A SERVANT GIRL dusted golden flakes onto the shoulders of Zeinab Nejem; against the girl's bronze skin, it looked like rusting stardust.

The girl could not have been older than Zeinab's own age—seventeen. As the servant lathered sandalwood paste over the soon-to-be queen's arms, she seemed to be actively refusing to look her in the eyes. Evidently, the young girl was aware that within a few hours' time, Zeinab's throat would be slit.

Or so the story had gone for every other girl whose hand in marriage had been demanded by the Caliph of Khorashtar.

Throughout the village in which Zeinab lived, stories of the king and what he did ran rampant. In King Kadar's search for a queen, he would do more than simply reject the women he did not like.

He was said to bear a gleaming dagger at all times—a dagger that his servants cleaned for each new prospective wife. For one evening, from dusk to dawn, he would spend some time with her, but only after she had been made beautiful. She would first be dressed up in an expensive, lavish dress. Her hair would be styled to inhumane perfection, until she no longer resembled her usual self. Her face and shoulders would glitter and reflect the sun in ways that human skin could not possibly do.

As soon as she set foot in his castle, she was being groomed for her death.

When King Kadar did not like her, he would take his dagger and cut her beautiful throat with one smooth swipe across the neck. Crimson blood would spill, but never onto his precious clothes, because he had had so much practice with it that he knew just where and how to slice veins without getting blood on his hands. It would always drip onto the floor instead, and he would leave the mess, including the corpse with its lifeless eyes, for his servants to deal with.

Then, he would simply search for another woman and the cycle would repeat.

The king was a murderer—there was no other way to describe him. None of his women had yet made it to dawn alive.

This was a bloodshed of young women—only the women were being killed because the women were the only ones that King Kadar wanted. Once he had his sights set on one, he had to have her—there was no defying him.

In that respect, Zeinab was the first.

King Kadar al-Din Rumi had requested her sister, and Zeinab had taken her place without his knowledge. If he found out that she was not Kalila Nejem, he would likely become angered at the fact that he had been defied and tricked by a mere commoner of seventeen years old.

A second servant girl slid bangles onto both of Zeinab's wrists, drawing her from her daze. Meanwhile, the first servant girl finished applying powder to her eyelids. At last, a necklace was fastened around her neck—her nerves caused her to feel it constricting around her, as though its intent was to strangle her.

Her hands flew to her throat and she nearly ripped off the jewel-encrusted accessory at the mere thought.

"Is this all?" Zeinab asked the servants suddenly, pursing her lips.

She looked down at her clothing, wondering what more they could possibly do to make her look less like herself. Earrings dangled from each of her ears and a large ruby hung from between her eyebrows, swinging at the slightest movement of her head. The dress she wore was extravagant for a death ceremony, which was more or less what she was attending.

"Honestly, what is the point of this? Is it terribly important to the caliph that I leave behind a lovely corpse?"

She chuckled to herself, unsuccessfully attempting to make light of the situation.

This is all so petty, she thought, shaking her head. Putting makeup on me when they believe I'm going to die. What for?

The first servant had been pulling a comb through Zeinab's obsidian, waist-length hair, smoothing it out and ensuring that no knots remained. At Zeinab's surprisingly comedic tone despite what the tribulations she was being propelled into headfirst, both stopped and stared at her.

It was as though they had never heard a dead girl chuckle before. Their wide, shocked eyes trailed on the ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of Zeinab's lips.

"The caliph simply wishes for his wife to look the best she has ever looked on her wedding night, my lady," the second servant girl replied, clearly devoid of any truly satisfactory responses.

"I see," she said, the lie slipping from her tongue effortlessly. "May I see my sister now?"

"My lady, that is not part of the caliph's orders," the servant girl replied again.

"I don't accept that. I must say goodbye to her. After today, I may never be seen again. Besides, I am about to become the calipha, if only for a few hours. I think it best if you listen to me, at least this once. After all, if I do end up being the queen to live, I doubt you'd want me on your bad side."

Despite it all, Zeinab found it in her to wink at them.

The silence stretched out before them. Then, the same servant who had spoken the last two sentences spoke a third time. "You may see her for two minutes, but no longer. After that, she is required to leave."

"I suppose that would be sufficient," Zeinab sighed, the sarcasm barely noticeable. "I would not want my wonderful husband to become angered. I am told he has quite a temper."

The two servant girls exchanged uneasy glances before walking over to a pair of double doors. Each grasped one of the brass handles and pushed the doors outwards, allowing a frazzled young girl to step into the room. The young girl had curly hair and skin the colour of copper. Her face was red and there were bags underneath her eyes, as though she had been crying for decades.

Kalila Nejem's eyes swept the room. As soon as they fell on Zeinab, she immediately raced towards her. As the sisters reunited for a moment, the servants stepped out and allowed the doors to shut behind them. The sound was as hollow as the very feeling in Zeinab's chest.

"I don't have much time, but listen to me," Zeinab whispered frantically, placing her hands on either side of her sister's face. "Today, and for as long as I live from now on, I am Kalila Nejem. Do you understand? I am you from now on."

Kalila remained silent, her bottom lip wobbling.

"You must leave the capital and return home so that no one can ever know the truth. Do you understand?" Zeinab repeated again.

Her eyes searched her sister's for something like understanding, but all that mirrored within the umber orbs so much like her own was despondency. Without warning, Kalila suddenly burst into tears. Sobs racked her figure, which was frail from having worked in the fields.

Zeinab remained standing for a moment, holding her sister—who was younger by only a year—against her heart. She wanted nothing more than to cry with her, but she knew that she needed to appear strong for Kalila. She was her sister's protector.

"Kalila-jan, please don't cry. I promise I'll be back. Tell Mama I love her, alright? Tell her I love her and that I'm terribly sorry for using that spell to keep her from being able to come here."

The younger of the two nodded, sniffling and wiping at her wet face. When she was finally able to get through her cracked lips, she said, "W-why did y-y-you do it?"

The soon-to-be queen smiled knowingly. "I didn't want her to feel as though she has failed one of us. It would have been horrible if she had to choose between one of us. I have made the choice."

"I have failed you," Kalila whispered dejectedly, her deep brown eyes downcast.

At once, Zeinab seized the shoulders of her sister. Her heart twisted. Looking into those eyes of burnt umber forced her to recall the reason she was doing this—for her and no one else. She swallowed the tears that nearly forced their way to the surface, determined to not let her makeup run.

"No, delam," she said adamantly. "Never say such a thing again. This is my choosing—this is what I want. I promise you will all of my heart, with all of the hope that the stars hold, that I will return. I will return alive and safe. That's all you wish for me, is it not?"

The double doors flew open and the two girls returned once again. Upon seeing Kalila still clinging to Zeinab, they pried her off.

I mean it, Kalila.

I will find what makes him tick, what sets him off, what makes his knees go weak. I will learn all that lies behind the mask he wears. I will tear it off with my bare hands and learn of all of the secrets he whispers.

I will use them against him.

As Kalila was forced from the room by the servants, Zeinab clenched her fists at her sides, her bracelets clanging together.

And I, Zeinab Nejem, will kill the monstrosity that is Kadar al-Din Rumi.