Author's Preface
The lessons with Zoraida went on, day after day, and Halima, to her own surprise, began looking forward to them.
Zoraida turned out to be stern in appearance — straight-backed, sharp-voiced, with no patience for laziness or inattention — but beneath that severity Halima quickly recognized deep, genuine care. The teacher corrected every wrong movement with the exacting standard of a skilled master training a worthy student, not the irritation of someone saddled with a burden.
"Here we pray twice a day," Zoraida explained during one of the early lessons, noticing the confusion on Halima's face. "At dawn and at sunset."
She patiently demonstrated each movement, corrected her posture during the bows, taught the words of prayer, and then demonstrated the ritual ablution, step by step. Zoraida taught her to wash her hands and face with quiet intention, explaining that alongside the desert dust, one washes away the turmoil of the outside world, preparing the heart to stand before the Creator.
Sometimes, between lessons, amid the daily chores, Halima caught Yahya watching her — not a passing glance, but thoughtful, held a beat too long for simple courtesy, as if he were studying something in her she couldn't see herself. Every time, her chest tightened with a sudden, unwanted warmth — and every time, she checked herself immediately.
Foolishness, she'd think, turning away. He's the chieftain's son. He surely has a bride waiting among the noble lines — someone beautiful, worthy of his position. The thought, reasonable as it was, left a light, inexplicable ache in her chest, one she hurried to smother by returning to her tasks.
And there were plenty of tasks. Amina had taken to teaching her needlework — sitting her down on the rug, showing her how to hold a needle, how to draw an even stitch through heavy fabric, how to choose thread for embroidery.
"On Earth," Halima admitted one day, studying her uneven stitch line, "almost no one sews their own clothes anymore. People just buy them."
Amina looked at her with genuine astonishment, as if the very idea struck her as alien, but didn't press further — only shook her head and continued the lesson. Here, sewing wasn't a luxury or a forgotten art but a basic skill even the men possessed, despite the existence of proper tailors in the settlement.
On one such day, while Halima was wrestling with yet another stubborn pattern, the tent flap stirred, and Yahya stepped in.
"Mother," he said, dipping his head slightly in respect, "I'd like to take Halima for a walk, if you'll allow it."
Amina, casting her son a quick, knowing glance, nodded with a slight smile.
"Go," she told Yahya. "I'll get her ready."
The moment he left, Amina set aside her sewing and grew brisk, sorting through bundles of fabric stacked in the corner of the tent.
Halima watched with curiosity. She had already grown used to how local women covered their heads with scarves, but what Amina brought out now stunned her with its scale: heavy silk embroidered in gold and silver thread, patterns so fine they looked more like artwork than clothing. She had never seen such craftsmanship up close before, let alone meant for her.
Amina sat her before a small mirror in a carved frame and, taking a thin brush, began carefully darkening her lashes. Halima didn't think much of it at first — just another act of the care she was growing accustomed to. Amina adjusted a fold of fabric on her shoulder, brushed her hair, and chose the shade of her scarf with the quiet focus of someone dressing their most precious treasure.
"There," Amina said finally, stepping back to admire her work.
Halima looked at her reflection — a blue dress embroidered in silver, a blue scarf framing her face in soft folds — and barely recognized herself.
"What a beautiful daughter I have," Amina said quietly, with such unguarded, warm pride that it took Halima's breath away.
Daughter.
The word, ordinary for any other girl, struck her with a force she couldn't fully explain. She had never been anyone's daughter in that sense before — not someone tolerated or raised out of obligation, but someone genuinely admired, cherished simply for existing. Something inside her, starved for years, clung to the word, letting it settle deep in her chest.
The tent flap stirred again, and Yahya walked in.
"Are you fin—" He didn't finish.
His gaze caught on Halima, and he stopped mid-sentence. His lips parted in quiet awe, and an amber warmth flared in his eyes. For several long seconds he just looked at her, unable to tear his eyes away, before collecting himself with a short nod and offering his hand toward the exit.
They stepped out of the tent together, leaving behind the gentle bustle of the camp, stepping out on an outing Halima viewed very differently now.
Yahya helped her into the palanquin mounted on the broad back of a varak — a carved structure of wood and heavy fabric, resembling the howdahs she had seen in old Earth history books. The moment the beast started moving, the palanquin swayed in a slow, rhythmic cadence. Halima couldn't help but smile. She felt as though she had stepped straight into the pages of an ancient legend rather than remaining a stranded technician from another world.
The journey stretched on. The desert unfolded around them in dunes that rolled endlessly into the horizon, and every so often Yahya's voice reached her from outside the canopy:
"Are you tired?"
"No," she answered each time with a small smile. "I'm fine, really."
In truth, her thoughts drifted elsewhere: if only he knew how accustomed to hardship she had been since childhood. Her father had often thrown his daughters out of the house whenever his temper flared, leaving them to spend the night huddled in the sheep pen, shivering among the animals until his anger cooled. After a childhood like that, the gently rocking palanquin felt like an unimaginable luxury. She kept those dark memories hidden behind her calm expression, unwilling to cloud the day with old wounds.
Finally, his voice came again, edged with anticipation.
"We're here."
Climbing out of the palanquin, Halima froze.
Before her rose a colossal mountain, jutting up from the flat sea of sand like a remnant forgotten by another world. It stood as the only vertical landmark for miles, majestic and otherworldly.
"This is the Sacred Mountain," Yahya explained, his voice carrying the reverence of someone speaking of holy ground. "Our prophet received his first revelation here. Inside lies the Sacred Lake — its waters are said to heal. And for generations, people saw the faces of their destined soulmates in it. It is the most revered place for our line."
They stepped inside, and the searing heat outside instantly vanished, replaced by a thick, enveloping coolness. The cave's dim interior shimmered with bluish glints from crystals embedded in the stone ceiling, like scattered fragments of the night sky. The lake lay completely still, dark and deep as polished agate.
Yahya stopped at the water's edge and turned to her.
"Halima, remember I told you about soulmates?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "I remember."
"Many years ago," he began, his voice tight with emotion, "right here, in this water, I saw your face for the first time." He faltered for a second, then pressed on. "Our people believed this gift was lost forever — the lake had been silent for centuries. But it spoke to me. I didn't know who you were or where you came from. Your features, your eyes — everything about you was unlike the women of my line. I understood only one thing: you would come from far away. And I waited. For years. I longed for you, even though I had never heard your voice or touched your hand."
He stepped closer, the crystal light reflecting in his eyes.
"From that first night I found you in the sand, my heart has belonged to you. It burns for you, Halima." He sank to his knees before her, taking her hands in his. "Will you become my wife? The keeper of my tent... and of my heart?"
Tears spilled before she realized it. For so long, she had waited to hear words like these — sincere, meant only for her, born of devotion rather than duty.
The past few weeks rushed through her mind: his constant kindness, his quiet patience, the deep respect he had shown her from the start, and the tribe's chatter that no man could match Yahya in strength or character. And now he was kneeling before her, asking for her hand.
A shadow of doubt stirred within her — his heart hadn't chosen her from among many women; this bond had been dictated by a vision long before they ever met. Was it truly her he loved, or merely the fulfillment of an ancient sign? But looking into his eyes, seeing the raw vulnerability in his gaze, Halima pushed the hesitation aside. She had been starved for warmth and belonging for too long to dismantle her own happiness with doubts. If love had not fully bloomed yet, it would grow.
She took a slow, trembling breath, her hands tightening around his.
"Yes," she whispered through her tears. "Yes, I accept."
The tension left Yahya's shoulders as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for years, a brilliant smile breaking across his face.
"My search is over," he said softly, rising and closing his hands gently around hers. "Finally over.”