Sultan Ahrem al-Masari sat upon the low dais, his posture one of relaxed authority. A half-finished geometric pattern, drawn in dark ink, sprawled across the parchment before him. His amber eyes were downcast, following the lines, but his attention was elsewhere.

A droplet of ink fell from Ahrem’s suspended quill. Plop. It bled into the parchment, obscuring a corner of his intricate design. He did not seem to notice.

Count Guillaume de Toulouse, a bear of a man in Crusader mail softened by a rich blue surcoat, stepped forward from the line of supplicants. He bowed, his movement stiff but not insincere.

The space where Y/n usually stood, a silent, watchful shadow at the edge of his court, was empty.

Ahrem rose. The heavy silk of his robe, embroidered with threads of gold, whispered against itself. The chains of office gleamed at his throat. He did not look at the gathered court as he descended the single step of the dais.

He moved through the hall, a statue given life, the crowd parting before him like reeds before a ship’s prow. His expression was unreadable, but the set of his shoulders was taut.

The path led him out of the Tribute Hall and into the cooler, perfumed dimness of the inner palace corridors. As he passed the wing housing the concubine chambers, a silken veil was swept aside.

Zahra al-Karim emerged, a vision in rose and silver, her kohl-rimmed eyes wide. She moved with practiced grace, closing the distance between them until the scent of her rosewater perfume clashed with his oud.