The air in the carriage was thick with unspoken tension. Hatim held Arshi close, but he could feel the faint tremor that ran through her body, the unnatural coolness of her skin beneath the fine silk of her travel dress.
"Are you okay?" Hatim asked again, putting his hand over hers. "Your hands are like ice, yet they are sweating."
Arshi forced a bright, determined smile as she turned to face him. She couldn't let him worry; he had enough burdens as Sultan. He leaned over, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, gently drawing her into the protective curve of his body. The carriage wheels clattered endlessly, the heavy velvet curtains preventing her from seeing the city they were approaching. He was trying to calm her, sensing her agitation, yet utterly blind to its source.
"Stop the carriage, Zameer," Hatim commanded, suddenly decisive. "We wish to alight here and walk for a while. You will pick us up in two hours, no sooner. Wait at the edge of the market square." Hatim stepped out first, stretching his limbs, adjusting the fine, simple cloak that hid his royal attire. "Let us go and have a good time, Arshi. Just like the old times, before the weight of this crown settled on my head, My Sultana."
He extended his hand, patiently waiting. Arshi felt a sudden, fierce desire to abandon the trappings of power. She removed the heavy, gold Jade-stoned circlet from her hair, placing it carefully on the velvet seat. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she placed her hand in his and exited the carriage with a practiced, elegant ease, careful not to draw undue attention.
They began to walk through the bustling market district. The air was a cacophony of sound and scent—spices and sweat, donkey carts and hawkers' cries. Two Royal guards, disguised but unmistakable in their bearing, kept a discreet, ordered distance, as Hatim had commanded.
Arshi found herself momentarily distracted. Her eyes, long accustomed to the muted colors of her slavery and the monotonous elegance of the hunting lodge, devoured the vibrant tapestries, the towering pyramids of fruits, and the glittering jewels on display. Hatim watched her, relief washing over him as dimples formed on her cheeks when she laughed at a particularly brazen street performer.
But the bubble of their momentary freedom shattered abruptly.
"Miss! Noble Miss! Can you spare a little change for me, please?"
A young boy, perhaps seven or eight, disheveled, filthy, and skeletal, darted out from behind a spice stall, his hand outstretched toward Arshi. Before she could even process the request, the nearest Royal guard reacted instantly and viciously, treating the boy as a lethal threat. The guard, a veteran named Kael, pushed the child away with unnecessary, brutal force. The boy tumbled backward, his small, fragile body landing hard on the uneven cobblestones, his head cracking against a sharp, exposed piece of rock.
The laughter died in Arshi's throat. She watched, horrified, as a small stain of blood bloomed quickly on the boy's matted hair.
Hatim, seeing the sudden pallor of his Queen's face and the immediate panic in her eyes, whirled on the guards. "Kael! By the beard of the Prophet, what was that?! If you touch a common citizen like that again, you will be flogged until the bone shows! Stand back! Both of you! Stand a full ten paces away and do not move unless ordered!" He managed to control the raw edge of his fury, focused solely on keeping Arshi calm.
Arshi was already moving. She approached the boy cautiously and crouched down, the fine silk of her dress pooling on the dirty stone. She reached into her sleeve, pulled free a small, embroidered linen square, and pressed it against the boy's head.
The child stared up at her. He saw the startling beauty of her face, the rich fabric of her clothing, and the genuine concern in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with hunger and fear. "Am I not dirty? Are you not afraid of my filth?"
Arshi smiled, a slight, pained contraction of her lips, and gently dabbed the blood from the boy's wound, tearing a strip from the linen square to make a makeshift bandage. He was simply a child who needed to eat, and she was appalled by the reflexive cruelty of her own guards. Her eyes, though smiling, betrayed a profound anguish. Was this the reality of the Empire—a child abused merely for his poverty?
"Let me do this, my love," Hatim's shadow fell over her. He crouched beside her, his hand reaching for the cloth. "Your body is not all right, and you shouldn't be stressing it like this."
The boy, overhearing Hatim's words, looked at Arshi with wide-eyed curiosity. "Are you unwell, beautiful miss? Where are you hurting?"
"Her whole body hurts, but she—"
Arshi was already staring at Hatim, her eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and warning, her cheeks completely flushed. He instantly understood the severity of her unspoken command. He had revealed too much. Hatim swallowed his words and simply nodded, remaining silent, helping her steady the boy instead.
"Where are your parents, young one?" Hatim cleared his throat, his tone softening as he took the blood-stained cloth from Arshi and, with surprising gentleness, tied the bandage around the boy's head.
"Hathi, you shouldn't be doing this. I can manage."
"You think I can't tie a knot?"
"You're going to injure the boy, Hathi. You're tying a person, not a tree!" She snatched the cloth from his clumsy grasp and quickly, efficiently, re-tied it with a firm yet gentle tension.
The boy, momentarily forgetting his pain, watched the powerful, beautiful adults bicker like children over his wound. He couldn't understand why they were so intent on treating an injury that they had caused.
"My parents are still sleeping," the boy finally said, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
Arshi and Hatim quickly exchanged glances—a deep, concerned look that recognized the strange, unsettling nature of that answer—and turned their full attention back to the child.
"Where? Could you please show us where they are so that we may escort you back to them?" Arshi softly placed her hand on the little boy's cheek. Hatim, still unable to completely shake his possessiveness, instantly withdrew her hand and replaced it with his own, leaving Arshi momentarily dumbfounded. Was he truly jealous of a small, frightened boy?
They followed the child down the market street and into a narrow, deserted lane. The air immediately grew stagnant, heavy with the stench of sewage and desperation. Arshi was aghast. She had known poverty in her past, but she had never conceived that people lived in such squalor, hidden only a hundred paces from the Sultan's bustling, affluent city center.
The boy stopped at a structure that was little more than a pile of decaying wood and rags—an old, decrepit house—and invited them inside. Hatim signaled to the royal guards to stay absolutely still and keep watch before following Arshi inside. He was deeply unsettled by her insistence on following the boy into this darkness.
"Mother, father… we have guests," the boy announced cheerfully into the gloom.
'Who is he talking to?' Arshi wondered, carefully surveying the dark, foul-smelling space.
"I don't see your parents, young one. Where are they?" she crouched and gently asked the boy, seeing no one stir in response.
"They are sleeping over there, by the wall. We have to be careful not to wake them up since mother told me she was feeling a bit tired before she went to rest," he whispered, pulling Arshi's hand towards a corner where two dark, blanket-shrouded forms lay motionless.
Hatim and Arshi reached the corner and stood there, momentarily paralyzed. Arshi raised a trembling hand, slowly lifting the edge of the blanket.
"Oh my God," she whispered, the raw, desolate sound echoing in the silent room.
The bodies beneath the rags were cold. Their faces were hollowed out, eyes sunken, lips cracked—the unmistakable, terrifying tableau of death by starvation and exposure. The boy, her little survivor, had been waiting for them to wake up and feed him. The realization of the vast, horrifying neglect at the heart of the Sultan's Empire slammed into Arshi with the force of a physical blow. Her newfound status as Queen felt like a cruel, monstrous joke.
**********
Back at the palace, the Sultana Mother—Hatim's biological mother, a woman who had reigned unofficially for decades—was seated in her private chamber. She was finally finished with her elaborate bath and dressing ritual, and her maids were now carefully grooming her long, silver-threaded hair.
They applied fragrant rosemary oil, gently massaging her scalp, the rhythm of their hands a soothing, familiar comfort. Her mood was one of rising anticipation; her son, the Sultan, was finally returning.
But the moment of peace was shattered. One of the maids, a nervous girl named Leyla, accidentally dragged a comb across her scalp, scratching her.
The Sultana Mother's eyes, usually calculating and cool, flared with immediate, searing fury. The tension in the room snapped taut.
"What have you done, you incompetent wretch?" Her voice was a low, dangerous snarl.
"Your Majesty, I apologize! I beg your forgiveness for my clumsiness. I didn't mean to hurt your head," Leyla pleaded, instantly dropping to her knees, her voice catching on a sob.
"Hurt me?" The Sultana Mother leaned forward, glaring down at the girl. "How dare you inflict pain on me and then presume to ask for forgiveness? What gives you the impression that your misery is worth my mercy?" She waved a dismissive, diamond-laden hand. "Immediately punish this wretch before me, or you will all face the same punishment I had in store for her!" she commanded the other three maids who were frozen in fear.
The three women exchanged anxious, despairing glances and began to reluctantly approach their colleague. Just as they were about to obey, a voice, loud and authoritative, rang out from beyond the thick, heavy chamber doors—the sound of the Sultan's return, their reprieve.
"His Majesty, The Sultan, is here to see Her Majesty, the Sultana Mother!"
The royal guards' announcement was followed instantly by the sound of the heavy doors swinging open. The maids discreetly sighed in collective relief, seizing the distraction to stand and quickly arrange themselves for the proper greeting, desperate to leave the room before the Sultana Mother remembered their task.
Hatim strode into the chamber, handsome and vital, his arm linked confidently with the arm of a woman. The Sultana Mother's initial, excited smile—a rare and genuine display of maternal affection—faded instantly, dissolving into a mask of cold astonishment. She had been prepared to welcome her son, but not hand-in-hand with an unknown woman, whose plain, yet elegant, beauty seemed to defy the opulence around her.
"My lion, you are back!" she exclaimed, rushing forward, completely ignoring Arshi as she embraced Hatim fiercely. "I missed you dearly, my child. Quickly, let us prepare a feast for him!" She tried to steer him away, her grip possessive.
"I'm alright, Mother. I simply wanted to introduce you to someone," he said, gently resisting her pull. He drew Arshi forward, positioning her so that the Sultana Mother could no longer pretend she wasn't there.
His voice was clear, strong, and entirely final. "Please meet my wife and Queen, Arshi."
The word "Queen" hung in the lavish chamber, a challenge in the air thick with rosemary oil and the scent of fear. The Sultana Mother slowly turned her gaze upon Arshi, her eyes sweeping over the new Queen with a chilling, proprietary contempt, assessing the woman who dared to challenge her long-held, sacred influence over her son and his throne. Arshi, still shaken by the sight of death in the city's underbelly, simply met the gaze, a silent testament to the fragile power she now possessed.