Chapter 6
Rami
The only thing I hated more than these wretched royal events was the man who orchestrated them. The preparations for Yasmeena’s birthday had sent the palace into chaos, the Sultan’s paranoia reaching new heights each day. This morning, he’d thrown an entire tray of ghoriba onto the floor, threatening to dismiss the kitchen staff for using orange blossom water over rosewater for the almond cookies, fearing a conspiracy to undermine the event.
Luckily, the arrival of the guests provided a welcome diversion, ensuring he would be on his best behavior. From my vantage point at the third-floor window in between Haytham and Yasmeena’s suites, I had a perfect view of the courtyard below. This position allowed me to keep an eye on everything, ensure the Princess stayed out of sight as per her father”s orders, and avoid having to be around others.
“Sidi Rami!” Princess Yasmeena”s door flung open, and she skipped across the hallway, skidding to a halt beside me. “I”m so excited!” she exclaimed, pressing her face to the large window.
“Yasmeena!” I hastily gripped her arm, tugging her out of view before anyone could see her. “You shouldn’t be out here, especially in your sleepwear,” I chided gently.
Her lower lip jutted out, and her long lashes lowered as she tried to look as pitiful as possible. “I just want to watch the arrivals.” She spun back around, her eyes shining as she pushed the curtain aside. ”Look at all the beautiful clothing!”
I smiled, coaxing the drapes from her hand. “I know you”re excited, habibah, but we mustn’t anger your father. Let”s get you back to your room.”
“Fine, but I’m not happy about it!” she huffed, and I laughed. Despite her nearing adulthood, I still saw her as the little girl I took care of after her mother”s death. The child who sought comfort from her nightmares, persuaded me to sneak her dessert when her father banned it for the night, and always begged to ride on Huriyah with me.
Yet, she was no longer a child. She”d grown into a beautiful young woman, strikingly resembling her late mother. With her petite frame, large brown eyes, and glossy black hair cascading in waves past her waist, she was as spirited as she was kind, as determined as she was loyal. Though Sultan Ghazi limited our interactions as the children grew older, I was fiercely proud of the people they”d become, and I loved them dearly.
”I know,” I said, smiling as I held her door open. ”But you’ve waited almost eighteen years; one more night won’t hurt!”
Though I understood her impatience, one aspect of Nephrian tradition I respected was the introduction of the royal children. Regardless of gender or birth order, they were hidden from public view until their eighteenth birthday, affording them a semblance of freedom. I’d often taken Haytham and Yasmeena beyond the palace walls to enjoy celebrations and days in the city, their temporary anonymity allowing them moments of ordinary life.
Yasmeena bit down on her lower lip, clutching her teal kaftan anxiously. “He won’t make me marry someone I don’t want to... right?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“I overheard him discussing plans to form an alliance involving me.”
I winced, not surprised. The Sultan was nothing if not selfish, using anything to his advantage—including his children. The only reason he hadn”t forced Haytham into a marriage yet was because of his use as an heir. My instinct was to reassure Yasmeena, to promise I wouldn’t let that happen. But the harsh reality was I had no more say in the matter than she did.
The reveal was not just an introduction to society, it was an unofficial invitation for marriage offers. When Haytham came of age five years prior, the flood of proposals was staggering. Now, with the Sultan wishing for all important members of the realm to be present, Yasmeena would undoubtedly attract even more hopeful prospects.
All I could offer was a kiss on her brow, a silent vow of my unwavering support. “Don’t worry about that now. Get some rest,” I smiled reassuringly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight, sidi Rami!”
“Goodnight, habibah.”
The door had barely clicked shut when the Sultan’s terror hit me like a boulder through our bond—a familiar sensation that was doing its best to grate on my nerves. A moment later, a messenger sprinted up the staircase and down the hallway, halting abruptly in front of me.
“Captain Rami!” he pressed his fist to his heart, panting slightly. “The Sultan commands your presence to oversee the arrivals. He fears the guards may intentionally or unintentionally compromise the event’s security.”
Stifling a sigh of exasperation, I met his gaze with a measured nod. “Shukran. You’re dismissed.” He executed another salute before hurrying back down the corridor. Watching his retreating figure, I felt a twinge of annoyance at the Sultan’s escalating paranoia.
“Chancellor Heinrich and Lady Anna of Germatia,” a distinguished gentleman announced. As the guard stationed before them scribbled on his parchment, offered a respectful greeting, and motioned them into the palace with a practiced flourish, I resisted the urge to scream.
To fulfill the Sultan’s command, I’d approached each of the guards, ensuring they were following protocol. Now, I stood just to the side of the ostentatious fountain, ”overseeing” the arrivals. Going out of my mind with boredom, I”d started counting the number of seconds each individual took to reach the top of the staircase. So far, the clear winner was the prince of Ysmeria, with seventeen seconds.
Disrupting my tally, a figure approached, his demeanor suggesting stealth rather than the expected protocol of announcing oneself. “Crown Prince Kavian and Princess Emara from Sahrandia,” he stated, with no preceding fanfare.
My irritation flared. “You’re mistaken; this isn’t the line—” I trailed off as his claim sank in. Sahrandia? My gaze sharpened, scanning the man for proof of his identity. His attire was unmistakably Sahrandian in style, their flag emblazoned on his chest alongside the royal crests for Prince Kavian”s elements.
Yet, confusion clouded my thoughts. While most of the Sultan”s invited guests had accepted the summons—except for the fae, who”d declined most vehemently—the Sahrandians hadn’t received it at all; no doubt their wards were up. Fury burned through my veins as I realized an imposter dared to walk among us.
Perhaps the Sultan’s incessant hysteria wasn’t so unfounded after all.
As I prepared to challenge the man’s audacious claim, a frustrated voice rang out. “Oh, for the love of the realms! This cursed train is the silliest thing I have...” A woman dressed in Sahrandian royal garb stumbled into view, trailing off as she caught sight of me. Surprise etched her features, quickly giving way to embarrassment as a blush crept over her cheeks. “I... excuse me,” she stammered. “I apologize for my outburst. It’s just this ridiculous outfit!”
In an instant, centuries of disciplined composure shattered. The moment stretched into what felt like an endless cascade of emotion, rendering me speechless for the first time in an eternity.
She was beautiful, with full lips, high cheekbones, and golden eyes that popped against her smooth, tan skin. The tunic she wore was molded to her figure, accentuating every curve before flaring out into the long, heavy train she’d been complaining about. Loose black curls had escaped from her updo, framing her face and only emphasizing her beauty.
“Emara,” the man chided gently. Her flush deepened as she released the fabric and straightened her shoulders.
Right. This woman had committed the crime of impersonating Princess Emara. Duty, protocol, every fiber of my being screamed for action. The audacity of their facade, the sheer gall it took to stand before me with claims of royalty, demanded exposure and immediate detainment until I could contact the Sahrandians. Nothing short of public humiliation and realms-wide disgrace would suffice.
Yet...
“No apologies needed, Princess. Welcome to Nephria,” I heard myself say. Though the words betrayed my responsibilities, they felt right in a way I couldn’t explain. “Please,” I gestured to the doors. “Make yourselves at home.”
“Shukran,” the prince imposter replied, extending his right arm palm up. He then brought it across to his left shoulder in the traditional Sahrandian greeting.
“Oh! Yes!” the flustered imposter princess exclaimed, hurriedly attempting to execute a salute herself. In her haste, her train became tangled around her feet, causing her silk slippers to skid across the marble floor. As she pitched forward, I reached out instinctively, steadying her with a firm grip on her arm.
The sudden contact sent a shockwave through me, the spot where our skin met burning with a fierceness that was almost painful. The noise and chaos around us seemed to fade, her eyes—pools of molten gold—holding me captive. In that moment, nothing else existed but the connection between us. My heart raced with a sensation both unfamiliar and exhilarating as I willingly drowned in her gaze.
Unfortunately, the imposter prince’s voice sliced through my trance. “Emara,” he interjected sharply, his gaze lingering on where I held her arm.
”Asif, Princess,” I apologized. Quickly releasing her, I stepped back, adopting a posture of deference.
”No apologies needed!” she chirped. But the imposter prince held up a hand, frowning.
”We’ve held up the lines long enough,” he declared, though no one was behind them. ”Let’s go, sister.” Linking his arm with hers, he pulled her toward the doors.
“Wait!” she protested. With a hurried glance back, she waved at me. “Shukran for your help!”
Her grateful smile, warm and disarming, left me spellbound, awakening a feeling within me I hadn’t felt before.
“Ahlan bikum ya asdiqa’i!” Sultan Ghazi’s greeting echoed through the grand dining hall, his arms thrown wide. As his voice carried, the soft, almost indiscernible murmur of hundreds of Linguistic Listeners at work swept the room, translating his words into a multitude of languages for the diverse assembly of guests.
Willkommen, meine Freunde. Khosh amadid dostan azizam. Swagat hai, mere doston. Hwanyeonghamnida, chingudeul. Bienvenue, mes amis. Welcome, my friends.
These enchanted devices fitted over the ear like a cuff, providing instantaneous translations and ensuring every guest could engage in the night’s festivities without a language barrier. Unfortunately, Nephria couldn”t take credit for the brilliance of these designs. Sultan Ghazi had ordered me to steal the technology from Atlantis during a grand celebration we attended. Needless to say, they were no longer our allies.
“My esteemed guests and favored friends, it is an honor to have you bless my home!” he boomed, and the air filled with clapping, ululating, whistling, bursts of sparkles, and more—each a unique expression of joy and excitement from the varied cultures present. The Sultan, reveling in the moment, chuckled. “Shukran!” he exclaimed, rearranging his expression into one of humility and benevolence. It took everything in my power not to roll my eyes.
He wore a lavish gold jubbah layered over a glittering red kaftan, his signature blood-red cape draped elegantly across his shoulders. Adding the finishing touches to his attire was a gold crown embedded with rubies, gold rings on every finger, and a hefty golden necklace displaying the Nephrian flag. With his thinning hair neatly styled away from his face, his black and gray beard well-groomed, and gold kohl enhancing his brown eyes, his appearance was impeccable.
Beside his father, Prince Haytham wore a flowing red jellaba, his gold scimitar—a symbol of his rank and readiness to protect—strapped proudly at his side. Other than the pinky ring that marked his status as Crown Prince, and the kohl lining his hazel eyes, he wore no other embellishments, as humble as ever.
When Sultan Ghazi began to laud his virtues and the prosperity of Nephria under his reign, I tuned out his self-praise. For the fifth time in two minutes, I found myself unable to resist glancing at her. She was sitting at a table across the room with the prince imposter, Princess Luna of Veneterra, Lord Heinrich and Lady Anna from Germatia, and the ambassador of Danetia and her husband.
I watched, transfixed, as the light played across her features, highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the thoughtful tilt of her chin. Like the others in the room, she was facing the Sultan, listening. However, unlike the rapturous gazes of the others, her expression looked pained. Her struggle to remain composed was obvious—the angry purse of her lips, the tight clench of her jaw; her eyes narrowing as she stared daggers at him. I felt an unexpected flicker of camaraderie, her obvious revulsion almost bringing a smile to my face.
“My family, my court, and I welcome you into our home, and wish for these festivities to live on in history!” With a flourish, he exclaimed, “Let us feast!”
That was my cue. With a snap of my fingers, red and gold sparkles cascaded from the ceiling, eliciting gasps and exclamations of delight from the guests. A moment later, dozens of staff members filed into the room, carrying platters laden with every conceivable Nephrian delicacy, marking the beginning of an unforgettable celebration.
As the hall buzzed with the sounds of the feast beginning, the Sultan’s demeanor shifted dramatically. The warmth lighting his features evaporated, replaced by a cold resolve.
Rami, come here,he ordered through our bond. I wove quickly between the bustling staff and hurried up the dais, meeting him behind the thrones.
“Have you uncovered any trace of a Heartseeker?”
I fought to keep my face impassive, revealing none of the irritation that his question sparked within me. “No, sayyidi,” I replied evenly, “there has been nothing so far.” What remained unsaid, cloaked behind a mask of duty and calm, was my growing anxiety over the very nature of this search.
The tome’s vague guidance—that only a Heartseeker could locate the Heart—offered no concrete details on recognizing one. There were no hints on identifying marks, power signatures, or lineage—nothing. But voicing these frustrations would serve no purpose other than to invite blame upon myself for any failures, real or perceived.
His face darkened as he adjusted his Linguistic Listener with a flick of irritation. “Then I suggest you intensify your efforts, Captain.” His voice, laced with an edge of anger, dismissed any excuses. “Make yourself useful for once.” With those cutting words, he masked his contempt with a practiced smile, rejoining his guests.
Despite my attempts to identify the Heartseeker, my thoughts kept drifting back to her—the golden-eyed beauty. I couldn’t bring myself to think of her as Emara, nor did I wish to label her as the imposter princess. Unlike the imposter prince, who regarded his meal with open disdain, she exuded a grace and authenticity that transcended the role she was playing.
Making my rounds to satisfy the Sultan’s orders, I gravitated closer to her, each loop of the hall an inevitable orbit that brought me nearer. Standing a few paces from her table, I adopted the posture of a guard: hand on the hilt of my scimitar, legs braced apart, back straight as an arrow, gaze fixed ahead.
“Storytelling has always intrigued me,” she spoke animatedly. “It connects us across lands and realms, in ways we sometimes can’t even understand.”
Princess Luna nodded. “Absolutely! Stories tell us where we’ve come from and hint at where we’re going.”
The golden-eyed beauty nodded enthusiastically. “They are the soul of our cultures, passed down to remind us of our roots and wings alike. To know someone’s story is to understand their heart and the values they hold dear.”
Princess Luna leaned in closer. “Imagine the stories hidden within this very room, and the tales the palace walls could tell!”
“Or perhaps,” my golden-eyed beauty countered, her tone playful. “The walls are burdened by centuries’ worth of scandalous secrets!”
Her laughter cut through the noise like a beacon, resonating with absolute joy. It was spontaneous, genuine, and utterly enchanting, and at that moment, all pretense of my surveillance faded. Compelled beyond reason, I strode past her table, exiting the dining hall with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. The Sultan’s fury at my departure was tangible through our bond, yet it paled in comparison to the turmoil raging within me.