The journey to the Castilian encampment took days of relentless riding. Jahima's body ached from the saddle, her muscles stiff, her mind kept awake by a burning mix of fear and vengeance.
Beneath that, however, was something colder, the ever-present image of the Malika's eyes finding her again. The thought of that gaze, sharp as glass and twice as cutting, flickered at the edges of her mind each time the hoofbeats slowed.
Santiago, the half-Castilian spy who had pulled her from the chaos, spoke little. His gaze stayed fixed on the road, but she caught him watching her from the corner of her eye. When she looked away, he didn't. More than once, a faint smirk touched his mouth when she shifted uncomfortably, as if he already knew the choices ahead wouldn't be hers to make. This wasn't companionship. It was an assessment. Each mile sank her deeper into a debt she couldn't yet name.
By midday on the fifth day, the horizon shifted. White tents dotted the plain, multiplying until they stretched like pale scars beneath the shadow of the Sierra Nevada. Red crosses marked the canvas, flanked by straight-backed soldiers whose eyes tracked her every movement. Bells chimed faintly from somewhere deeper in the camp. Smoke curled from fire pits, carrying the scent of roasting meat and iron. The air here was cooler, the light sharper.
They dismounted near a cluster of larger tents. Santiago led her past banners and soldiers until they reached a wooden cabin set apart from the rest. Its weathered boards suggested it had stood here for years, waiting for the war to catch up to it.
"You'll see the commander soon," he said, opening the door. "But first, you need to look… less like someone who's been dragged across half the country." His voice carried a note she couldn't quite place. It was almost gentle, but with an undercurrent that suggested she was being prepared for more than a meeting. His choice of words was deliberate, as though this was less a kindness than a step in some unspoken design.
Inside, the air was warm, lit by the glow of a brazier in the corner. A wooden tub sat in the center, steam rising from it. Jahima hesitated at the door when she noticed only one tub and enough hot water for a single bath. The reminder of sharing such close quarters made her think of the Malika's court, how quickly appearances could decide fates, and how a poorly chosen look or word could seal a concubine's doom.
"I'll wait outside," she said.
Santiago shook his head with a faint, crooked grin. "No. We bathe together; it will save time. And water." He removed his coat and laid his sword against the wall, his movements deliberate and unhurried, as if he knew she would eventually comply. His eyes lingered on her in a way that felt less like casual observation and more like silent insistence. "It's just a bath, Jahima. I've shared one with men after campaigns. You're not the first."
She weighed humiliation against the stink clinging to her skin and decided her hatred of the palace was stronger than her modesty. "If I am to bathe with you," she said, "at least grant me the courtesy of knowing your name."
He looked faintly amused and granted her wish. "You can call me Santiago," he replied as he turned to fully undress, unveiling his toned backside and the many scars that adorned it. Pale reminders of the power other people had over him. She told herself she was merely taking measure of him, but her eyes lingered until he glanced back and caught her. She turned away sharply.
"You know you will need to undress?" he teased as she heard him submerge himself into the bath. She undressed herself quickly, covering herself as best she could before stepping in. His gaze moved over her perfect body in lustful observation before settling into the quiet.
They sat at opposite ends, steam curling between them, blurring their faces. For a long moment, neither spoke. Santiago's gaze stirred uneasiness in her before he cut the tension with his voice.
"My family once served in the Alhambra," he said. "My mother was a maid in the Malika's Palace. Loyal. Quiet. Her only sin was that she fell in love with a foreigner. A Castilian trader who dealt in silver. They said he conspired against the throne. Whether it was true, I'll never know. But she was accused of betrayal… and cast out while I grew in her belly."
Jahima's eyes softened as she turned to meet his eyes.
"She died giving birth. My father...raised me in the border towns until I was old enough to carry messages. Then I was given to the commander to serve as a squire." His mouth tightened. "He saw my hatred for the royal family and sharpened it into a blade."
Jahima studied him, seeing not just the man, but the boy who had grown up with loss as his only inheritance. "So you've been planning this for years."
"Since before I could read."
They finished the bath in silence, both lost in their own ghosts. The sounds of the camp drifted through the cabin walls. Marching feet, shouted orders, the distant clang of metal, all a reminder that the meeting to come would be no less exposing than the bath they shared.
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As the sun set, Santiago led her to the center of the camp. The commander awaited them. He was a tall, intimidating man whose piercing blue eyes felt like iron pressing against Jahima's skin. He looked her over, not with lust or pity, but calculation and disgust.
"She has knowledge of the inner workings of the Alhambra," Santiago said in Castilian. "Harem routines. Guard shifts. Political tensions. Everything."
"Does she speak our tongue?" the commander asked in Castilian.
"No," Santiago replied. "Her real value is in her blind fury."
The commander's mouth curved slightly, and he looked directly into Jahima's eyes. "Ask her what she can offer?"
Santiago relayed his message in Arabic, and she straightened before answering, as Santiago interpreted.
"I can tell you which corridors are patrolled and which are not. Who's loyal to the Malika. Who fears her. Where the prince sleeps. Where the concubines bathe. Where the weapons are hidden behind painted walls."
The commander's gaze sharpened, and he took a slow step toward her. "Words are cheap, Santiago. She will need to convince me she is worth the risk." His words hung heavy in the air as Santiago paused before nodding silently. He offered no interpretation, forcing Jahima to hold the commander's stare.
She continued to meet his eyes without flinching, before laying out a final, damning secret. The knowledge of a series of hidden passages within the Malika's palace.
"Are you certain of this?" Santiago asked her.
"Yes," she said before he relayed the message. The commander's face twisted into a devilish smile.
"We were planning to march on the Alhambra in two weeks," he said slowly before looking at Santiago. "But with what she has shared…we can be ready to march in five days. That will give you time to ride ahead and scout the grounds before our army arrives."
Santiago nodded once, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as he escorted Jahima back to his cabin.
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That night, as Jahima sat beside a dimly lit map of the Alhambra, now etched with fresh markings, Santiago approached carrying a crimson and gold robe, simple but elegant.
"A gift," he said, placing it over her shoulders. "For when we return to the palace."
She turned sharply. "Return?"
"You didn't think we'd keep you here, did you? A mole is only useful if it's planted."
Her fingers gripped the fabric. The red bled deep in the firelight, the shade of fresh blood. The same color as the Malika's ceremonial veil. The memory of the Malika's piercing eyes made her throat tighten; to wear it would feel like stepping directly into the woman's grasp.
"Why this color?"
Santiago's eyes glinted. "Because she'll know what it means. You wear crimson, and it tells her that someone knows her secret, that she's not the only one who understands what runs through her veins. It's not just a robe, Jahima. It's a message."
A chill rippled through her, sharper than the cold night air. "I can't go back," she whispered. "If she thinks I've betrayed her, she'll have me killed before I take a second breath."
"You can." His tone like iron. "We will all sacrifice something to see victory. You will abandon your fear, and I will give you my word."
She shook her head. "The Malika won't believe me. She'll see through whatever story you spin."
"She will believe you," Santiago said with quiet certainty. He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of soap from their shared bath, the heat of his body seeping into the space between them. "Because I will see to it personally. I will make her believe you, even if I have to stand before her myself."
Jahima searched his face for some hint of mercy and found none, only a resolve carved from old wounds and a deeper hatred than she understood.
She looked down at the robe again. A silent threat coveyed in silk.
Santiago moved behind her, his footsteps slow and deliberate. His hands rose to her shoulders, unfastening her worn robe with careful precision. The fabric slid from her arms, leaving her bare to the air, before he draped the crimson over her instead. His breath brushed her ear as he leaned in.
"You'll walk back into their walls like you never left," he murmured, voice low and steady. "And they won't see the knife until it's already at their throat."
Her stomach tightened, and she thought she might be sick. Going back meant facing the Malika's gaze, a gaze that had broken men stronger than her. But staying would bring a new type of suffering without Santiago's protection.
A blade on either side.
She bowed her head, letting the robe settle over her like chains. "You'll need to send me back worn," she said, her voice trembling. "Hurt enough that she thinks I suffered. Enough to shame her into believing I crawled my way out."
A flicker of something, amusement, perhaps respect, touched his mouth. "That," he said, "can be arranged."