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1266 Words
Samira
The scent of jasmine clung to the courtyards—thick, almost cloying, laid carefully over something sharper beneath it.
Oil. Resin. The faint metallic tang that did not belong in gardens built for prayer and leisure.
I paused at the edge of the promenade, skirts whispering across polished coral stone, and let my gaze drift as if admiring the fountains. The foreign priestesses flanked me in shimmering blue, hands folding and unfolding as they spoke in low, rehearsed tones—civil, reverent, meaningless. I nodded when expected. Smiled when prompted.
The tide was wrong today. Not in rhythm, but in intent.
My attention slid instead to the guards lining the columns. There were more than yesterday. Not merely in number—but in readiness. Armor gleamed untouched by salt or wear, helms angled just so. One of them—barely older than Tharno—adjusted his grip on his spear as if afraid it might vanish from his hands.
"Your Riah," Highness, one of the priestesses murmured, smiling with her whole mouth. "The gardens are especially beautiful this morning."
"They always are," I replied pleasantly. "That is what gardens are for."
Her smile faltered—only a breath—before settling again.
"The Malkia awaits."
The garden had already been arranged when I arrived. A low pearlwood table stood beneath the shade of flowering canopies, cushions placed with ceremonial precision. Silver dishes steamed gently in the morning air—sea figs glazed in honey, flatbread still warm, citrus sliced and salted.
Hospitality prepared so carefully it felt rehearsed.
My mother sat straight-backed, fingers laced loosely in her lap. She wore pale blue—the color reserved for calm waters and decisions already made. Her jewelry was ceremonial today: heavy, deliberate, unmistakable. Authority worn, not displayed.
Tharno lounged beside her, barefoot, one knee drawn up, devouring bread with the single-minded focus of someone still allowed to be hungry without consequence.
"Amani na fahari, Malkiazah mdogo," Peace and honor, young queen. My mother said, rising halfway before I stopped her with a glance.
"Amani na mwangaza, Malkia." Peace and light to you, O Queen.
Her eyes moved over me—my posture, the absence of ornament, the way my hands rested loose instead of folded. She nodded once, approving something she did not name. "Sit."
I obeyed.
Tharno grinned around his food. "You missed the figs yesterday. I ate your share."
"Heroic."
"Sacrifices must be made."
My mother poured tea. Steam curled between us like a question already decided.
"The council convenes later today," she said lightly. "There are vessels in our waters."
Tharno froze.
"Trade ships?" I asked.
"Observers," she corrected.
That word again.
I glanced toward the horizon beyond the balustrade. The sea glittered deceptively calm, but far out—so distant they might have been clouds—thin vertical slashes broke the line where sky met water.
Banners.
Breakfast continued in fragments—polite conversation stitched together with strategic silence. Tharno spoke of riding lessons. My mother mentioned temple repairs. I laughed once when Tharno described the High Matrons' new veils as startled jellyfish.
But beneath it all, something coiled.
When the meal ended, my mother rose and adjusted Tharno's collar, fingers lingering a moment too long. She smoothed a curl from his brow as if memorizing him.
Then she turned to me.
"Walk with me."
We followed the garden path, sea to our left, the palace rising pale and watchful to our right. No attendants. No witnesses.
That alone was a warning enough.
"You've been noticed," she said.
I did not ask by whom.
"The Matrons believe you lack restraint. Foreign courts value obedience more than brilliance."
"And what do we value?" I asked.
She stopped and faced me fully.
"Survival."
"At what cost."
Her jaw tightened. "At the cost we can afford."
Below us, the tide struck the cliffs hard—sudden, loud, impatient. I thought of the banners again. Of how long they must have been there for me to notice only now.
"How long," I asked quietly, "Has everyone been in on this?"
My mother did not answer. Silence did the work of truth. Turning around, I did not return to my chambers. Instead, I found Yema in the east corridor, halfway through dismantling a steward's authority over ceremonial lantern placement.
"Come with me," I said, already turning.
"Where—"
"Now." She followed without question.
We passed through the lower gates into Solari'mara proper, where the city breathed differently—warmer, louder, alive. Terraced walkways curved along the cliffs. Market awnings fluttered like bright sails. Children darted between adults, bare feet slapping stone, laughter sharp and uncontained.
At the city's edge, where coral paths softened into sand, the Tide Orphanage came into view.
Children played beneath open canopies, their games stitched with ritual—shells sorted by size, tide-songs hummed under breath, sun symbols traced into damp sand.
They froze when they saw me.
Then one of the smallest—no more than four—ran forward, holding up a crooked shell crown.
"For you," she said solemnly.
I knelt without thinking. Took it. Set it gently atop my head.
"Thank you," I said. "You've made me very important."
That earned a grin bright enough to rival the sun's mirrors.
Yema watched me carefully.
"This," she murmured, "is why they're afraid."
"Of children?"
"Of you." We stayed longer than we should have.
When we returned along the cliff path, the training grounds were alive with movement—soldiers drilling against the wind, arrows striking stone with dull finality.
I stepped onto the field.
"I am not here to be addressed," I said before anyone could speak. The bow was heavier than ceremonial ones—balanced for distance, not display.
Yema stiffened. "Samira—"
"I know," I said softly. "Stand there."
She did.
I drew. The wind pushed. The sea roared below. My breath narrowed. The first arrow flew—left of center.
Not perfect.
Then another.
And another.
My arms burned. Sweat traced my spine. The world reduced itself to wood, string, breath.
"Shift your weight," Yema said quietly.
I blinked. "What?"
"Your heel. You're leaning into the wind instead of letting it pass."
I adjusted.
"Drop your shoulders. You're tall, not narrow. Stop apologizing for space."
Something in my chest tightened. I drew again. The arrow struck the center. A murmur rippled across the field.
"Third shot," Yema added calmly. "Don't lock your elbow."
Center.
I lowered the bow slowly and turned.
"How do you know this?" I asked.
Her mouth opened. Closed. She smiled too quickly. "I have eyes."
"That wasn't my question."
She went very still. I did not press her. Because whatever Yema was hiding, I could feel it now—coiled, deliberate, and far too well-timed to be a coincidence.
I turned back to the field.
Drew.
This time, I listened—to the wind, to the sea, to the tension humming beneath my skin. I adjusted exactly as she'd taught me. The arrow split the previous one clean through the shaft.
Silence fell.
And as I returned the bow, one truth settled into my bones with unsettling clarity.
I was getting prepared.
Just not by the people who believed they were in control.
That night, the palace shifted. Servants spoke in whispers, lanterns burned later. And far out at sea, the banners did not move.
They waited. And for the first time since the council chamber, I understood, this was no longer about whether I would go.
It was about who I would become when I arrived.
- Writer
