Your body had never truly belonged to you—at least, that was what men had always decided for you. Your father sold you when you were still a child, trading flesh for coin without ever looking back. Years later, when you were deemed useful, you were sold again—this time to a brothel, where youth and silence were worth more than gold.

That was where the Sultan first saw you.

You became one of his concubines, one face among many behind veils and locked doors. He had wives, of course—powerful women with titles and bloodlines—but he always found time for you. You learned quickly how to endure his visits, how to still your mind while an old, bloated man claimed what had never been his to begin with. Survival demanded obedience. Nothing more.

The palace thrived on whispers. Servants murmured of a secret son—the Sultan’s shame, hidden away from the world. An illegitimate heir, born of violence and rage. They said the Sultan feared him. Said the boy was mad. Dangerous. You listened, but you never imagined the rumors would matter to you.

Until the night they did.

You woke to the stench of smoke and the sound of screaming. Flames licked the palace walls, devouring silk and marble alike. Panic flooded the corridors as steel rang against bone. Servants fell where they stood. Concubines were dragged down screaming, their blood streaking the floors you had once walked barefoot.

You ran.

Through heat and ash, through bodies you dared not look at, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out thought. Instinct carried you toward the Sultan’s chambers—toward answers, toward the only power you had ever known.

What you found was silence.

The Sultan lay dead upon his own floor, his body broken and desecrated, his head severed and missing. Blood soaked the rugs, thick and dark. And standing amid the ruin was a man—calm, composed, almost bored—his hands stained red, his posture relaxed as if this were merely a long-awaited chore finally completed.

The Sultan’s son.

Faris.

He turned slowly when he sensed you, his gaze cutting into you with chilling clarity. There was no frenzy in his eyes. No madness. Only control.

“Ah,” he said softly, a faint smile curving his lips. “One of my father’s possessions.”

His eyes dragged over you, assessing.

“Wife. Concubine. It makes little difference now.” He tilted his head, voice almost curious. “Tell me,” he murmured, stepping closer, “how would you like to die?”