AFTER BATHING IN a sweet-smelling mixture of milk, honey and lavender, which left her skin feeling refreshed and softer than ever, Zeinab was doused in rose water. A pleasant redolence lingered on her skin and in her hair, making her smell of the aromatic roses in the palace garden.

Two servant girls then entered the bedroom with clothing, jewels and an ivory comb. Before she even knew what was happening, her hair was wound into a polished obsidian plait that fell over her left shoulder. They dressed her in a shamla that shimmered emerald green and finished bejewelling her neck and wrists, unable to keep their wonderment at bay. They were in absolute awe with Zeinab and seemed to be surveying her with suspicion, attempting to figure out what was so special about her.

What she had that the other wives hadn't.

At last, one of the girls held out a rose to her; the stem had been removed, and along with it, all of the thorns. The petals of deep red were all that was left—they interlaced with one another, forming what looked like a whirlpool of blood, frozen in time.

"I was permitted to pick this from the garden for your hair, my lady," she explained bashfully, weaving the rose into Zeinab's braid. "You look beautiful. I hope you survive many more nights."

She couldn't explain why, but she felt a sudden, transient wave of sympathy for the servant girl.

If not for the fear of making one wrong move—accidentally letting her real name slip, revealing that she had been coercing the Caliph of Khorashtar, or simply saying the wrong thing and angering Kadar al-Din Rumi—Zeinab would've rather enjoyed the pampering. Since her family was far from wealthy, she'd spent her entire life working long hours in the fields, tending to the crops in the hot sun.

Being treated as a queen seemed like a break from all of it.

What surprised her was walking out of her room with Sabirah, only to find herself in the presence of half a dozen guards waiting to escort her. They didn't speak; they simply bowed to her and pressed their fingertips to their brow to show their respect for her. Zeinab surveyed them suspiciously.

"What is this? I get protection?"

"It would appear so, my lady. I don't know. As I said, I've never done this before. I've never seen one of his wives live to be escorted somewhere. You are royalty now, you should be basking in all of this," Sabirah pointed out. "Besides, there are always some people—unstable in the head, mind you—that try to assassinate the caliph or calipha. We wouldn't want that for you, especially since you've... already survived the greatest threat."

The bangles on Zeinab's wrists jingled as she began to walk beside her handmaid and the guards. The bodies of each of the six men were clad in heavy armour and they had scimitars—curved swords that broadened towards the point—at their sides. The weapons made her think of King Kadar and of just how much danger she was in.

Zeinab nervously smoothed down her shamla. Seeking something to hold onto, she fidgeted with the amethyst pendant at the base of her throat. She couldn't act like this in front of him. In order to remain alive, she had to truly believe she would.

Only then would her coercion truly work, for who could convince another of something if the person in question didn't truly believe it themselves?

They strode past statues, sculptures and various other works of art. Once in a while, Zeinab's eyes trailed towards the stone pillars and granite floors, which were rose-coloured and flecked with grey. She forced her gaze forwards, directly in front of her, and attempted her very hardest to not look astonished by the ornate embellishments and sheer beauty of the palace.

When, at last, they reached a pair of double doors probably leading to a much larger and much more impossibly beautiful room, Zeinab reached for the handle.

One of the guards tried to knock her hand away.

"Get your hands off of me at once," she snapped, turning to glare daggers at him.

"But—Queen Kalila—" Sabirah began.

"I know how to open a door, Sabirah," Zeinab responded through gritted teeth. "Perhaps my husband doesn't, but I certainly do."

Behind her back, she could feel the guards casting each other odd looks, but she paid them no mind and pulled the door outwards. She strode into the room without waiting for the handmaid or the soldiers, flinching inwardly at the thought of seeing and conversing with the caliph.

Indeed, the cavernous room was just as opulent as she'd expected it to be. There was a long table in the very middle of it. And on it was a tablecloth made of silver gossamer that scintillated in an otherworldly fashion when the sunlight that filtered through the windows graced it just right.

The floors here were marble and had been polished to perfection.

He stood by the end of the table, more guards flanking him. King Kadar was even more frigidly beautiful in the sun, just as with anything else.

As she approached him, his face did not change—it remained stoic. Cold. Unfeeling, just like his soul.

She bowed before him with a slight flourish, putting up a façade of unfettered confidence. "Sayyidi," she said in a tone of utmost respect, "your guards and my handmaid have just informed me that you don't possess the capability of opening a door."

She saw the guards visibly tense, but that didn't surprise her in the slightest. They had obviously never had someone speak to the caliph in such a manner. What did surprise her was the bark of laughter that followed; she knew it wasn't from the king, but she had to look twice to make sure.

No, it hadn't been him.

Just then, a man—his clothing as lavish as the palace's decor—emerged from the shadows, still laughing.

Zeinab realized that she'd mistaken him for a guard because of the simple fact that he blended into his surroundings so well. This man did not turn heads the way the king did—his face was not exactly a beauty to behold.

Prince Munir al-Din Rumi—the brother of a ruthless madman—was handsome in a way that could not be noticed all at once, but rather discovered gradually over time. His skin was a slightly lighter shade of copper than King Kadar's. He had the same blue eyes, but they were framed by much less arresting features.

A light stubble clung to his jaw, demonstrating how carefree he was in comparison to his older brother.

Prince Munir didn't have the weight of death upon his shoulders.

"What a silver-tongued tiger!" he said, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. His statement brought a blush to Zeinab's cheeks and caused her to lengthen her spine, standing straighter. "No wonder you've become so enamoured with her, Kadar. She is indeed beautiful, but she is also unafraid. I always imagined your queen would never be one to cower before anyone. The only match for a man who instils fear in others is a woman who instils fear in him."

He spoke aphorisms with the eloquence of a writer.

"Munir," King Kadar tutted, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. He attempted to silence him with narrowed eyes.

"Oh, how rude of me! Allow me to introduce myself, Queen Kalila," he said, kneeling before her to kiss her hand. "Prince Munir al-Din Rumi, the baby brother of your angry king."

"Pleasure to meet you," Zeinab responded, smiling brightly despite the confusion marring the rest of her features.

How did this man approve of King Kadar's murderous activities? How could he stand being around such a monster and basically condoning his actions?

Maybe the whole al-Din Rumi family is insane, she thought. Maybe the caliph isn't the only one.

Prince Munir took a step towards her. "Tell me, my dear calipha, are you worth your weight in stars?"

She frowned at this particular question, unsure of how she was supposed to answer. However, Kadar saved her from having to.

"Munir," the king hissed between his teeth. There was cold calculation in his glare. "Shut up." His face darkened, as though he longed to reach out and strangle his own brother.

"Apologies. God has spoken!" Prince Munir responded facetiously before turning away.

If she was to be completely honest, Zeinab couldn't tell whether they were being playful with each other, or whether they truly wanted to anger one another.

"We shall eat," said King Kadar, the planes of his face becoming sharper.

It was not a request, it was a statement. An order, perhaps. Nevertheless, he rounded the table swiftly and pulled out a chair like a true gentleman would have, waiting for Zeinab to sit. She took care to walk towards him as painfully slowly as she could.