THE GUARDS WERE waiting for her at the door.

Waiting to escort Zeinab to her death.

There was no gentleness, no pity, no remorse in their eyes as they surrounded her, urging her forward. But why would they have sympathized with her? They had been through this perhaps a hundred times before, bringing just as many girls to their inevitable demises. She was yet another doll whose neck was to be cleaved by the king—or so they thought.

With careful strides, she held her head high and propelled herself forward into the unknown. Her opulent attire, jewels and skin itself shimmered as they met the light of the setting sun. Liquid gold rays melted through the windows that lined the hallway, dancing across all that glittered. No matter how much a particular object glistered, the sun could always enhance it.

Zeinab's pace did not falter, but she turned her head to look through the windows. For an instant, she thought that she'd be fine if this was the last view of the sun she would ever see again. It had a warm amber colour to it, reminding her of the ominous dusk that would follow—and with it, her blood staining the floor.

Stop it, she told herself mentally. I'm going to live to dawn. I have something that none of the other girls had. I have a gift and I will use it to my advantage. Whatever it takes.

She was brought to a room with majestic double doors; the guard's pushed these open for her, leading her out of the carpeted hallway and into a larger bedroom. It seemed to be a guest room, but Zeinab knew better: this was where the caliph planned to slit her throat following their conversation.

Her eyes swept the room nervously, for no matter how much she pretended otherwise, she was terrified. She strode inside, her mind barely even registering the raw luxury that this room contained. With a hollow sound, the door shut behind her and from then on, all she could do was wait.

The sensation of her heart beating inside her throat was worse than it had ever been. She did not know what to expect from Kadar al-Din Rumi. There was no doubt that he was a monster, but some had their nefariousness concealed beneath a surface. Still, she could not rid her mind of the image of a man, robust and cruel-eyed, staring into her own eyes with the weight of a hundred dead souls.

A rattling doorknob startled Zeinab; she nearly leapt out of her own skin. Whirling towards the bedroom's entrance, she was prepared to face anything.

Anything... except for this.

As he strode into the room purposefully, his face was set. Guard after guard followed him, stopping directly outside the door and lining the halls.

From the moment her gaze fell on him, her deep brown eyes no longer possessed the ability to flit away. She saw nothing—absolutely nothing—but him, for he was beautiful and otherworldly in the most threatening of ways. Whatever Zeinab had expected, it was surely not this. He wasn't immensely tall, nor was his body more muscular than most of the boys from her village. But his face itself was beheld both delicate loveliness and malicious intent all at once.

The elusive dagger was strapped to his belt, ready to be removed from its sheath at any given moment.

And his eyes.

His eyes were not dark, soulless pits as she had surmised they would be.

They were blue.

The brightest she'd ever seen.

Regaining the breath that had been knocked out of her, she cleared her throat and knelt before him. She lifted her finger to her brow in a sign of respect and said, "Sayyidi."

"My queen," he greeted her.

It was without emotion.

Without a care.

She had been groomed for him. Her hair had been polished, creating strands of obsidian and her arms had been powdered with flakes of gold. Still, he didn't even look at her. She was grateful for not having to deal with a male's prying eyes, undressing her in his thoughts—but at the same time, she wondered why the clothing and the makeup had been necessary at all.

"Kalila Nejem," he said, enunciating each syllable and tasting it on his tongue.

Zeinab rose to her feet and nearly did a double take before remembering that she was supposed to be assuming her sister's identity. The door shut behind him, blocking out the guards and leaving only them.

The king and the imposter.

She tensed at the feeling of his eyes on her. He tilted his head. He was not admiring her beauty, nor was he looking at her with lust, anger or bloodthirst.

He was contemplating her.

With eyes that were somewhere between azure and sky blue.

"You don't look afraid," the caliph pointed out, stalking towards her. He stopped directly in front of her. "That's quite odd. Usually, they do. The ones without a trace of fear in their eyes are the arrogant ones who think they might be able to evade me. Are you arrogant, Kalila?"

He was testing her. But she didn't care at all and said what she wished to say regardless.

"No, sayyidi," she said, her voice strong and laced with certainty. "I prefer the term 'confident'."

Kadar al-Din Rumi's laugh boomed, echoing across the four walls. She listened for a trace of evil, but there seemed to be none. She hated his laugh and her cheeks burned at the mere sound.

"I despise liars with a burning passion," he said. His eyes glinted for a moment, and Zeinab felt certain that he knew she was not Kalila. But he couldn't have. She was just letting her fears get the best of her. "At the very least, I now know you are not one."

His hands reached for her clothing. She felt his hands graze her bare skin. In response, she sucked in a sharp breath and pushed him away. Unable to control herself, unwilling to go along with what he wanted from her, Zeinab rounded on him and glared.

"We've said just about two words to each other and that's what you want? To treat me like your slave? I assume this is what you've done with the rest of the girls—when they didn't please you the way you wanted them to, you simply disposed of them!"

He stopped.

Withdrew his hands with a weathered look pulling at his features.

Before he could have a chance to be angry, Zeinab summoned all of the power within her, swallowed her repulsion and took his face in her hands.

"You will not touch me again tonight," she said to him in a low voice. Her voice was sweet like honeysuckle and sounded more beautiful than a lark's song, and he seemed to absorb it entirely. His eyes glazed over.

And he obliged without knowing why. He had no free will while under her spell.

A slippery serpent might have lived under her very skin, for she could charm and tempt with nothing but her tongue and the words that slipped off. It was how she had compelled her mother to stay behind rather than allowing the woman to send Zeinab off to her impending doom. All because of a gift she had been born with, the young girl's words could quell unrest and convince even the most adamant of minds of anything.

They could even be strung together into tales that left the listener positively aching for more.

"What will we be doing tonight?" he asked, as though she were his king and not the other way around.

Zeinab pursed her lips, tugging nervously on the ends of the midnight tresses that fell around her shoulders. "I will be telling you a story."