Author's Preface
"How was your day, Yahya? How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?" Halima asked softly, handing him a wooden bowl of broth.
As he took it, a quiet doubt stirred in her mind. She distinctly remembered that Yahya was not supposed to drink the herbal brew the previous night—she had personally ordered Darim to have it removed. Yet he showed every sign of someone who had consumed it. Why?
"Good, everything is fine. It still aches a little," Yahya answered with a warm smile.
"Should we go to the healer? Or maybe I should send for him?" Halima asked anxiously, searching his face.
"There's no need, it will pass on its own," Yahya shook his head gently and covered her hand with his. "Please, don't worry about it."
Hearing his steady voice, Halima let out a quiet sigh of relief. He was simply exhausted from the long, grueling celebrations. She was letting her imagination run wild; she needed to stop overthinking every detail.
Inwardly, however, Yahya could not deny the strange heaviness in his skull. Even after hours of sleep, he had felt sluggish, his mind shrouded in a dull, persistent fog throughout the day. It was unusual, but he chose not to dwell on it—deciding that if the ache did not clear by tomorrow, he would visit the healers himself.
By the following evening, the lingering dullness had cleared, easing Halima's immediate worries and allowing the quiet routine of married life to take root.
Weeks passed since the wedding, yet Seyyid Yahya continued to wake each dawn with a quiet sense of wonder. In the soft, pre-dawn light filtering through the tent's heavy canvas, he would lie still and watch Halima sleep. Every detail of her face remained wonderfully precious to him: the softer tone of her skin, the gentle arch of her brows, the delicate curve of her lips—so distinct from the women born to these desert sands.
In the quiet stillness, Yahya offered silent gratitude to the Creator. In moments like these, he thought with deep bewilderment of his ancestors. How could they have cast aside true soulmates for the sake of petty political rivalries, territorial gain, and forced alliances? To Yahya, holding his wife in the quiet darkness felt like soaring unburdened over endless dunes.
Yet the morning peace inevitably yielded to the demands of the day, where the elders' council dragged on for exhausting hours. The weight resting on the future chieftain’s shoulders was immense: ancient blood feuds to settle, the strict rationing of water, border patrols across distant sands, and the absolute responsibility for every life in the tribe. Since boyhood, only one thing had been demanded of him—to stand as an unyielding stone wall: strong, composed, without a single tremor of weakness.
Only at dusk, when the setting sun washed the edge of the oasis in crimson, did he return to their tent. Crossing the threshold, Yahya felt the day's crushing weight begin to loosen. Halima had become his sanctuary—the one place where he could drop his guard, exhale, and simply exist. Overcome by physical fatigue, the chieftain lowered his heavy head onto his wife's lap, closing his eyes as a profound sense of peace settled over him.
Yet amid this quiet happiness, one unsolved puzzle gnawed at him. Yahya recalled a recent conversation where Halima had mentioned an Earth tradition—a "honeymoon," where newlyweds traveled away together to enjoy each other's company without distraction.
The seasoned desert leader felt entirely out of his depth. Who could he turn to for counsel? The stern elders of the council would only react with baffled irritation; such romantic journeys did not exist in their harsh world. His father? His mother?
Yahya genuinely racked his brain. Take her to the coast? The sea was a thousand kilometers away—a full month of perilous travel through scorching wastes, and he could not abandon his people for so long. Take her somewhere beautiful? The unforgiving desert held no lush gardens or hidden havens. A future chieftain capable of commanding an army through a sandstorm felt utterly helpless before a simple earthbound tradition—yet he desperately wanted to grant the woman he loved this small piece of home.
Later that evening, lost in thought as he walked through the settlement, Yahya crossed paths with Faris.
"Brother, you've been miles away for days," Faris said, falling into step beside him and watching his face closely. "What's troubling you?"
Yahya hesitated. Even with a brother he trusted completely, speaking of such matters felt foreign and awkward—far removed from matters of steel, water, and borders. But with a heavy sigh, he admitted his predicament: Halima had mentioned a custom from her world where newlyweds escaped together to be alone, and he had no idea where in this barren desert he could offer her anything of the sort.
Faris’s expression grew serious as he listened. Deep inside him, an old ember of caution still lingered. But looking at Yahya, at the deep tranquility that had settled over him over these past months, Faris felt his remaining doubts soften. Halima had lived among them for nearly half a year now, and in all that time, she had proven her loyalty beyond question. Perhaps she truly was a blessing.
"The hot springs," Faris said finally, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Take her there. It's secluded, tucked away in the rocks just beyond the settlement's edge."
"I don't have the time, Faris," Yahya said, shaking his head. "There is too much resting on my shoulders."
"You don't," Faris agreed with a faint smirk, "but I do. I'm not buried under tribal governance every hour of the day like you are."
Yahya hesitated, remembering their father would be traveling next week to meet neighboring clan leaders. He almost refused, reluctant to leave his duties unattended, but Faris cut him off.
"I'll handle it, brother. I'll take care of whatever needs doing while you're away."
"There's nothing out there," Yahya protested, still uncertain. "No shelter, no food."
"Leave that to me," Faris said with quiet certainty. "I'll arrange everything—food, drink, a place to rest. All you have to do is bring her there."
It felt as though a crushing weight had lifted from Yahya's chest. An impossible problem had dissolved into a perfect solution, handed to him by his brother. A rare, brilliant smile broke across Yahya's face, and a wave of youthful joy filled his heart. Finding no words to convey his gratitude, he gripped Faris by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Someday," Yahya murmured, stepping back, "when you find a wife of your own, I will return the favor. I promise."
Faris smiled and gave a short nod, though a dry thought crossed his mind: not a single woman across the tribes had ever touched his heart. Unless, he thought with quiet irony, one fell straight out of the sky for him too.
He watched Yahya walk away, realizing how much his older brother had changed over these past months. It was as if an ancient weight, carried for generations, had finally quieted.
All of it, Faris decided, was worth giving Halima a real chance.
Whatever lay ahead, let it come.