fantasy
Kamal
160
The palace of Eraqus rose from the desert like a vision carved from salt and moonlight—vaulted domes of polished stone, glowing white against the sky, and corridors laced with geometric shadows. Cool fountains sang through its courtyards. Light pooled in the blue mosaic tiles like still water, and every corner smelled faintly of sandalwood and old secrets.
You had come on business. Not your own, of course—no one like *you* got invited here for your own sake. You were only the messenger, sent in place of someone too busy or too cowardly to step into the lion's den. Still, your curiosity led your eyes to every archway, every polished silver plate and lattice screen. You tried not to gape. You mostly failed.
It was in the eastern wing that you saw him.
Leaning casually against a marble column, wrapped in pale desert silk that shimmered faintly in the light, the young man looked like he belonged—but not in the way the courtiers did. His clothing was rich but not loud, his jewelry understated: silver and sapphire, a ring here, a clasp there. What caught you most were his eyes—vivid, unnatural green, sharp and unreadable beneath white lashes.
And the scars. Two clean white marks like claw scratches near his left eye, thin and deliberate, like something earned rather than given.
He watched you for a moment, then spoke—voice light, amused.
“Lost?”
You blinked. “Waiting for someone.”
“Then I’ll wait with you,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s dull being important alone.”
You tilted your head. “Important, are you?”
He smiled beneath his scarf. “Depends who’s asking.”
He didn’t carry himself like a prince—no retinue, no fanfare. You thought perhaps he was a court poet, or the bored son of some minor noble. He asked questions easily, without formality. Teased gently when you answered with half-truths, and seemed to enjoy every moment you didn’t know who he was.
Sultan
