Author's Preface
Darim was born into a family that had served the royal line for generations. His bloodline had produced no shortage of warriors, men who'd stood in the personal guard of seyyids across the ages — a loyalty that stretched back through the centuries, all the way to the days of the Prophet Yahya(peace be upon him) himself. His distant ancestor had been one of the Prophet's own companions. And to this day, their family still served the House of Banu Rayyan, the noble line of the Prophet's own blood.
He and his cousin Salim had each risen to lead the personal guard of their respective masters, earning it through skill, strength, and that particular brand of loyalty that only years can prove real. The position carried honor, but danger too — they worked close to the heirs of the throne, and a royal family, as everyone knew, never lacked for enemies. Sometimes Darim and Salim were handed matters so sensitive that only men the sayyids trusted without question could be given them.
That was how this had started too — watching Seyyida Halima, first, on Seyyid Mansur's orders. Later, by Yahya's own will, he'd become her personal escort.
Back then, serving his future ruler, Darim had carried something close to guilt every single day. He'd been watching his master's beloved — only when she left the tent, granted, to the bazaar, to the House of Healers, but it had felt like a quiet betrayal all the same, one that never quite let him go. He'd been caught between two loyalties: duty to the sayyid who ruled now, and duty to the one who would rule someday. Should he tell Yahya about this weight he was carrying? Would a confession like that shake the fragile happiness that had settled over the family?
The guilt had sat heavy on him. But duty to the ruling sayyid always came first. Thankfully, Seyyida Halima had turned out to be a genuinely kind woman, and he, like everyone else, had wanted nothing but happiness for her and Yahya's marriage. To everyone's relief, fate had been kind: they had built a life together, grounded in a quiet, steady peace.
These days, under Yahya's new orders, Darim wasn't watching Halima anymore. He was watching Hayat. The seyyid had said she was under her father's thumb, and that made her worth keeping an eye on.
Hayat, daughter of Chief Gaddar, had bronze-toned skin, dark eyes, and chestnut hair, and was known across the tribes for a beauty that drew comparisons to a desert rose — stunning, but sharp enough to draw blood from anyone who reached for her carelessly. People feared her a little. Called her cold.
Darim knew there was a trail of schemes following her. Seyyid Yahya had warned him about her reputation — but he always added the same thing: underneath it all, she was a genuinely kind person. Darim's job was to watch for suspicious contacts, strange letters. But weeks passed and nothing turned up — nothing but a letter from a close friend, asking after her health. Nothing worth worrying over.
He couldn't find anything to back up the rumors that followed her everywhere. What he saw instead was a fragile woman that circumstance had forced into looking stronger than she really was. He remembered what Yahya had told him — that she'd been a bright, kind child once, before her mother died and her father's influence reshaped her. Knowing someone's past changed how you read their actions.
He noticed the little contradictions. She could be harsh with her own guards, sharp-tongued even, but she always made sure they had enough clothes, enough food. She deliberately bought goods from a struggling merchant, even when a rival across the market sold finer things. She bought out a baker's entire stock of flatbread in one go and quietly handed it out to the settlement's poor.
Everything Yahya had said about her turned out to be true. Hard on the outside. Kind underneath. That contradiction stirred something in Darim, some feeling he hadn't known himself capable of before. Sympathy, maybe. Or maybe something else he couldn't put a name to yet.
These past few days, Hayat had noticed something — someone was watching her.
An ordinary girl might never have caught it. But years under her father's teaching had trained her to notice what slipped past everyone else, and that training was earning its keep now.
Who was it? One of her father's enemies? Or was Yahya behind it — or Faris, or even Seyyid Mansur himself?
Whoever was watching her was good. For days she'd tried to set traps, arrange situations to force him into a mistake — nothing worked. He never once slipped. Whoever he was, he knew his craft, and she couldn't help a quiet, grudging flash of respect. She'd need a cleverer plan than that.
Meanwhile, across the settlement in the House of Banu Rayyan, the middle of the day brought the royal family together once again. Everyone gathered at the low table for lunch.
At some point, Yahya set down his food and looked around at everyone.
"Mother. Father. Faris," he said, a warm, happy smile spreading across his face. "We're having a baby."
Faris was the first on his feet.
"Really?"
Yahya nodded, still smiling.
Faris crossed to his brother and pulled him into a tight hug.
"Congratulations. What wonderful news, brother."
Amina burst into tears and rushed to embrace Halima. Halima hugged her back, not holding back her own tears either.
Mansur watched the scene, his face softening into a warm smile.
"Congratulations, my children. So it's true — Halima really is the answer to our prayers. She's our blessing." He looked at his daughter-in-law with genuine tenderness. "Daughter, ask me for anything, whenever you need it. I'll give it to you."
Halima smiled.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Amina, still not letting go of her, asked, worried, "Are you all right? Did you go see Fazia?"
"Yes," Halima said. "She confirmed everything."
Everyone at the table lit up at the news.
Comments