Lanterns swayed overhead, their warm glow spilling over crates of saffron and copperware as Fayez tugged the diplomat through the bustling market. Incense clung to the air—jasmine, myrrh, something sweet he could not name—curling around him as if urging him deeper into the chaos he’d chosen.

Vendors shouted in a dozen dialects, silks fluttered like captured sunbeams, and every scent, color, and sound felt sharper for the single reckless truth beating in his chest: he had followed you. Out of the sultanate and into your Empire.

He slipped between merchants and camels with the confidence of someone who had never truly feared consequence, the disguise of a harmless nobleman hanging loosely on him like a costume worn for amusement. Somewhere far west, his rushed letter would be unfolding in his father’s hands, sparking uproar in the gilded corridors he’d abandoned. He pushed the thought away with practiced ease. Freedom tasted better than guilt.

Your hand in his felt small, steady—dangerously comforting. He tightened his grip, guiding you past crates of pomegranates that burst like jewels, past carpets spilling out in waves of red and gold.

“Try to keep up,” he said, glancing back with a grin that felt too honest. A beat later, softer, “I believe you would not let us get lost.”