The Unknown
1088 Words
In the Palace
The capital's heart beat in gold and stone, and at its center stood King Yusuf Dan Habin, ruler of all Areas (Northern Kingdoms, third son of the Iron Crown, thirty years of age, and still unmarried.
Tall. Silent. Known more for decisions than speeches.
But the palace was not silent.
Trouble stirred, not with him—but around him.
His sister, Princess Ameerah, had disappeared from court for days, returning with traces of rebellion in her eyes and strange fabrics in her bag. Whispers said she’d fallen in love—with a foreigner. A merchant from the South. A man beneath their station.
It was dangerous.
Their uncle, General Maliki, already resented the power Ameerah held. If scandal could strip her influence, he would gladly fan the flames.
And so, the King sat between two storms:
One brewing behind his sister’s silence.
The other approaching fast—disguised as twenty-two girls with sharp minds and something to prove.
And he, the most powerful man in the land, would soon have to choose one.
But the crown never sat lightly. And the woman who would share it would need more than beauty.
She would need to understand war without wielding it.
And perhaps… wear fire without burning.
___________
Princess Ameerah was the kind of beautiful that made people pause. Her skin was the soft, rich bronze of early morning light, smooth as polished wood. Her eyes—deep almond-shaped pools—were always lined with quiet defiance. She wore her hair in long braids laced with silver beads, a silent rebellion against the palace’s rigid rules of appearance. Ameerah was willful, witty, and too clever for her own good. Where her brother ruled with steel and silence, she danced through court with a fan and a smirk, hiding her restlessness behind a polished smile. But beneath her grace was a furnace—one that longed to live, to love, and to escape.
Tonight, Princess Ameerah was not smiling.
She was running.
Again.
Not through gardens or market corridors, but through the old aqueduct paths beneath the palace, where the guards were few and the rats plentiful.
Waiting at the carved mouth of the stone tunnel was Tajudeen, her love from the Southern city of Akeji.
Tajudeen was fire and earth. His skin bore the dark luster of sun and sea, toughened by hard labor and softened only by Ameerah's gaze. He had the lean build of a scout, quick on his feet and dangerous in silence. His eyes burned amber with a constant storm—anger at the world’s cruelty, passion for justice, and an unquenchable love for the girl he shouldn’t have touched. He wasn’t a prince, but he had the heart of one. Noble in his choices, reckless in his devotion, and utterly unafraid of kings or consequences.
Tajudeen wore the red thread of southern warriors on his wrist and the smell of salt and fire on his skin. His hands bore no rings, but when he touched her, she felt claimed.
They embraced in the shadowed dark. No words at first. Just breathing.
Then Tajudeen pulled back.
“They’re tightening the watch. I had to bribe two guards just to reach this point.”
She sighed. “I wish I could stop time. Just for tonight.”
He touched her cheek. “Marry me.”
Her lips trembled.
“I can’t, not yet. Not because you're Southern. Not even because I’m royal. But...”
“But?”
She looked down. “You’ve tasted freedom. You wouldn't survive the chains I wear. And my brother—he loves me, but he’s also the throne. If I flee, I ruin what little choice he has left in ruling.”
Tajudeen clenched his jaw. “So I lose you... because of power?”
“No,” Ameerah said, eyes wet. “ ... because of duty. But you haven't lost me, not yet.”
They met by accident—though neither ever truly believed it was. It was during one of Ameerah’s unsupervised escapes, disguised in a plain indigo wrapper and veil, slipping through the east gate with her maid’s stolen key. She had grown tired of palace walls and prying eyes, so she fled into the outskirts of the city where the salt caravans rested.
Tajudeen was a trader’s son, overseeing goods bound southward. She had knocked over a basket of dried mangoes trying to avoid a leering drunk, and he had caught her wrist mid-stumble. Their eyes locked. She should’ve been frightened, or furious, but his gaze didn’t look at her veil. It saw her.
He returned her scattered things, and she returned the next day.
And the day after that.
She said she was a court scribe’s daughter. He said nothing of his growing suspicion—he knew royal fingers when he saw them, knew the scent of rosewater and almond oil didn’t belong to market girls.
But still, he came. He taught her how to negotiate with stubborn camel drivers and barter without blinking. She taught him how to listen between silences and smile with his eyes.
By the time truth came between them, it was already too late.
---
Back to the Blossoming Court
Five days had passed since the twenty-two girls had been selected.
They made it to the palace in groups, clothed in deep indigo silks, faces clean of village dust, minds sharpened by what they'd endured.
Some held themselves straighter. Others walked quietly, humbled. They had passed the first culling—but now the real test began.
The palace gates opened once again, but this time, they didn’t look like tourists or sacrifices.
They looked like contenders.
And at the top of the grand stairway, not visible to them but watching still, the King stood.
He said nothing.
But inside his chest, something stirred.
He did not know her name yet.
But one of them… one of them would change everything.
He was tall—a full head above his men. Broad-shouldered, the kind of strength that could break steel or carry kingdoms. His dark skin shimmered under the sun like it was kissed by stars, and his hair—tight curls, cropped close—framed a face sculpted like it belonged on the side of an ancient cliff.
With honey eyes that struck.
Sharp. Knowing. Watching.
Eyes that had seen too much to be easily pleased.
And when he smiled—it was rare—it was the kind of smile you could follow into war or worship.
- Writer
