Author's Preface
Halima had spent the entire afternoon with Hayat. She was genuinely happy—she had finally found a friend, someone to share quiet laughter with over mundane chores, the way ordinary women did.
Walking back to her tent beneath the amber sunset, her mind drifted to simple hearth-side thoughts: whether there was enough flatbread left from the morning, or if she needed to stoke the embers and bake a fresh batch.
Stepping inside, she startled at the shadowy silhouette resting on the cushions, only to relax a second later as she recognized her husband.
Relief washed over her, though confusion quickly followed. Yahya rarely returned before dusk, and the sun was still hovering above the dunes.
Uneasy now, she approached the bed. "Yahya?"
He looked up at her, offering a smile so thin and devoid of warmth it chilled her. He had never looked at her like that before—with a distant, guarded gaze, as if a wall of cold stone had drawn up between them.
"Are you all right?" she asked gently.
Yahya studied her face for a long moment, searching her eyes for something only he knew. "Just tired," he said at last. "The Council finished early."
Halima released a soft breath, letting her worry melt away. "You frightened me," she murmured, lying down beside him and wrapping her arms around his chest.
Yahya did not pull her close. He lay motionless, his body rigid, trapped in the dark current of thoughts that had consumed him since leaving the House of Healers.
He kept replaying their wedding night. The black clay vessel he had taken from the tray—the one Salim said Halima had prepared to restore his strength, only to abandon it when it turned out too bitter. He had drunk it anyway. Every last drop.
His head had throbbed that night. The next morning, he hadn't been able to rise for Fajr—his body leaden, his mind wrapped in an unnatural fog.
Exact symptoms.
What does this mean? he thought, staring blankly at the woven roof above.
He refused to harbor dark thoughts about his wife—not yet. It was too dangerous to condemn her based on a single coincidence. Perhaps someone else had tampered with the vessel without her knowledge. The encampment had been flooded with strangers that day, elders and envoys from neighboring tribes. Any one of them could have had a motive.
He needed to tread carefully. He would seek answers quietly before allowing doubt to poison his heart.
Halima, feeling his mind drift into distant waters, stroked his shoulder softly. He is bearing the weight of the whole tribe, she thought, filled with quiet devotion. The future Seyyid carries too much on his shoulders.
She prayed for his peace, untroubled and unsuspecting, while beside her, Yahya lay drowning in a silence that stretched between them like a chasm.
The following morning, Halima saw her husband off to Council as usual. Yet that subtle distance remained—a cold shadow in his golden eyes that sleep hadn't washed away.
He is only exhausted, she told herself firmly, pushing the foreboding feeling down as she watched him disappear down the dusty path.
Once inside his private working tent, Yahya beckoned one of the guards stationed outside. "Fetch Salim. The head of my brother's guard. Privately."
Salim arrived shortly after, bowing low. "Seyyid Yahya. You summoned me?"
"Tell me," Yahya began, his voice measured and even, "do you recall the morning of my wedding?"
Salim blinked, surprised by the question, but answered readily. "I do, Seyyid. I was hauling cauldrons and setting out rugs for the feast all morning." He paused, a flash of realization crossing his face. "Ah—right. Brother Darim handed me a black vessel that morning. Said Seyyida Halima wanted it poured out into the sand because she’d ruined the brew. I meant to empty it, but the elders arrived and I set it down, completely forgetting about it until that night."
Yahya kept his face a mask of quiet composure, though a cold knot tightened in his stomach. "You left it full?"
"I did, Seyyid. On a supply crate near the outdoor hearths."
"Did anyone unfamiliar go near those crates?" Yahya asked, keeping his tone casual.
Salim shook his head without hesitation. "No one, Seyyid. The kitchen hearths were guarded and swarming with our own women and cooks all day. A stranger wouldn't have made it within ten paces without being spotted."
Yahya nodded slowly. To ensure Salim suspected nothing, he tacked on a few routine questions about the armory inventory and the evening patrols before dismissing him with a wave.
Left alone in the quiet dimness of his working tent, Yahya let out a long, heavy breath.
No strangers. No hidden enemies.
It came back to her.
The evidence stacked silently, forming a wall he could no longer reason away. Even if he chose the most merciful explanation—that she had simply made a mistake with the herbs—how could anyone mistake ordinary leaves for a concentrated draught strong enough to fell a warrior? That was no accident born of distraction.
And then what? She had panicked? Realized what she’d done and ordered it destroyed to cover her tracks?
What were you thinking, Halima?
And beneath that question lay another, far darker, burning like cold iron in his chest:
What were you actually planning to do, putting me to sleep on our wedding night?