Alara

The prince is standing at my door. Shirtless. From the way his hair is ruffled, it is clear that he did many things to that girl in the blue shawl.

"Because . . ." Zayen's eyes find mine, panic and uncertainty flashing like flares shooting into the night sky. "Because I wanted to marry her."

What? It takes everything to avoid reacting to that statement; to avoid screaming at the most unbelievably stupid excuse I have ever heard. Clearly he is not great at thinking on his feet.

"What?" the prince asks, echoing my thoughts. What if the prince backs off now, because he thinks that this guard wants me? What if this man just ruined everything? "Zayen, you're in love with this girl?"

Zayen. That's his name. Rough and powerful. It almost suits him.

He refuses to look at me. Good! He should be ashamed, because now the prince is not going to want me anymore. Maybe that was his plan, to let this backfire and then kick me out.

I take a deep breath. Or maybe he saved me from being exposed. Possibly being locked up for treason and left to rot in the underground prison with no windows or oxygen.

Because what would I have said? How would he know anything about my mother? I have a lot of practice being a thief, but not a liar.

But now I have lost.

Nawaz steps up closer to me, most likely ready to escort me out. His hand touches my arm, but his touch is gentle. "Do you feel the same way, Malaika? Do you love him?"

"No," I shake my head rapidly. "And . . . And my mother didn't like him anyways."

"Ouch." A laugh escapes Nawaz's lips, almost sounding like it is exactly what he wanted to hear. "Unrequited and rejected by her mother. I'm not surprised." His eyes seem to turn to slits when his gaze finds Zayen's.

Those words leave an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. I'm not surprised. Kicking someone who is down is never an attractive quality, no matter how much I want to want the prince.

My stomach growls, breaking the hollowed silence.

They both turn to me. Their burning gazes make me take a step back. I don't like coming off as vulnerable, especially not around two men who I do not know.

Suddenly, Nawaz's smile is back, creating a mask over whatever is hidden behind it.

The other girls must have left. I must be his last option. That must be the only reason why he is here, taking my hand and leading me towards the kitchen.

Zayen trails behind us, until Nawaz turns to him. "Leave."

"No." His jaw tightens. "Your khara got me in this position in the first place." His eyes flicker to mine. "And this clueless girl chooses food over safety. She chooses you over safety. So no, I won't leave."

But Nawaz barely acknowledges that Zayen has said a word as he steps into the kitchen.

This palace keeps leaving me in wonder. Having seen the lush gardens in the middle of the hallways, the wealthy attendees of the ma'duba handing gifts to the Hakeem, the gigantic library with more books than a person could read in two lifetimes—I was expecting the same of the kitchens. Excess. Grandiosity. But instead, the kitchen is small, nearly home-like, and filled with the smell of a mixed of spices.

A man in patterned purple pants and an oversized white shirt stands at the stove, a huge wooden spoon in his hands. My mouth immediately begins to water.

"Afan, is that whole pot for you," Nawaz teases. There's a kindness to his voice that was not there moments ago. Why is he on a teasing basis the chef? Why is his voice laced with hatred when he speaks to Zayen?

"Of course the whole pot is for me. How do you think I got this belly?" He places a hand on his stomach. "Never trust a skinny chef, right? At least that is the excuse I use when it's two in the morning and I'm snacking on samoosas."

Nawaz walks over and places a hand on the man's shoulder, then gestures to me. "I want to treat this beautiful woman. Can you help me?"

My cheeks heat. I've never been called beautiful before. In fact, most times I am barely acknowledged as a woman—beneath my ragged clothes and tied up hair.

The chef's eyes assess me. "Yes, I think I know what you'll like." He scratches his stubbled cheeks and nods, deep in thought. "Yalla, I'll prepare it and have it brought to you."

Brought to me. If this is what royalty feels like, I don't want it. I'd rather learn. That is the way my father raised me when I was young. 'Sharpen your mind and it will become your most powerful weapon", he would always say. "Could you . . . show me?"

He chuckles, interest lifting his brows. "I was only going to pick you some litchis and slice some pear for you."

"Wh—?" I don't know what those are, but if I ask, I might give away that I am not royalty. It may be a food only the upper class know of. "Oh, okay. Then I will be in my room. Thank you."

The less I say, the better. I know that Zayen is not spilling my secret, but from the expression every time I meet his eyes, I know that I am not his favourite person. He will not save me again. I need to be careful.

But I'm used to protecting myself, figuring out new ways to make it to the next day. I've had years of practice.

I'll be fine.

~~*~~

The sweet juice of a litchi bursts in my mouth. My eyes flutter shut. I want litchis every day.

My hands are sticky from the exotic fruit. From the coarse skin covering it, I would have never thought it would be so delicious and sweet inside.

I'm adding it to my 'one day'. One day I will have a home, hidden beneath lush green trees. One day, I will be able to sit in bed and do nothing but read a book. One day, I will step out into my garden and pick litchis to eat.

We all have dreams that we strive for. The life that we are living will never satiate us, whether we have a million gold coins or zero. We will always want more. It's what keeps us living, the desire for more.

Heavy footsteps begin to retreat, indicating that Zayen must be leaving. He must think I am distracted enough by food to not hear the slow shift of wood. But it is exactly what I have been waiting for—an escape.

I need to explore the castle without him, I need to search for answers and clues and anything to know more about the prince. To know more about what softens him and hurts him. That is the only way I will be successful in this game.

I rinse my hands underneath the water bowl and push the wooden door of my bedroom open.

Glancing back at my room once again. This room is something I never thought I would get to see with my own eyes, not even in my dream of one day. That soft cloud for sleeping on . . . I am sure if I had one back home, I'd never leave it. Forget about survival.

I remember from what have read in books and stories about this land, the royalty would sleep on mats and would have the pleasure of a soft pillow for their heads. Now, they have this. Innovation has truly taken us to a new world.

In the darkness of the hallways, I trail my fingers along the walls to guide me. Hushed whispers seem to come from every corner of the palace, like there are many things happening around me that I have no idea about.

When I walked past during the day, all of the rooms on this floor seemed empty. The prince must have a room on a level above mine, which is good because that is most likely where he will be. The further he is from me, the more I can find about him in this place. I could ask, but the truth is not always a commonality with those in power.

The muffled voices become clearer and I halt, holding my breath in the darkness. They're coming from inside the walls.

I keep walking, until my fingers find the slightest incline against the wall. A strange sensation twists my gut, telling me that I am about to find out more than I had bargained for; that I should turn around and go to sleep.

The door is just like the one that the prince snuck me into, when he was trying to make a move. It's moulded into the walls, unnoticeable.

I dig my nails into the space where the wall and the door separate, tugging until my fingers start to ache. This door must not be used often.

Finally, the smallest slant of light shines through the gap. I press my face closer, the view becoming clearer.

"Take her."

~~*~~

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