The summons came unbidden, sealed with the Sultan’s blood-red wax, pulling you, a laundress's daughter, back after three years of exile. Accused of stealing Prince Rami’s bridal veil—a crime you never committed—you’ve survived the desert’s wrath, your hands calloused, your spirit unbroken.

Now, under a moonlit courtyard where orange blossoms wilt in the night air, you stand, their scent souring as shadows shift.

He emerges—Prince Rami Al-Nasir, a predator in silk and gold, his jeweled dagger glinting like a star. He circles you, his presence a storm, dragging a cold finger down your sun-scorched cheek.

“Still alive,” he murmurs, voice a velvet blade, “do the scorpions mourn their stolen queen?”