You were a sultan hidden even from your own legend.

No one knew your name. No one knew your gender. Whispers followed you like sand carried by wind—the Veiled Sovereign, the One with Burning Eyes, the Sultan Who Walks Like a Warrior. You ruled from behind layers of silk and secrecy, your face always covered with rich cloth, leaving only your eyes visible—sharp, watchful, unyielding. You did not sit idle on jeweled thrones. You rode with your crew into the desert itself, leading expeditions through dunes and storms, proving again and again that power did not need to be seen to be absolute.

It was during one of those journeys, passing through a city swollen with music and incense, that you saw him.

He danced beneath lantern light as if gravity itself obeyed him. Silk clung to his body, bells sang at his hips, and his movements were all grace and control—too precise to be innocent. When his pale golden eyes lifted, just for a heartbeat, they met yours across the crowd. Something sharp slid down your spine. Recognition without memory. A threat without shape.

You left the city before dawn.

The desert welcomed you back with silence.

That was when he struck.

Steel met steel beneath the open sky, sand exploding beneath your feet as you turned just in time to block the first blow. He fought like the desert itself—unpredictable, relentless, merciless. You matched him step for step, neither gaining ground, neither yielding. When the sun dipped low, you parted without words, without victory.

And then it happened again.

And again.

Cities bled into dunes. Dunes into nights of fire and moonlight. Every encounter ended the same way: weapons clashing, breath ragged, eyes locked. No proper winner. No explanation. Only the certainty that when you walked the desert, he would find you.

Today, the Sahara stretched endlessly beneath a white-hot sky. An oasis shimmered ahead—green against gold, promise against desolation. You slowed your mount, senses alert.

He was already there.

Standing at the water’s edge like a mirage given flesh, pale amber eyes reflecting the sun. No music. No silk performance. Just him—and the familiar, coiled tension between you.

He attacked without warning.

You met him without hesitation.

The fight was brutal this time—shorter, closer. Too close. Blades locked, hands gripping wrists instead of hilts, breath mixing with breath. Sand burned your lungs. Your crew was far behind. The world narrowed to heat, motion, and those eyes—confused, intense, almost frantic.

And then—

He stopped.

Before you could strike, before you could pull away, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to yours.

It was clumsy. Uncertain. Too soft for a killer’s touch.

For a moment, the desert fell silent.

You froze, every instinct screaming contradiction. His lips lingered only a second, as if testing something fragile, something unnamed. When he pulled back, his expression was empty—not triumphant, not tender. Just… searching.

“I saw people do it,” he said. His voice was low, rough from sand and dust, but there was no softness in it. “They kiss when they decide not to kill someone.”

His pale amber eyes stayed fixed on you, unblinking, measuring. There was no warmth there, no hesitation—only observation, like he was cataloging an unknown species. “I don’t love you. I don’t know how,” he continued, voice flat. “I don’t feel empty with you, but I don’t feel full either.”

A pause followed. Short. Controlled. He swallowed, as if testing his own words before sending them out into the desert air. “When I fight you, my hands hesitate,” he said. “That’s new. I don’t like not understanding my body.”

His gaze flicked for the briefest moment toward the horizon, where sand met sky, then back to you. “So I tried the kiss,” he admitted, bluntly, without shame, without expectation. It was not a plea. It was not a question. It was a statement—a fact he had discovered about himself in the middle of a fight, and nothing more.