SHAHRAZAD'S SKIN BURNS EVEN AS SUDS of foam travel down her back, failing to erase the lining of darkness, the ghosting of lips. She can still feel the lightest skim on the back of her hand, and despite her efforts to rid it, she can't.

She can't erase him. Even if she wants to.

"Enough with the scratching," Laleh mutters, easing a porcelain jug of water over her head "I mean it, Malika, quit this childishness."

She perches at the edge of the bed, ignoring the draping of fabric on her, the ringing of silver bangles, the perfected lining of kohl.

Shahryar is the sun, and she is the moon. They are meant to destroy each other.

"Is the prisoner's background clear?" She asks, carefully. "Is he one of us?"

"I am not really sure, but Anwar is trying to figure," Laleh answers, eating the food off the table, raising an eyebrow then. "You're not thinking of doing something reckless, are you?"

She shakes her head, a heave bubbling from her tired body. The last time she ventured into forbidden areas, the King had terrified her, shut the doors. His wrath isn't something she wants to willingly enrage. It still confuses her why he pushed her away from the room of dead roses, from the eerie painting on the wall. There was an unplaced familiarity in those features in the portrait, those unmistakable cruel eyes, like there is some correlation between that man and the one that taunts her every day. "Did you know Khalifa's father?"

It is an abrupt question, causing Laleh to double slightly. There is uncertainty in her eyes, the slim layer of guilt. She hesitates, the words almost forced, "No, but my mother did. She used to work in the palace during his reign."

"Tell me about it," Shahrazad says, albeit intrigued. She rests her elbows on the cushioning, lying on her stomach to face the handmaiden with a flicker of curiousity. The first step to destroying an enemy is to calculate his weakness, and the more she uncovers beneath the cold king, the closer she is to ruining his empire. Even if she's having doubts about it.

"His name was Rashid," Laleh explains cautiously, pulling the shutters over the ivory panes to prevent light from seeping into the chambers. "He ascended the throne quite late, around the age of thirty, perhaps. Rumours are that he was so sick of waiting for the kingdom that he killed his father. While people aren't sure about that, given his streak of murders, I think that it is likely that he did."

She smoothens the layer of her garment, reluctance filling the spaces. "My mother used to work in the palace at that time. She was present when he married Khalifa's mother, but it wasn't-- it wasn't a happy marriage, Shahrazad. He did not care about her at all. It was simply an alliance between her father's kingdom and his. Maama used to tend the queen, and according to her, Rashid was impatient for an heir, overwhelmingly so."

"And then she bore the child with a servant," Shahrazad completes. "Because he began abusing her. When did he figure that Shahryar wasn't his blood?"

At this, Laleh nervously wrings her fingers, laces them, unlaces them. Her bones are shaking, rattling. "I was seven at the time, and I had nothing to do with it--"

"What do you mean?"

"Please," she says, squeezing her eyes shut, "I don't want to finish, but there is something you should know, Malika."

Shahrazad's stomach twists into knots, tighter and tighter. She isn't sure if she wishes to know how this tale ends. The plot is thickening, and it's not just about her life anymore. It is deeper, darker, and uglier than the meticulous façade this palace upholds.

"All of us have a reason we joined the rebellion," she breathes. "M-my mother was the one who told Rashid about the queen's infidelity."

The air rushes outside the storyteller's lungs, and she has to catch her breath from extinguishing. It seems that the world around her is reeling. Nobody here is pristine, they are all tarnished with secrets. "Why?"

She sees the man plaguing her nightmares in a little boy, innocent and naïve. His eyes are soft, nothing like the murderous glint of the present, searching for his mother to find her being dragged by her hair. And as his father grins, canines sharp, beside a woman resembling Laleh, he screams.

"Because she was poor, and she would do anything to feed four hungry mouths, Malika. How was she to know that this mistake would cause the queen's death? That he would force a child to kill his mother."

"I don't know," she admits, hands clutching her forehead. "But it's not right."

"And slitting the throats of a thousand daughters is?"

"That is not what I meant."

"She didn't have a choice. But then," Laleh mutters, breathing harsh, tugging at the fabric encasing her. "When my mother and I fled the palace that night to escape from its madness, the Caliph had decided to turn his anger towards maama. She was the bearer of bad news, you see, so he had her sentenced to death. She was formally executed around the time Khalifa turned fourteen. He could have stopped it After all, he knew the pain of losing someone. But he didn't. It was fair in his eyes; a mother for a mother."

She stands, trembling. "He deserves to be ended, Malika. He's a beast, and he is unworthy of you."

Gathering her skirts, she gives her a long, hard look before leaving the chambers, the chime of her angry bangles the last sound in the room.

Shahrazad doesn't see her for the rest of the day.

SHE ASKS THE MOON IF SHE is wrong tonight. And even in its pale halo, it simply smiles into the cloak of night, embracing the stars.

Everything seems perfect, until he enters, coldness enveloping her. Shahrazad always feels his presence before she sees him. It stifles the space.

His robes are as dark as the night he saunters with, an endlessly flowing river of obsidian swirling around feet that have stepped over blood and bones. The smile on his face is crooked, sensuous, lilting. "Shahrazad."

She sighs quietly. "Shahryar."

He is nothing like the boy she imagined this morning. This king is a replication of monsters, nightmares, and sins.

As he sneaks beside her, close enough for his fingers to accidentally brush against her skin, Shahrazad's face flushes. She pulls her hand, if only after a brief second, and he notices the movement. His ember eyes follow the trail, raking her in a fiery gaze. "Is something making you fidget?"

"No," she lies, rubbing her elbows, and the stars laugh in the distance. "Nothing really."

"I'll rephrase that, then," he breathes, lifting his fingers to push the untamed hair behind her neck. His mouth is at her ear, breath warm as he whispers, "Am I making you uncomfortable, love?"

"You think too highly of yourself, Khalifa."

His laughter echoes into the confinements, ricochetting off the walls, absorbed by the tanned stone beneath her. Shahryar's lean form is unnervingly invading, and precise, cut from marble itself. She takes in his stature; the crisp scars imperceptibly cutting strong brows, the defined angles of his jaw, and she wonders if it would have been different if he wasn't a killer.

But he is, she reminds herself, and he let Laleh's mother die.

Clenching her heart, Shahrazad tugs the stray thread escaping from the embroidery. It comforts her that something is in disarray in this palace.

"No questions today?" The King notices. "I'm surprised, but--"

"Do you feel any remorse?" She asks, crossing her ankles. "For killing all those women, and torturing that man yesterday?"

Shahryar sighs tiredly, drumming his fingers against the table, the sound of his rings scratching the wood. "Should I?"

She catches his twitching hands, annoyed. "Stop that."

Except that he looks down at their intertwined fingers, eyes flickering to hers slowly. "Tell me the story."

Shahrazad attempts to withdraw her hand, but he holds it in place. The stars are in his eyes, mocking her heartbeat. "No, don't. I like this."

They are the same hands that whip men, and slay women.

She shouldn't be feeling something between them, something that ignites the wax dripping from the candles until it sears into her flesh. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why did you volunteer yourself into this?"

Silence holds her tongue. "So, Sinbad felt the island shake from the core."

Shahryar relaxes, although his grip on her fingers remain, applying slight pressure.

"It was like an earthquake, trees being uprooted, falling onto the ground. And as he scurried, running from the destruction, he discovered that the island wasn't an island at all. In fact, it was a monstrous mammal on which silt had deposited and resulted in growth. As fast as he could, the voyager assembled his raft, rowing into the waters before the creature fully awoke from its slumber."

Gentle winds from the desserts wisp into the palace, whispering through thin curtains. She glances at the kingdom blanketed in darkness, lighting like jewels at the night, seemingly beautiful. "As luck would have it, Sinbad could sight land, and he headed towards the shore until his arms gave away, and he was washed onto it. This time though, it was full of people, of life, and he wandered through the streets. Numerous bazaars, colourful rugs, and swarms of people all greeted him. Seeing the potential of this new land, he set about establishing his trade."

It is almost impossible to breathe, him holding her hand captive. "In a few months, his business had taken flight, attracting merchants from all of the eastern world. Everything was going smoothly, and Sinbad soon forgot about his previous mishaps. That was until a morning, when he was setting up his stall in the bazaar. Four burly men walked up to him, and mistaking them for customers, he asked, 'What may I assist you with, Sir?' One of them, possibly the head, raised his arm to signal the others, and said, 'Our Queen wishes to meet you.' Before Sinbad had the chance to speak, he was knocked cold, hit across the head into unconsciousness."

Shahryar shifts, beguiled. "Why did they do that?"

"Well," she shrugs, adornments chiming softly. "Rulers seem to believe that they can do as they please."

Outside, the layer of night has brightened into hues of deep blues. "When he awoke, Sinbad found himself dressed in the most exquisite kaftans, laying on a beautiful lounge. Around him were the interiors of a remarkable palace, befitting a royal. He had been thoroughly prepped, as if prepared for some occasion. It was too strange. He was confused. Who brought him? Why was he here? As he struggled to recall, Sinbad heard an infectious giggle. 'So, he rises, finally'."

"And?"

"Then, he saw her. Sitting at the other end was a woman. But the oddest thing was, he couldn't quite view her because between them were three curtains, three veils shielding him from viewing his captor."

The King rubs his jaw, curious, his hand clutching tighter.

She worries her lip, ushering herself to still. "Sinbad asked, 'And who might you be, my lady?' Through the barriers in between, he heard, 'I'm the Queen of this land, seafarer, and I have a challenge for you.' When asked about it, she continued, 'I will tell you three stories, at the end of which you will have to answer a question.'"

Behind Shahryar, the Arabian sands welcome another day, another dawn. "Smiling at Sinbad, she said, 'If you answer the question, the veil will be taken down, one by one. If you reach me past the veils, I will marry you. But if you don't, you shall die.' And thus, she began her first tale."

Shahrazad falls silent.

He gingerly leaves her hand, after seconds of hesitation, staring into space. His spine digs into the walls, emptiness spilling from his soul. "I don't."

"Don't what?"

He turns towards her, shoulders slack. "I don't feel any remorse."

She breathes deeply, infatuated with the scent of hyacinths. Death chokes her. Insanity intoxicates her senses. "At all?"

"At all."

There are inexplicable moments, quiet and haunting, and this is one of them.

It chills her entirely.

And then, he leaves without an explanation, while she still reels in the iciness of his touch.

▪ ▪ ▪

a/n: so, laleh's mother? things are getting messy badum badum.

and #20 in fantasy wut? still freaking out.

(p.s: i have another retelling in the works but it won't be out until dgtnt is complete) x