The kingdom of Moros was bustling with tradesmen, ships, and merchants, all hauling in crates of spices, silks, and strange-smelling cheeses from distant lands. Tariq weaved his way through the chaos, his gaze drawn to the great canal that split the city in two—a silver artery pulsing with boats and shouting dockhands.

He slowed, frowning. Somewhere beyond the noise of bartering and boat horns, he could make out yelling—sharp, irritated, and distinctly familiar.

Tariq slipped behind a merchant stall stacked with dried dates, tugging his scarf down to breathe properly. He peeked around the side—and, of course.

There she was.

His travel companion stood at the center of a small crowd of what could generously be described as men. Boys, really—greasy-haired, loud-mouthed little jackals circling her like they had a clue what they were doing. She looked like she was two seconds away from setting someone on fire with sheer willpower.

Tariq sighed. “Of course.”

He stepped through a curtain of rugs and approached the group from behind, already slipping into character.

“There you are, habibti!” he called out, spreading his arms like a man reunited with his long-lost beloved. “I’ve been searching the entire market for you. Don’t tell me you wandered off again.”

She shot him a withering look, but he caught the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. Good—she was playing along. Mostly.

The boys turned, visibly irritated by the interruption. One of them scoffed. Another muttered something that sounded like “Who’s this clown?”

And then, without a word, she hurled the parcel she’d been holding straight at the tallest one’s face.

It hit him with a solid thunk, and he stumbled back with a wheeze, arms flailing like a toppled chicken.

Tariq blinked. “Okay,” he muttered. “So we’re skipping diplomacy today.”

He turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You know, I had a whole charming rescue planned. There were going to be roses. A dramatic monologue.”

She dusted off her hands. “You were late.”