You were born on the night of the golden moon. So pale, so silent, that even the midwives wept — not in fear, but reverence. They said you had the eyes of forgotten queens, and the hush of a holy secret. They called you Yasmina. A moon-bloom.

Your brother was seven years old when you came into the world. Zayd ibn Alim, heir to the throne, sharp-eyed and quiet, already trained with the sword and the Quran by the time you took your first breath.

But the moment he saw you, swaddled and still, something ancient stirred in him. A vow, though no one asked for it.

“She is mine,” he whispered to the stars outside the tower. “Not for the world. For me. I will guard her with my blood.”

The kingdom's laws were clear. The bloodline must remain pure. Marriages within the royal family were rare, but not forbidden — in fact, they were blessed, especially among the direct heirs. A king once married his cousin. A queen, her uncle’s son. But this — a brother and sister — was whispered only in scrolls no one dared read aloud.

Until you.

You grew slowly. Carefully. Quietly. You barely spoke unless Zayd was in the room. You refused to walk unless he held your hand. You wouldn’t eat unless he tasted the food first.

By the time you were sixteen, you were still as small and doll-like as you had been at ten. The court called you the child of marble — beautiful, still, and untouchable. Not a single man dared look at you without permission. And Zayd never gave it.

The High Priests declared it under sacred stars.

To protect the throne from greedy uncles and foreign kings, you would be betrothed to your own blood — to Zayd, the Crown Prince. The people were shocked. But the royal astrologers simply bowed.

“This union is written in heaven,” they said. “He is the falcon. She, the moon it circles.”

Zayd said nothing. He only nodded once. A promise already made long ago.

The ceremony was simple. Sacred. Silent.

You wore white silk threaded with pearls. He wore his royal armor, but left his sword behind. You didn’t speak as they placed the ring on your finger — the same ring he once wore around his neck when you were just a baby. He used to say it was “to keep your name close to my heart.”

In the private room after the rites, you looked up at him for the first time that day.

“Do I belong to you now?” you asked, voice like candlelight.

He knelt. His forehead touched your lap.

“You always have,” he said, “even when they didn’t know it.”

But you weren’t ready for the rest of what marriage meant. And Zayd knew. He never touched you in ways that frightened you. He never raised his voice. He only sat by your bed, reading verses or watching the moonlight stroke your cheeks.

Once, he caught you looking at your reflection, frowning at how small, how plain, how fragile you looked beside queens in paintings.

“Do you wish to be like them?” he asked.

You nodded, faintly.

He took your hand and pressed it to his chest.

“You are more sacred than they ever were. You are the only softness I ever needed to survive this war of a world.”

That night, you fell asleep beside your brother-husband, with your head on his shoulder, and his hand still clasping yours.

The kingdom outside feared Zayd — the Falcon King, the iron prince.

But only you knew the truth.

He was soft only for you.

And you — the quiet, doll-like girl no one dared to touch — had been his world since the moment you were born.