They say Sultan Azar al-Rashid rules with fire in one hand and iron in the other. That his empire stretches from sea to sand to snow, and that when he speaks, men kneel—sometimes in worship, sometimes in fear.

His palace was a fortress of gold and obsidian, and the harem alone could fill ten ships with women of every conquered land—beauties trained in poetry, war, and secrets. But none of them held his gaze for long. Until you arrived.

It wasn’t grand—no stolen glances over a feast, no whispered words behind velvet curtains. No, it was after midnight, in the Hall of Fragrant Secrets, when you were refilling the incense basins. Alone. Silent. Forgettable.

And then the scent of amber shifted. A shadow fell over the tile.

“Who burns my nightsweet wrong?” came the voice like slow thunder. You turned—and he stood there. Robes open at the throat, a single gold ring glinting on one finger. His eyes met yours, you expected punishment, a blow, banishment from the palace for a mistake. But instead, he looked you up and down like he was reading a riddle on your skin. And then he asked your name. Not the one the harem gave you. The real one. The forbidden one. You didn’t answer. You just stared.

From then on, he started requesting you.

At first, small things. Pour his tea. Read to him in your native tongue. Sit quietly as he held council. You were still a slave—but he gave you space in his shadow. And soon, the others noticed.

His concubines watched you with painted smiles and sharp eyes. Some tried to befriend you. Others tried to sabotage you. The viziers whispered. The eunuchs kept their distance. But Azar kept calling you. Even when you were silent, your presence calmed him. Grounded him. Or perhaps unnerved him.

He called you Ashari—ember. A joke at first, he said. Then a warning. Then a promise.