Author's Preface
The council of clan and city leaders, convened every three years, always carried the same heavy, suffocating tension, and this time was no different. Year after year, decade after decade, one question always rose to the top of the agenda — the one that gnawed at everyone in the room: how could they encourage more daughters to be born?
Before these independent leaders, he was more than just a ruler — he was Seyyid Mansur of the noble house of Banu Rayyan. Yet, Mansur listened with half an ear, caught up in his own dark thoughts. Their people lived nearly two thousand years on average, and still, women bore shockingly few children — rarely more than three in an entire lifetime. Their sons simply had no one to marry. The fear of slow, inevitable extinction hung over the council hall, thicker than the incense smoke in the air.
The bitter irony was never far from Mansur's mind. Once, their ancestors had killed newborn daughters, convinced too many were being born. Now they were desperate for even a handful.
"Mansur!" A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. Ubayd, leader of the Banu Sinan, an old friend who'd stood beside him through wars and peace treaties alike, looked at him with a knowing grin. "How's your daughter-in-law?"
Mansur couldn't help but smile, thinking of Halima's open, innocent face. The weeks Darim had spent quietly watching her, at his order, had turned up nothing suspicious — only kindness, only genuine devotion to his son. Watching Yahya come alive beside her, Mansur had welcomed her into his heart completely.
"She's become a blessing to our line, Ubayd," he said firmly. "An answer to prayers we've been offering for centuries."
"Our whole people believe that," Ubayd said, eager. "A woman falling from the sky isn't chance. Maybe she's the very sign, the spark that brings our daughters back. The answer to years of pleading."
He laughed, clapping Mansur on the shoulder. "Get ready, my friend — you're about to get more marriage proposals than you know what to do with, for your future granddaughters."
"Then we'll need to prepare our sons properly," Mansur said with a laugh of his own. "I won't hand my granddaughters over to just anyone."
The laughter faded, and Mansur turned serious, raising his voice for the whole gathering.
"My son Yahya saw the face of his soulmate in the waters of the Sacred Lake — the first time in centuries. For years we didn't know what to make of it. My son waited, aching, for a long time. Whether one chose to believe it or not, by God's mercy, it proved true. The successful union of Halima and Yahya stands as proof. The gift of visions has returned to us." He continued, "I think, by tradition, we should delay arranged marriages for young men and women who've come of age. Let them have the time, the chance, to see the face of the one meant for them in the lake's waters, the way my son once did."
The clan leaders nodded, one after another, agreeing to hold off on discussing arranged unions. One of them, though, couldn't quite hide the envy in his voice.
"A double blessing has fallen on Mansur's line," one leader said, shaking his head. "The gift of visions returns, and she herself is a sign from the heavens."
Mansur only smiled quietly, finding nothing to add.
As the murmur of discussion began to settle, Gaddar—the leader of the Banu Haman, seated a short distance away—spoke up.
"Mansur, think about an arranged marriage for your younger son. Faris has come of age — it's time to see to his future."
Mansur nodded but answered without hurry. "I'll think on it. But I promise to consider my son's own wishes. I don't want unhappiness for Faris in marriage."
"No one asked anyone's opinion back in our day," Gaddar countered, a light edge of reproach in his voice. "You yourself were married to Amina through an arranged union, if I remember right."
At the mention of his wife's name, something warm stirred in Mansur's chest. He silently thanked Allah for placing love between their hearts — over their long years together, he'd come to love Amina deeply, truly.
"Our marriage turning out well," he said aloud, "was simply good fortune, my friend. Not a guarantee for every union like it."
Gaddar made a doubtful sound but didn't push the point, and the council, leaving Faris's future unresolved, moved on to other matters.
Warm steam rose in soft clouds from the springs, dissolving somewhere near the ceiling of the grotto, and Halima, settled behind Yahya on the spread-out rug, drew a wooden comb slowly through his thick, silver-white hair.
"I don't understand how this is even possible," she said quietly, watching the strands catch a soft shine with every pass of the comb. "On Earth, no one has hair this color. Not a single person. It's like..." she searched for the word, "...like you're woven out of moonlight."
"And your skin," she added, "is beautiful too. Like the night sky."
Yahya grew slightly bashful at her words, a soft smile touching his lips.
"I have to admit... your appearance surprised me too at first," he murmured, meeting her eyes. "I had never seen anyone like you. But now, there is nothing in this world more beautiful to me."
Halima smiled, though a quiet question still lingered in her mind. "Did the color of my skin ever seem strange to your family... or your people? Back on Earth, people paid a great deal of attention to things like that."
"Allah created every nation with their own unique skin color," Yahya answered gently, taking her hand. "He made human beings in the most perfect form. To insult someone over the color of their skin is, in a way, to express discontent with the Creator’s own design. Anyone who looks down on another for how they were made should be prepared to stand against Allah Himself — if they have the courage. Allah made each of us unique, Halima, and that is something to take pride in. Everyone is beautiful in their own way."
"I agree," Halima whispered, her heart swelling with warmth.
Yahya closed his eyes, openly savoring both her touch and the sound of her words.
"This color," he said, "and the gold in my eyes — it's a mark of our bloodline. The sign of the ruling family. Passed down through generations."
"It's incredibly beautiful," Halima said, meaning it, still working the comb gently through his hair.
And then, as if the thought had only just truly landed, she froze, comb still in hand.
"So..." she said slowly, "our children will be born like this too. Silver hair. Golden eyes."
Yahya turned to look at her, something both tender and startled crossing his face. He hadn't expected the conversation to head this way so soon — he'd planned to take things slow, to properly win her heart before bringing up anything like this.
"You want children with me?" he asked quietly, studying her face as if searching for something beyond a simple answer.
Halima didn't hesitate for a second. Thinking back to her own cold childhood and her father's heavy hand, she realized with striking clarity how deeply she longed to build the home she never had — a place filled with love and warmth, where children would grow up cherished and safe, and where no daughter would ever feel like a burden.
"Of course I do. I want a lot of children with you, Yahya."
Something shifted in his expression — that mix of surprise and overwhelming tenderness he didn't even try to hide. He leaned in and kissed her cheek gently, then murmured, his eyes still warm and bright on her face:
"InshaAllah, we'll have many children."
Amina, stirring the pot for the evening meal, glanced at Faris and sighed softly.
"It feels so quiet here lately, doesn't it? So few of us around the table these days. The Prophet used to teach that when people gather to share a meal, Allah fills it with barakah — a divine grace that makes even the humblest food nourish both body and soul, bringing peace into the home. The more hands reaching for the dish, the greater the blessing."
Faris nodded gently. "I miss Father and Yahya too. The house feels emptier without them."
Amina shook off the sadness threatening to settle over her and brightened. "Ramadan is coming soon. The month the Prophet Yahya received his first revelation, on Mount Nur-Sabil — where the Sacred Lake lies, too."
"Allah made that month sacred for us," Faris agreed. He smiled, remembering how, as a boy, he used to wait eagerly for suhoor — the meal eaten just before dawn, right before the fast began. That month had always felt like something set apart, something special, for as long as he could remember.
And so they fell into planning — going over everything that needed finishing before Ramadan arrived, so that once the sacred month began, they could give themselves fully to worship, with nothing left undone to pull their attention away.