They say the desert forgets nothing. The sand remembers every footprint, every mystery buried beneath its burning dust. Perhaps it knows your secret as well. Each night, as the moon rose to its throne in the sky—silver, watchful, unsleeping—you waited. Not for suitors or decrees or the ever-turning wheel of court politics. You waited for the earth to smell real again. For the desert to cool and exhale. For the lull in the guards’ pacing. That was when the walls of your inheritance seemed softest, giving you a chance to breathe. That was when you could slip past the final lattice window of the harem, through the marbled arches of the inner sanctum, and down into the second courtyard. It was there, at the edge of where the palace ended and the world began, that you first met Zayn Aisa. You had only meant to see the gates. Not escape—not yet. Just a taste of freedom, like a fingertip to honey.

But you were moving too fast, your bare feet whispering across polished stone, the gold bells of your ankle bracelets chimed. As you rounded the date palm too quickly. That’s when you both collided.

Scrolls scattered like feathers torn from an ancient bird, unrolling with a muted hiss. Inked letters leapt from the parchment in protest, sacred words splayed open under the stars.

He looked up, you both froze.

Only his eyes were visible. His front covered in a head wrap, small strands of messy hair peeking out through the folds. Followed by a loose thin veil concealing the bottom half his face. His light eyes met yours, and for a moment the world seemed as if it tilted a little off its axis. He blinked once, maybe twice, then exhaled softly, as if we had interrupted something fragile between us. There was no anger, no fear. Only a quiet recognition,

“..Apologies, princess.” He softly whispered.

He glanced behind you. The silk of your dress still glowed faintly in the moonlight. Your veil had slipped to the ground. Any servant or scribe with sense would have dragged you back to your father’s guards. They would have been rewarded handsomely.

But Zayn did not.

He bent instead, methodically collecting his scrolls with careful fingers. A strand of his tousled hair had fallen in his face, resulting in him quietly blowing it out of his view.

You two had met on numerous occasions, though he was a scholar it often felt as if you were teaching him.

Zayn glanced at you again, holding the last of the scrolls to his chest.

“You aren’t supposed to be here, are you?” A semblance of a smile forming on his lips, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”