[AMAL POV]
The mirror of the stream didn't lie.
After three months in the forest, my reflection had become that of a wild thing. My hair hung in tangles beneath my veil, my skin bore the marks of thorns and weather, and my clothes—what remained of them—were patched and stained beyond recognition.
But it was the smell that finally drove me to action.
"Astaghfirullah," I muttered, catching a whiff of myself as I bent to wash in the stream. "Even you're starting to avoid me, aren't you, Malik?"
My faithful companion lifted his head from his grazing, water still dripping from his muzzle. He had the decency to look innocent, but I'd noticed him standing downwind of me lately.
"Don't deny it," I said, scrubbing at my arms with coarse sand. "I need proper soap. And a real razor for this pathetic excuse for a hunting knife. And..." I paused, considering the growing list of necessities. "And things that only a marketplace can provide."
The thought terrified me. After months of solitude, the idea of facing other people, of navigating conversations and transactions, felt overwhelming. But my crude stone tools were barely adequate for hunting, and my attempts at making soap from ash and animal fat had been disastrous.
"Three hours' ride to the east," I told Malik as I prepared for the journey. "That should put us well beyond the Second Prince's territory. Inshallah, we'll find what we need and return before nightfall."
The marketplace materialized from the desert like a mirage given form.
Tents and stalls stretched across a natural basin between two hills, their colorful awnings snapping in the wind. The air hummed with voices—haggling, laughing, calling out wares. The scent of spices, roasted meat, and humanity itself wafted toward us on the breeze.
But it was the women that caught my attention first.
I had thought my own veiling was modest, but these women moved like walking shadows. Black fabric covered them from head to toe, leaving only a narrow slit for their eyes. They glided between the stalls like ghosts, their ages, their faces, their very humanity hidden beneath layers of cloth.
"Subhan Allah," I whispered, adjusting my own veil self-consciously. Here, I would blend in perfectly. Here, I was just another anonymous figure in a sea of anonymity.
I left Malik at the edge of the marketplace, tethered in the shade of a lonely palm tree. "Stay here, habibi," I murmured, pressing my forehead to his neck. "If anyone asks, you belong to no one. You're just a horse who chose to rest here."
He whickered softly, understanding as always.
The market was a labyrinth of smells and sounds that made my head spin after months of forest silence. Vendors called out their wares in voices that competed with the braying of donkeys and the bleating of goats. The press of bodies around me felt suffocating, claustrophobic.
I found what I was looking for in a small stall tucked between a spice merchant and a seller of copper pots. The elderly shopkeeper had kind eyes and weathered hands, and his display of knives, razors, and metal tools made my heart skip with relief.
"Ahlan wa sahlan," he greeted me warmly. "Welcome, daughter. How may I serve you?"
"I need a good knife," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Something sharp. Strong."
He nodded, reaching for a blade with a carved bone handle. "This one serves well. Good steel, good balance. Feel the weight."
The knife was perfect—sharp, well-made, affordable. But as I reached for my coin purse, my sleeve slipped back, revealing the faded but unmistakable mark on my wrist.
The brand of the royal household. The mark of a slave sold to the king.
I yanked my sleeve down quickly, but not quickly enough. A younger man—perhaps the shopkeeper's son—had been examining goods nearby, and his eyes had caught the glimpse of scarred flesh.
He was tall and lean, with the kind of presence that seemed to shift the air around him. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and when he looked up from the blade he'd been studying, his eyes were sharp and assessing. There was something about him that made me instinctively want to step back—not from fear, but from the intensity of his attention.
"An old injury?" he asked, his voice neutral but his gaze fixed on my wrist.
"It's nothing," I replied quickly, pulling my sleeve down further.
"Hmm." He returned to his examination of the blade, but I could feel his continued awareness of me. "Uncle Rashid, does this one come with a sheath?"
The old man nodded. "Of course, of course. Let me find it for you."
As the shopkeeper rummaged through his supplies, the stranger glanced at me again. "You're not from the village."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "No."
"Traveling alone?"
"That's not your concern."
"Perhaps not," he agreed, but his tone suggested he found my defensiveness interesting rather than off-putting. "But traveling alone can be dangerous for a woman. Especially one with... distinctive markings."
The casual way he referenced my brand made heat rise in my cheeks. "I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you can." He accepted the sheath from the shopkeeper and tested the blade's fit. "But 'can' and 'should have to' are different things."
Before I could respond, a commotion erupted near the cloth merchant's stall. Raised voices, the sound of fabric tearing, a woman's cry of distress.
The stranger's head snapped toward the noise, his entire posture changing. The casual merchant's son was gone, replaced by something harder, more predatory.
"Stay here," he told me, then moved toward the disturbance with a fluid grace that spoke of training.
I should have listened. Should have completed my transaction and left. But curiosity and something else—concern, perhaps, or simple human decency—made me follow.
Three men had cornered a young woman near the fabric stall. Her veil had been torn, revealing a face streaked with tears and terror. They were laughing, making crude comments about her appearance, their hands reaching for her despite her obvious distress.
"Please," she was saying, "I've done nothing wrong. I just wanted to buy cloth for my sister's wedding—"
"Pretty little thing," one of the men leered. "Why don't you show us what else you're hiding under all that fabric?"
The stranger—Noah, I'd heard the shopkeeper call him—appeared behind them with the silent precision of a hunting cat.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying an authority that made all three men turn. "I think the lady has made her feelings clear."
The largest of the three, a man with scarred knuckles and the look of someone who settled disputes with violence, sneered. "This isn't your business, boy. Move along."
"I'm afraid I can't do that." Noah's hand rested casually on his belt, near where a blade might hang. "The lady is obviously distressed. Surely you can find entertainment elsewhere."
"Or what?" The scarred man stepped closer, his companions flanking him. "You'll make us leave?"
"If necessary."
What happened next was so fast I almost missed it. The scarred man reached for Noah, confident in his size advantage. Noah moved like water, redirecting the man's momentum and sending him sprawling into a nearby stall. The second attacker came at him with a knife, but Noah's blade was already in his hand, deflecting the strike and opening a shallow cut across the man's arm.
The third man, seeing his companions dealt with so efficiently, raised his hands and backed away. "We were just having fun," he mumbled. "No harm meant."
"Then I suggest you find a different kind of fun," Noah said, his voice deadly calm. "Somewhere far from here."
The three men gathered themselves and fled, muttering threats and curses. The young woman collapsed against the fabric stall, sobbing with relief.
"Are you hurt?" Noah asked, helping her to her feet with gentle hands.
"No, no, I'm... thank you. Thank you so much." She clutched her torn veil, trying to restore some modesty. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't..."
"You're safe now," he assured her. "Do you have someone who can escort you home?"
"My brother is in the next village. I came with the grain merchant, but he's not leaving until sunset."
Noah nodded, then gestured to an older woman who'd been watching from a nearby stall. "Umm Fatima, could you look after this sister until her escort arrives?"
The woman nodded immediately, coming forward to wrap the girl in a protective embrace. "Of course, of course. Come, child. Let's get you some tea and fix that veil."
As they led the girl away, I found myself staring at Noah with new understanding. The way he'd moved, the automatic deference of the other merchants, the casual authority in his voice—this was not a simple shopkeeper's son.
He turned back to me, and I saw something in his eyes that made my breath catch. Not the calculated assessment from before, but something warmer, more genuine.
"You didn't have to do that," I said.
"Yes, I did." He cleaned his blade on a cloth before sheathing it. "Some things are worth fighting for."
"Such as?"
"The right to move through the world without fear. The right to be treated with basic human dignity." His eyes met mine. "The right to exist without being hunted."
The last words hit me like a physical blow. There was something in his tone, in the way he looked at me, that suggested he understood exactly what it meant to be prey.
"You speak from experience," I said.
"Don't we all?" He gestured toward the weapons stall. "Shall we complete your transaction? I imagine you have places to be."
I nodded, following him back to old Rashid's stall. But as I paid for my knife and gathered my other purchases, I found myself hyperaware of his presence beside me. The way he moved with controlled grace, the respectful distance he maintained, the protective alertness in his posture as he scanned the crowd.
"Will you be returning to the marketplace?" he asked as I prepared to leave.
"Perhaps. Why?"
"Because if you do, and if you find yourself in need of... assistance... I'm usually here on market days."
"I can take care of myself," I repeated.
"I never doubted it." His smile was different now—not the practiced charm from before, but something more genuine. "But even the most capable people sometimes need allies."
As I walked away, I felt his eyes on my back until I disappeared into the crowd. Only when I reached Malik did I allow myself to examine what had just happened.
A stranger had fought for another woman's honor without hesitation. Had offered me protection without expectation of payment. Had looked at my slave brand not with disgust or pity, but with something that might have been understanding.
"That was... unexpected," I told my companion as we began the journey home. "A merchant's son who fights like a warrior and speaks like a philosopher."
Malik snorted, as if to say that humans were endlessly complicated creatures.
"You're right, habibi. But I find myself curious about this Noah. There was something about him..."
As we rode through the gathering dusk, I found myself thinking not of the supplies I'd purchased, but of storm-gray eyes and the way he'd moved to protect a stranger. Of the automatic respect he'd commanded from other merchants, and the careful way he'd spoken to me—not as a marked woman or a potential conquest, but as an equal.
For the first time in months, I was genuinely curious about another person. And despite every instinct screaming that curiosity was dangerous, I found myself hoping our paths would cross again.