Water from the brass basin trickled softly as Layla fastened the last knot on her cloak. The dark fabric was coarse against her skin, a stark contrast to the silks and jewels she had shed moments before. Hadia wrung her hands nervously, glancing between Layla and the heavy wooden door of the chamber.
This is madness, my lady, she whispered, eyes wide with dread.
Layla smirked, pulling the hood over her head.
Then it is the same madness I have embraced all my life.
She turned toward the latticed window, her pulse quickening. The desert breeze swept through the chamber, carrying the scent of jasmine and dust. The drop wasn't far she had done this before. The palace walls, the alleyways of the lower city… they were all familiar shadows beneath the moon.
Hadia, still trembling, climbed into Layla's vast canopy bed, pulling the covers over her. The golden embroidery of Layla's nightgown shimmered under the dim lantern light. I hate this, she muttered, voice muffled by the sheets.
Then pray I return before anyone notices, Layla teased, one leg already over the window ledge.
What if you don't? and we get caught again
Then make a convincing princess, Layla winked, before disappearing into the night.
The moment Layla vanished, Hadia curled into the blankets, her heart hammering. The chamber felt larger, emptier. The silence gnawed at her nerves. She pressed a hand to her chest, muttering a silent prayer.
creak creak
The door eased open.
Hadia's breath caught. Layla? came a soft, familiar voice.
Lady Anirah. Layla's mother. Hadia froze. She could hear the rustle of her robes as she moved closer. The scent of amber and roses filled the air. Don't move. Don't breathe.
The bed dipped slightly as the queen sat on the edge, sighing. My Dear you are restless even in your sleep. Hadia squeezed her eyes shut.
A long pause. Then knock, knock.
My lady, the Queen request for your presence, a servant announced from the doorway.
The Lady sighed, patting what she thought was her daughter's shoulder. Rest, my love. You will need your strength soon. Hadia stayed rigid as Lady Anirah rose and exited without another word.
The door clicked shut.
A single bead of sweat clung to Hadia's brow before surrendering slipping, falling, vanishing into the silk sheets. She exhaled shakily, peeling the covers from her face. By the stars, My lady… hurry back.
The night air was crisp against Layla's skin as she pressed her back against the cold stone of the palace walls. The torches along the corridors flickered, casting restless shadows that danced like whispering ghosts. A pair of guards strolled past the archway leading to the servants' quarters. Their armor clinked softly, the sound swallowed by the thick silence of the palace night. Layla waited, one breath… two… three before slipping behind them, her movements fluid, soundless. she headed for the servant Quarters which was her way out the palace. The servants' passage was narrow, dimly lit by a single oil lamp hanging from an iron hook. The walls here were different, rough unpolished stone instead of the marble grandeur of the upper halls. The scent of bread and simmering spices lingered in the air, remnants of the kitchen's evening labor.
Layla pulled her hood lower as she passed a group of weary maids shuffling toward their sleeping quarters, their laughter hushed, their steps sluggish. No one spared her a glance. A shadow among shadows.
The moment she stepped beyond the palace walls, the world shifted. The hush of the palace was replaced by the vibrant symphony of the city.
The scent of saffron and cardamom curled into the night, mingling with the smoky aroma of roasting lamb skewers and freshly baked khubz. Vendors called out their wares dates dripping in honey, steaming bowls of lentil soup, sizzling samak mashwi their voices merging into a rhythmic melody of commerce. The square was alive with color silks of emerald and sapphire draped over wooden stalls, brass lanterns glinting under the flickering torches. The air buzzed with haggling, with laughter, with the distant strumming of an oud player weaving an ancient melody into the night.
Layla inhaled deeply, savoring it. The city. The heart of the kingdom. The pulse of the people. And for tonight just for tonight she was one of them.
Layla wove through the crowded bazaar, her steps light, her movements deliberate. She knew how to blend in head lowered just enough to seem unassuming but not suspicious, hands tucked into the folds of her borrowed cloak, shoulders loose as if she belonged.
"Fresh figs! Sweet as a lover's kiss!" a fruit vendor bellowed.
"Silks from the east! Finer than the breath of a desert wind!" another crooned.
Layla smiled beneath her hood. This was where she felt alive. Where the weight of duty, of titles, of royal expectations, melted away. She moved forward, weaving between merchants and beggars, past the rhythmic pounding of a blacksmith's hammer and the lilting calls of traders boasting exotic silks. Everywhere, there was movement, voices rising, deals being struck with the clap of hands, the weight of goods shifting from one palm to another. It was chaos, it was life. It was freedom.
A slow smile curved her lips beneath the shadow of her hood.
Here, no one called her princess. No one watched her every step, waiting for her to falter.
A voice, low and sharp, broke through
"Genuine relics from the Old World! Artifacts from the time of the first sultans!"
Layla's steps slowed.
To her left, tucked between a stall of dyed silks and a spice merchant's crowded display, sat an old man beneath a tattered awning. His wares lay spread across a faded rug ornate daggers with jeweled hilts, brass compasses worn with age, scrolls edged in gold leaf, and pendants carved with forgotten symbols.
Layla drifted closer.
Her fingers skimmed the cool metal of a pendant, its surface etched with swirling script she did not recognize. The moment her skin made contact, a strange pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips brief, fleeting, but unmistakable.
She sucked in a breath, eyes snapping to the old man.
He was watching her. Not with the glassy, disinterested look of a vendor seeking coin, but with something else. Something knowing.
"That one calls to you, does it not?" His voice was rough, like dry parchment scraping over stone.
Layla schooled its features. "It is finely made."
It is older than the kingdom you call home." His lips curved, barely a smile.
Layla's fingers traced the pendant's intricate metalwork, the delicate inlay of what looked like lapis glowed faintly under the desert sun. She schooled it's features, refusing to let curiosity slip through.
"It is finely made."
The old man chuckled, a sound as worn as the relics displayed on his stall. "It is older than the kingdom you call home." His lips curved, barely a smile.
Layla studied the pendant again. There was something about it something that thrummed against her skin, warm despite the cool metal. A strange sense of familiarity settled in her chest, though she had never seen it before.
"How much?" she asked, careful to keep her tone indifferent.
The merchant's dark eyes glinted. For you, fair one.
A sudden commotion broke out behind them. A pair of men bickered over a carved dagger, their voices rising in agitation. The old man turned, momentarily distracted. Layla didn't waste the chance. She swiftly reached into the folds of her cloak, dropping a handful of coins onto the table.
He didn't notice as she slipped the pendant into her satchel.
Adjusting her veil, Layla stepped away, blending effortlessly into the bustling crowd. By the time she scaled the outer wall of the palace hands finding the grooves in stone with the ease of practice the moon had begun its slow ascent, she briskly moved through the servant Quarters, heading back to the main Quarters.
She climbed through, where Her feet touched the balcony with barely a sound. Inside, the chamber was dark, save for the flickering glow of a single oil lamp.
Layla pushed the window open and stepped inside.
A muffled shriek came from the bed.
"It's me, Hadia," Layla whispered, pulling back her hood.
The lump beneath the blankets trembled violently before Hadia peeked out, her face pale as milk.
Hadia groaned, flopping back into the pillows. You will be the death of me.
Layla only smiled, peeling off her cloak as she padded toward the basin of water. The scent of the market still clung to her. Layla splashed cool water over her face, willing away the lingering unease from her encounter at the market. As she wiped her hands dry, Hadia sat up, arms crossed, eyes dark with worry.
"You were gone longer than usual."
Layla hummed in response, unfastening the pins from her hair. The old man's words still echoed in her mind. She had roamed the streets a hundred times before, but tonight had felt… different.
Hadia scooted closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Did anyone see you?"
"No." Layla turned, meeting her maid's anxious gaze. "But someone… noticed me."
Hadia paled. "Who?"
Layla hesitated. Noticed was the wrong word. It had felt like the old man had been expecting her. As if the moment she touched that pendant, some unseen thread had pulled taut between them.
"A merchant." She kept her voice casual. "An old one. He sells relics artifacts from before the Five Kingdoms."
Hadia frowned. "Those things are cursed."
Layla rolled her eyes. "Not everything old is cursed, Hadia."
"Then why do they always disappear?" Hadia pulled the blankets tighter around herself. "I've heard the whispers. Merchants who deal in such things vanish overnight, their stalls left untouched. And those foolish enough to buy from them..."
Layla arched a brow. "What? They turn into desert spirits?"
Hadia didn't laugh.
Instead, she swallowed hard, gaze flickering to the window. "Sometimes... worse."
A breeze swept through the room, carrying the distant sound of a watchman's call. The city outside was settling into slumber, but the weight in Layla's chest refused to ease. She pushed the thought aside and climbed into bed, nudging Hadia over.
"Tomorrow, we pretend none of this happened."
Hadia exhaled sharply but said nothing.
Layla closed her eyes.