"The scent of roses haunted her dreams, mingling with the smoke that had turned her home to ash."

Farid never returned that night.

Sima's back ached from the cold, unyielding marble steps where she had fallen asleep, each groove and ancient whorl pressed into her flesh like the script of a forgotten curse. She stirred awake to the faint hum of dawn's light filtering through the mushrabiya windows, casting shadows like scattered prayers across the floor. The scent of jasmine and cardamom still lingered from the evening's incense, now turned bitter with the taste of her own failure.

Her legs had cramped hours ago, but she dared not stretch them, as if maintaining this position of supplication might somehow summon him back. Her chin rested on her knees, and her velvet robes—once green as grass—were now creased and dust-streaked, the gold thread catching the light like dying stars.

The bed, lavish and sprawling, loomed above her like a king's tomb, its silk sheets undisturbed as temple offerings. The canopy of deep sapphire and gold traced patterns that seemed to mock her with their perfection. She had known better than to sleep in it, for the harem's unwritten laws were etched in the bones of women who had come before. A concubine slept where the master desired—never where she presumed.

But the prince had not desired her at all.

Rising stiffly, Sima clenched her jaw, the sting of rejection cutting deeper than she expected. It was not her pride that smarted—no, she had long ago traded that luxury for survival, like so many precious things bartered away in the bazaars of power. It was her survival instinct that trembled now, for the Shah's sogoli was not meant to be spurned. In the delicate dance of the court, such an insult was more deadly than poison, more dangerous than a thousand drawn swords.

What game was the fifth prince playing?

The servant girls were already bustling into the chamber, their footsteps soft but their gazes sharp. They moved like shadows through sheets of morning light, their presence both a comfort and a threat. News would spread through the palace faster than spilled water soaking silk. Sima straightened her posture and smoothed her robes with hands that refused to shake, ensuring no trace of her discomfort remained. She was a daughter of desert winds and ancient magic—she would not break so easily.

"Did he ever return?" she asked one of them in a low, clipped voice.

The girl shook her head quickly, not daring to meet Sima's eyes, as if the truth might burn them both. "The prince spent the night in the chambers of Princess Parisa."

Sima's lips tightened, a gesture so slight it might have been missed by any but those trained in reading the subtle language of the harem. Parisa, the Shah's youngest and only daughter, was known for her wit and charm—a nightingale among peacocks, they said. She was the beloved of the palace, her laughter echoing through marble halls like silver bells, a sound that somehow survived in this garden where joy withered on the vine. She was that rarest of creatures: a young woman both powerful and loved. But Sima had no time for admiration, not when the pieces of this puzzle were finally arranging themselves into a pattern she could read.

The prince defied his father's command to avoid her. That can mean only one thing: Farid was no ordinary prince. The thought settled in her mind like a scorpion preparing to strike.

१

In her private chambers, Parisa leaned against a cluster of embroidered cushions, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. The kind of mischief that had once convinced three palace guards that djinn danced in the garden fountains. "So you left the poor woman to sleep on the stairs? And here I thought Mother raised a gentleman."

Farid, sprawled on the carpet with his arms crossed behind his head, groaned in boredom. The sound echoed off the mosque-domed ceiling. "I will not be patronized."

"You savage animal," Parisa said, tossing a sugared almond at him. Her aim, practiced from years of pelting her brother with various projectiles, was perfect. "You're lucky she didn't go straight to Father. You know how he hates humiliation. Rejecting his precious sogoli? It's a slap in the face." She lowered her voice to mimic their father's stern tone. "A prince, spurning such an honor? What next—will you start wearing common wool and eating with peasants?"

"It's not about her," Farid muttered, catching the almond and popping it into his mouth. The sugar burned sweet against his tongue, "It's about him. It's always about him."

Parisa sat up, her smile fading. "You really think Father sent her as a gift out of affection?" She leaned forward, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Farid, it's a test. He's reminding you who holds the reins. Just like he did with Navid before—" She caught herself, the unfinished name of their exiled brother hanging in the air.

Farid pushed himself up, resting his elbows on his knees. "I know that, little sister. It's the conundrum." His fingers traced the carpet's intricate patterns, following the maze-like designs as if seeking an escape route. "But what would you have me do? Smile and accept his spy into my bed?"

"If you accept, you're nothing more than another puppet. If you don't, you show him you can't be tamed." Parisa's sighed. "Either way, he wins. That's how he designs these games."

"Look at you deciphering court politics." Farid's smile was sharp. "We should marry you off before you become too dangerous. Perhaps to that one-eyed prince from the western provinces?"

"Oh, don't be silly." Parisa flicked another almond at him, this time aiming for his forehead. "If I leave these halls, who would plead on your behalf every time you get into trouble? Your head will surely roll by the year's end." She paused, then added with deadly seriousness, "Besides, everyone knows the one-eyed prince prefers his horses to his wives. At least make up a better threat, brother."

"And what would you suggest instead, wise one?" Farid's tone was mocking, but his eyes sought her counsel all the same.

Parisa reached for the brass teapot, pouring fresh mint tea that steamed like morning fog. "I suggest you remember that even Father's most carefully laid traps can become opportunities—if you're clever enough to see them as such."

Farid picked through the almonds and threw a few into his mouth. The sweet morsels did little to ease the bitter taste of politics on his tongue.

Parisa regarded her brother thoughtfully, her sharp gaze softening like wax beneath a flame. "You're playing a dangerous game. Father's patience is thinner than his mercy." Her words carried the weight of remembered punishments, of siblings who had tested those boundaries and paid dearly.

Farid sighed and ran a hand through his tousled hair, dark strands falling across his forehead like brushstrokes of midnight. "I don't trust her either. There's something about her, Parisa. She's too... perfect. Too poised." His eyes narrowed, seeing beyond the walls of his sister's chambers to the larger game being played. "No one in Father's court is that flawless without hiding a hundred secrets."

१

As Sima returned to the harem, the whispers began—soft as silk sliding against marble, sharp as needles beneath velvet. The other concubines had heard of Farid's rejection, and their amusement was barely concealed behind painted lips and jeweled fingers.

"Perhaps she's not so perfect after all," one murmured behind a painted fan, the gold leaf catching light like a snake's scales. The words drifted through the air like poisoned honey.

"She spends a decade enchanting the Shah, only to be discarded by his son," another snickered.

Sima met their veiled jabs with silence, her chin high, her steps measured as a temple dancer's. Let them laugh. They were fools playing at rivalry while she played for survival. These women saw only the game before them—the daily battle for favor and position. They didn't understand that true power lay in the long game, in moves planned seasons ahead.

Yet beneath her calm exterior, her mind churned like desert winds before a storm. Farid's rejection was not the act of a careless prince; it was deliberate, calculated. He was not the type to overlook the political consequences of slighting the Shah's favorite. No, this was a message—but whether it was meant for her, for his father, or for some other player in this grand game, she had yet to determine.

Their dance had only begun, and Sima had not survived this long by missing a single step.

The whispers in the harem faded as older, darker memories surfaced—memories of Golemut, her village nestled in the valley of a thousand roses. The scent of smoke still haunted her dreams, a decade later.

She had been eighteen, daughter of Vizier Mahmoud, when the Persian raiders came. The thunder of hooves had drowned out the morning call to prayer, and the Shah's banner had darkened their skies like an ill omen. Her father had tried to reason with them, his scholarly hands raised in supplication. Her mother had gathered Sima and her brothers—Javad and Karim—close, as if her embrace could shield them from what was to come.

"The Nasib-e-Elahi," the Shah had demanded, his voice carrying across the village square. "The Divine Fate. Where is it?" The gem was said to hold the breath of gods within its depths, granting divine right to rule to whoever possessed it. For centuries, legends had whispered that it lay hidden in their humble village.

They knelt before him, her family and their people, as the Shah's soldiers held blade-tips to their throats. The morning sun had caught the steel, making it shimmer like water. How naive she had been then, thinking beauty could not coexist with cruelty.

"There is no gem here, your majesty," her father had said, his voice steady even as fear made his hands tremble. "These are merely stories—"

The Shah's sword had fallen before her father could finish. Her mother's scream had cut off just as quickly. Javad, barely twelve, had tried to shield Karim, but steel knew no mercy. Their blood had pooled together on the dusty ground, seeping into the earth that had nurtured their family for generations.

But when the Shah's blade had reached Sima, it had stopped short. His eyes had widened, taking in her features—features that her mother had once called blessed by the divine. "This one," he had said, wiping his sword clean on his robes, "will serve in my harem."

She had watched, numb with horror, as flames consumed Golemut. The roses that had given their village its name had burned last, their petals turning to ash in the wind.

Now, a decade later, Sima returned to her chambers, only to find a folded note slipped beneath the door. She hesitated before opening it, her fingers trembling with the same fear she had felt that morning long ago. The paper was fine vellum, the kind used only by those of high rank.

The words inside were written in a sharp, elegant hand:

You are not the only one who plays with poison.
The garden's rose is always the first to bleed.

Her breath hitched. She stared at the note, her heart pounding against her ribs like a caged bird. Someone knew. Someone had discovered her true purpose, had seen through the perfect mask she had crafted over ten years of careful planning. Had recognized that every graceful movement, every demure smile, every calculated gesture of submission had been leading to this moment—her chance to destroy the man who had destroyed everything she loved.

The note crumpled in her fist. Let them know. Let them try to stop her. She had not survived the flames of Golemut, had not endured a decade of the Shah's "mercy," had not crafted herself into his perfect sogoli, to falter now.

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