to no avail.

“Eskander did it, didn’t he?” Muawwiz grits out. “I knew he was a traitor.”

Her blood runs cold at the allegation. Her eyes dart to him, wide. He thinks Eskander stole the seal. Given his rank, Eskander has both power and access to many things, and thus many enemies. This incident might turn into a plot against him.

Her throat tightens, words failing her to defend Eskander.

“We’ll see what Ameer Zakariya has to say about it.” Muawwiz smirks, satisfied with his false claim. “The vizier favors him unfairly. He must realize now that promoting him to the rank of general was a mistake.”

Unable to endure the accusations any longer, she snaps, “Eskander’s family has served the royal house since long before your birth. Your bitterness toward him only betrays your envy.”

Muawwiz abruptly grips her jaw and jerks her face upward. “Insolent girl! Wait till we reach the palace. You’ll make a fair slave for me if the Khalifa spares your life,” he spits. “Eskander will have his head on a spear in the middle of Baghdad for his crime.”

“And if we’re proven innocent, I’ll dig out your heart with my dagger for this humiliation,” she hisses back, losing the last of her patience to her raging anger.

His fingers tighten around her jaw. But before the commander can respond, an arrow whizzes past, slicing the space between them, missing their noses by a hair. Muawwiz leaps back.

She stumbles away, collapsing onto the dust. Her head whips toward both her assailant and her savior. The commander sneers at the intruder.

“Slave!” he barks. “How dare you?”

Two riders approach them, both cloaked. One rides a white steed with a bow in hand, likely the archer whose arrow now lies buried in the earth beside her. The other comes on a chestnut horse.

The rider on the white horse has his hood thrown back, his shoulder-length hair loose, streaming in the wind. The other keeps his hood drawn low, a cloth masking his face. Only his eyes are visible, and even those she cannot discern in the fading light.

“Move away from the girl!” the archer commands.

Though Muawwiz had called him a slave, the authority in his voice forces the commander back. The men of the troop gather round, sensing something momentous is about to unfold.

Muawwiz bares his sword, quaking with fury. “Who are you to order me?”

“I come by decree of the Khalifa to escort the girl safely to the palace.” His voice is even, unshaken. “You and your men are dismissed.”

“Ameer Zakariya entrusted this task to me!”

“You take your instructions from the vizier, Commander. But I take mine only from the caliph. And this is the decree of al-Shafay himself.”

When Muawwiz makes no move to comply, the archer nocks another arrow to his bow.

“The first shot I missed on purpose. But you know I never miss my mark. Don’t test me.”

“This girl is of Eskander’s family,” Muawwiz says. “The caliph’s seal was found with her. I cannot leave her in the hands of a slave.”

“If she’s of the general’s family, you should better keep your distance,” the archer warns. “Don’t forget—it wasn’t long ago that General Eskander nearly sent you to your grave.”

Muawwiz snorts at the insult. “Did Eskander buy you into his service, slave? Since when did you speak for him?”

“Ever since the general and I made a common enemy,” he bites back. Sliding his bow away, he dismounts and strides toward them. “Camp here for the night. At dawn, leave with your men. The girl comes with me to Baghdad.”

“I’ll not obey any order from you.”

“Commander!” the other man with the archer thunders.

He nudges his horse forward and, without dismounting, throws a scroll case toward the commander.

“Defy the order of al-Shafay only if you wish to be locked in the dungeons rather than return to the palace.”

Muawwiz retrieves the case and unrolls the scroll, the man waiting until he has finished reading. Then, without further protest, Muawwiz sheathes his sword. He glowers at the man he had called slave, then tips his head at the other before seizing the reins and leading his horse away. His ego deflated, his pride crushed.

The soldiers scatter. The man on the horse finally turns his attention to her. She carefully pushes herself up from the ground.

Nearer, his eyes come into focus, deep brown and kind upon her. Though the rest of his face is hidden, she gets a sense of reassurance from him.

“No harm will befall you,” he tells her, cutting off any reply she could’ve given him as he turns to the archer. “Escort the lady to the palace. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The archer gives a curt nod.

As suddenly as he appeared, the man disappears into the distance with a crack of his reins.

The archer turns to her. Unlike his fellow, he has cold, inscrutable eyes, with two scars over his left eyebrow, which split it into three parts. A thick, dark stubble lines his jaw and trails down to his neck. He meets her stunned gaze with an impassive one, set over the sharp angle of his nose.

Then, to her further surprise, he takes off his cloak and tosses it toward her.

“Warm yourself. I’ll get you something to eat.”

She comes to her senses at his words. “I won’t eat,” she refuses, swatting his cloak aside. “I’m not a thief. Take me back home.”

“Any resistance will only trouble you. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”

He strides away to the fire, where the meal is being prepared. Noura glances around. She’s hemmed in by soldiers, blocking every escape. Even if she manages to trick them, where will she go? If she returns home, they will find her again. If they don’t, they might torture her family. She’s at a loss either way.

A million stars twinkle across the canvas of the night. Even in darkness, there is always light. Distant, perhaps, but still there. She must keep going. She must find a solution. If she runs away like a coward, what will become of her family? How will she prove Eskander’s innocence? She would rather endure hardship herself than see her family suffer.

Heaving a sigh, she hugs her knees to her chest and buries her face against them. Though her body shivers, she refuses the man’s cloak.

Her fingers graze her chest where her pendant once lay. She longs to have it back. And with it, she misses her father. Her mother is alone. She yearns for home, and for the safety of Eskander’s presence.

Ya Rabbi.

She lifts her head at the shuffling of feet. The man returns with their meal, settling a few feet away as he pushes a plate toward her.

“Eat.”

She doesn’t lift a finger.

He gestures to the plate, repeating, “Eat.”

“I don’t have an appetite.”

“We leave at dawn. You need food and rest.”

“I didn’t steal the seal,” she says, desperate for someone to listen. “If I tell you how I found it, you won’t believe me. But I swear—it wasn’t me. Someone else stole it. I caught him breaking into my house and he dropped it there. He stole my gold pendant too. The real thief is still out there. I’m innocent. Eskander is innocent. Please… take me home.”

He stares at her, a moment too long, before blinking away. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I have to take you to the palace, willingly or not. I’m only following orders.”

She digs her fingers into the earth, helpless and furious at the man’s disregard. “Ordered by whom?”

He ignores her and picks up his plate.

“Al-Shafay?” She clicks her tongue. “Your caliph is a beast if that’s how he rules.”

“You don’t know him,” he replies without looking up.

“Do you?”

“I serve him.”

“Then you’re a beast too.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, wry and wicked. He lifts his gaze to her, tilting his head, his dark eyes unblinking. Something in his look chills her. She swallows, scooting away from him.

“Considering this, you should comply.” His voice is hushed, dangerous. “Because you cannot outrun me.”

Against the hammering of her heart, she can barely hold his gaze. He won’t harm her. He cannot. He’s ordered to take her to the palace safely, after all.

“Who the Khalifa is to you depends on you.” He leans forward, his gaze unwavering. “Betrayal deserves no mercy in punishment. The rest may be forgiven.”

She grinds her teeth, frustrated at the fingers pointed her way. Over a theft she never committed.

“I didn’t steal the seal. Even if your caliph puts a sword at my throat, my answer isn’t going to change.”

He resumes eating his meal without answering. She faces away from him.

The night is deepening, wrapping everything in a veil of darkness. But the sky remains beautiful, tragically so, with the stars intricately woven into its black blanket. Might Eskander be stargazing too? He’s really fond of them.

Look at the sky, Nour. Look at the stars. They’re my light in the dark nights of the war. They remind me of you. How your name means the same: light. They give me hope that I’ll return home.

A sorrowful smile kisses her lips and she closes her eyes. Tears float behind her eyelids but she doesn’t let them fall. At least in the palace, she’ll have Eskander. She shushes her heart and turns toward the man, surprised to find him watching her.

They stare at each other, until the seconds stretch too long.

What an odd man, she thinks.

Noura clears her throat. “Who are you?”

He blinks, as though waking from a haze, lowering his gaze to his plate. “Do you ask for my name, or my designation?”

“Both.”

“Adam.” His hollow, bottomless eyes flick up. “Personal guard of Arwa bint Atta.”

Her breath catches. “The wife of Yusuf bin Khalid?”

He nods, adding with purpose, “The Malika of this kingdom.”