Author's Preface
Hayat was sitting in her tent when the messenger delivered a letter. At first glance, it looked ordinary — news from the tribe, a friend's gossip, nothing worth a second read.
But reading closer, she caught the real meaning hiding under the harmless words.
Her "friend" wrote that her father had recently acquired a new varak for the races. The beast he'd bought had seemed weak at first, soft — but over time he'd hardened it, and against every expectation, it had started winning race after race. Her father was overjoyed with the animal, years of patient work finally paying off with a creature that had once seemed hopeless.
Hayat smiled, recognizing her father's hand behind every line.
She was that varak — the one he’d spent years breaking and shaping. In their world, a fast, strong varak with a flawless bloodline was worth more than gold — and her father, as always, chose to speak his feelings through the language of the paddocks rather than any word of actual love.
She'd carried out his order. Her father was pleased with her.
With quiet satisfaction, Hayat held the letter to the lamp flame and watched it burn down to nothing.
Gais had been the perfect pawn, she thought, a cold, satisfying pride settling in her chest. The rift between Faris, Halima, and the family had formed just as intended. Her father's carefully maintained neutrality toward Mansur's house meant no one had thought to suspect either of them, and since she'd only ever run small, insignificant schemes before, no one imagined she was capable of orchestrating something so dangerous.
Well done, she thought, admiring her own cleverness.
She moved to sit before her mirror and started her evening ritual — working scented oil carefully through her hair, smoothing down the stubborn strands until they caught the lamplight. Oils like these — blended with amber, rosewater, rare resins — had been prepared this way for generations, passed from mother to daughter, as much a piece of a woman's inheritance as any jewelry.
Then she picked up a thin kohl stick loaded with dark mineral powder and drew a careful, practiced line along her lashes. Kohl didn't just sharpen the eyes — the old belief held that it shielded them too, from the scorching sun, from evil spirits.
She studied her reflection. Her face. Everyone said she was extraordinarily beautiful — that no woman in any of the surrounding tribes could match her.
She studied the kohl stick in her hand, her gaze unfocusing as her thoughts turned toward Yahya.
If Yahya hadn't seen his soulmate in a dream, if the Sacred Lake hadn't shown him Halima's face — I'd be sitting in this very tent right now as the future Seyyida. Me.
Because of Halima, that title had slipped through her fingers. But spending time with her, talking like real friends, trading secrets and advice — Hayat had started feeling something she hadn't let herself feel in a long time. Guilt.
She thought of her childhood. Those rare, precious years when her mother was still alive, when Hayat had spent her days beside Amina — her mother's close friend, almost a second aunt to her. That had been the happiest stretch of her life.
If my mother had lived. If I'd become Yahya's wife instead of her — my life could have gone so differently.
Her father had never loved her, not truly. He'd only ever seen her as a tool for gaining power — that same thoroughbred varak, something to break in and sell at the best price. Her mother had been the only real source of warmth in her childhood. She missed her terribly.
Her parents' marriage had been pure calculation, without a shred of love in it. Her mother had borne only one child. Her.
After her mother died, there'd been no one left to protect her. The moment her father learned his daughter had "lost her chance to become the next Seyyida," he'd pulled her away from her mother's family and ordered her to live with him — to use as bait for whatever advantageous alliance came next.
On his orders, she'd tried to charm Yahya. He hadn't fallen for it. Yahya and the other men of the house had seen through her subtle moves quickly enough, but Amina either never saw them, or chose to look the other way.
Hayat hadn't cared, either way. After her mother's death, she'd understood one thing clearly: her father was the only person left who was hers. Even knowing he used her, she'd still craved his approval. His praise. And every time she successfully charmed some profitable match for him, she got that feeling, if only for a moment.
She'd been married off three times — three wealthy, cruel men. And three times, following her father's quiet instructions, she had made sure those marriages ended in widowhood. She had excused it to herself for years: they were monsters, and she had simply survived them.
Now she was a three-time widow. Rumors had begun to coil around her name, so her father had cast her out here, away from the gossip, waiting until the scandal died down and her worth was restored. At least here, no new forced marriage waited for her yet.
She felt a sudden, sharp guilt toward Amina — and now, toward Halima. Watching Halima's genuine pain over the past week, Hayat had searched for her usual cold satisfaction and found nothing. Only an uncomfortable ache.
I'll try not to bring real harm to this family, she decided, looking at her reflection in the polished bronze. They're good people. The only true warmth I've ever known belonged to them.
With that fragile, uncertain thought, Hayat finally fell asleep.
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