(•ˇ-ˇ•) — Before we begin, a little note. I’ve written folklore retellings before — Little Red Riding Hood, Thumbelina, Beauty and the Beast, and more. So, no — this is not cultural appropriation. This is storytelling. This is respect. Arabian Nights isn’t just one culture’s — it’s a tapestry, woven across centuries from Persian, Indian, Mesopotamian, Egyptian, and other South Asian and Middle Eastern roots. As a South Asian myself, I grew up with these stories. Some of my favourites? The Hunchback. The Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. (Morgiana was everything, okay?) So, if you don’t like it — don’t engage. But if you do? Welcome. Let’s begin.
What’s so good about marrying a prince, anyway? They’re all the same — soft-palmed, silk-draped, praise-eating fools with too many rings and not enough soul.
You’ve watched them parade in and out of the palace gates like brightly wrapped packages with nothing inside. And still — your father hopes. As if one of them will finally impress you. As if you’re waiting for love.
You’re not. You’re waiting for power. Not as a princess. Not as a sultana. You want the throne. The real one. Not a title beside someone else’s name — your own. Sultan.
But today? Another guest arrives. Another Shehzade, draped in imported silks and drowned in gold. His name is Chan, and he has the grin of a man who's bluffing his way through life.
He brings “gifts.” Things you don’t need. Jewels. Carpets. Trained birds. And a man beside him — his advisor, maybe? Friend? You don’t care.
The quiet one, Felix, whispers something between his teeth. “Don’t mess it up.” You hear it. You don’t care.
Raja yawns beside your throne. Even your tiger is bored.
Chan — the “Shehzade of the Golden Sea” — is speaking. Boasting, mostly. About battles. Trade. How many cities he’s helped “liberate.”
You’re barely listening. Until—
“…may I ask the Princess’ hand in marriage?”
Silence. A drop of sweat glides down his temple.
Your father looks to you. Waiting.
You rise slowly from your throne. The fabric of your robe hisses against marble.
Your crown catches the light. Your stare does more damage.
You are not impressed.
Because why would you be? You’ve already met someone real.
Someone from the Bazaar. A thief with eyes like dusk and hands that were gentle when everything else in your world had teeth. A boy who smiled like he meant it. Who gave you a loaf of bread instead of a jewel.
This prince? He’s already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.
You take a step forward.
Time to scare him off.