I was born a woman of high merit—royalty, even. Had I known I'd end up where I am, though, I'd have remained a small clump of cells inside of my mother until the day she passed. Mahsul is a beautiful Kingdom, one that I took great pride in helping from an early age. People had always told me I resembled my Father, more than my Mother; especially when it came to problem solving. I spent many of my days as a child beside my Father in the throne room, listening to nobles as they complained about taxes for the millionth time—or Imperial Courts-men as they tried to con Father into giving them an inch more of the bordering villa's land to them. Often, I was left with a foggy mind when listening to such rambling—just as I'm sure my Father was. It never grew easier.

By the time I could walk, I was wandering around the palace. Getting into laundry baskets, and slipping through the stable's cracks when Father took me to learn horseback riding. I could never sit still unless I was given a task, which was why Father had tutors of all kinds at the ready. I loved learning, and I still do—though the wonder of unearthing new information is rather dampened by now. I remember finishing up the last lesson of the day, and sneaking off into town with an immeasurable quickness. I was too young to know that a real escape requires disguises; foresight, planning ahead. I merely squeezed through the Northern Wall's crack and wandered into the heart of town, eyeing the reds of the watermelon flesh and yellows of the mango slices. The smell of freshly baked bread filled my nostrils, the sweet yeast making my mouth water. I loved getting closer to the ocean, hearing its muffled roars as they crashed against each other and the pier, smelling the brine as it wafted in with the wind. It wouldn't be until a shrill cry broke my fascination that I knew there was a problem.

Just as the sweet, gentle old man who ran the fruit stall was about to hand me a slice of the citrus I'd been watching (with drool almost falling from my mouth), I heard it. The cry made me whip my head around, and my eyes landed on a young boy. A peasant, unkempt and gangly, who was being bullied by some noble's daughter. I forced myself away from the patronly stall-owner, wiping my mouth with my sleeve as I walked towards the scene.

"Hey!" I yelled. The pristine little girl looked at me with vitriol, squinting her eyes as her brother dangled the peasant boy's stick just out of reach. "You can't do that!"

"I can do whatever I want!" The girl sneered, "My daddy's stronger than yours!"

My jaw almost fell slack at her words. A father stronger than mine? Father was the strongest in the Kingdom. With such a proclamation, I simply had to know who her father was.

"Who's your father?" I asked with more of an edge than I meant to. Her words were bruising to my ego, and more importantly an insult to Father.

"My daddy is Thueban, leader of the Sixth Battalion." She replied, using just as much attitude as she did when claiming she could do as she pleased.

I knew she looked familiar from somewhere, but her father's name made the memory clearer. It was on the training grounds, when Father was sparring with a grizzly looking man. Thueban's salt and pepper beard was almost entirely soaked in sweat as Father stood, laughing, at him. The two had been carrying on for over an hour, with Thueban trying time and time again to attack Father as he thwarted them with little more than a swat of his hand.

"You're awful, Thueban." Father chuckled, crossing his arms as the Captain watched him with vengeance lining his eyes. "You can't throw a punch to save your life..."

Her face was familiar, because we'd been forced to spend time together on more than one occasion during our Fathers' meetings—Jamila. That was her name, if I was recalling correctly. The sound of the little boy's body hitting the ground as Jamila's other brother pushed him brought me back to my senses, and as his blue eyes seared into me with both a defenseless woe, and lackluster pride, I puffed my chest out and repeated what Father had said that day on the sparring grounds.

"He's awful." I said flatly. "He can't throw a punch to save his life, and his balance is worse than a three-legged horse."

Her brows raised up as high as they could before furrowing. They resembled a Strolgian Caterpillar in that moment—just like the ones from my books. Fluffy, thick, and as disgusting as the look she gave me. Her lips fell from their snarky smile into a thin line, and I knew I'd just given myself a whole new problem to solve. Her anger was now directly pointed at me. I looked back at the peasant boy, and if eyes could speak: his were asking for help. I steeled my resolve as her voice grated my eardrums.

"If my daddy is awful, your daddy is probably the worst!"

In the time it took her to make such a statement, she had marched up to my face. Her eyebrows almost threatened to poison me, just like a Strolgian caterpillar's hairs. My Father? The worst? No such statement would be seen as acceptable to me.

"Who is your daddy?" She demanded.

"My daddy," I began with the coolest tone I could muster. "Is Al'Namir."

Jamila's brothers looked to each other and had an entire conversation before looking at their sister. If I didn't know any better, I'd have assumed they'd narrowly avoided soiling themselves when I told them Father's name.

"Jamila, we should go." The taller of the brothers, the one responsible for pushing the peasant boy, urged his sister with a tone one would use when quelling a wild beast—soft, gentle, appeasing. His words fell on deaf ears as Jamila cocked her arm back, as if ready to beat me up.

"No! She said our daddy sucks! I don't care if her daddy is Al'Namir!"

The sound of a new voice rang through the air; the same kind of calmness one gets during Jidhaq fasting laced it.

"If you hit her, think about the trouble you'll be in. You'll never see your father again."

I shifted a bit to my right, to better view the origin of the voice. It belonged to the peasant boy, as he watched Jamila with an attentiveness I'd only ever seen from the maidens in the palace when tasked with watching over me. I almost smiled, before reminding myself that such an act could get me a fist to the face. Jamila drew in a short breath, before letting it out and lowering her fist. The boy's looming threat had worked, and she backed away from me as her brother took her by the shoulder, escorting her away from me. With a final scoff, she began to turn around. I froze as she looked at me sidelong for a split second, and I swear I saw a Fiid in her eyes.

Mother always told me that if I was mean to any of the servants, I too would be possessed by the Fiid. Her brother forced her to focus on the sidewalk ahead of them as they walked, and Jamila's shorter brother dropped the peasant boy's stick as he decided to join them. My smile finally cracked through my facade as they left, and I picked the stick up. I walked over to the boy with a swelling sense of pride in my chest, and I handed it back to him. I looked into those eyes again. I could have fallen into them, with how deeply shaded they were. It was like God himself had sketched such irises, using the same blue that revealed itself in a high-noon's sky, fading into a cavernous shade of blue I'd only seen on fine silken cloth.

"You didn't have to do that." He said, taking the stick back as he sat on his knees. "Why didn't you just stay out of it?"

His question was a bit foolish, but it wasn't a bad one. Mother always, lovingly, told me to stay out of others' quarrels. She said that girls are supposed to be bringers of peace—not inciters of chaos. It's not that I wanted to incite chaos in that moment, I wanted to stop it before someone got hurt. The boy was already scrawny enough, as if he'd missed weeks worth of meals. His eyes sensed my pity, though, as they zeroed in on my features. I sighed internally before answering him, putting on the same smile I'd been taught to give commoners.

"I'm going to rule this Kingdom, and I want to do what Father does. I want to solve problems." I replied.

The little boy almost looked annoyed by my answer, but I didn't care. It was the truth. His eyes softened after a moment, and I almost thought about naming him something—before reminding myself that people are given names at birth.

"I'm Hala." I said, keeping the smile on my face. "What's your name?"

The little boy seemed to dislike his name as he remembered it, his lips puckering as if he'd just eaten a lemon. "Idris." The boy said sourly. "My name is Idris." The first thing that came to my mind was to compliment him on his eyes—young as I was, I had no better compliment to issue.

"You have cool eyes." I said, taking his wrist and tugging him up from the ground.

"Where are we going?" He asked.

"To adventure!" I announced.

With that, I dragged Idris with me around the Kingdom that day. And the next, and the next. Any chance I had, I'd look for him by the pier as he toyed with barnacles using the same stick we'd bonded over. Eating fruits, and being offered bread in kind by merchants or stall-owners, we ventured as far as we could, my confidence high because I had a companion in tow. Along the beach were many sea shells, all different shades of orange and pink and cream and grey. Occasionally, I'd find a Sea Scorpion or hugged urchins. I smiled widely as I showed them to Idris, but he wasn't as accustomed to the wonders of adventure. He'd shrink back at the sights, finding them to be odd—if not disturbing. With time, though, he matched my strides as a small smile played at his lips. Idris' steps were wobbly, faint, and weak at times—a sign that we needed to rest, or rather, he needed to rest. We had finally made it along the brush of the beach, where the jungles met the sand in lush thickets. Seeking shade under some palm trees looming over us, we sat and smiled at each other. It wasn't until I felt myself picked up by a strong hand around the collar of my robe that I knew he and I were in trouble.

"Alright, you two, party's over." Announced my Uncle, Asad.

"But Asad!" I whined, dragging on the second syllable of his name to add dramatic effect.

"No 'buts' Hala." Asad's strong voice said.

Looking to my left, Idris hung by his own shirt collar. His eyes wide with fear darted over to me. I offered a sheepish smile, and if I could have shrugged—I would have. After Asad brought us back to the palace, we were met with Father sitting on his throne. He looked pissed to see me with my hair as unruly as Idris', and my robe dirtied with sand and dirt. His eyes traveled to meet Idris', and he shrank back in his usual manner at the sheer presence of my father. I was all too used to such behavior—Father was a daunting man, but his kindness surmounted his demeanor. The green in Father's eyes seemed particularly bright that day, a sign that he was feeling something more than his usual joviality.

"What were you two doing out there?" He leaned in closer to Idris, studying his features before looking to me, his voice low and filled with concern.

I mustered up the most innocent, sweet voice I could to play to his weak spots. I may have been a child at the time, but I knew my Father like the back of my hand.

"Looking for shells, and finding lizards."

Father sighed deeply, and cleared his throat as if to stifle his frustration. "Haven't I told you to stop slipping out of the palace?"

"Yes..." I replied quietly, looking down and shifting on my feet. I could tell Father was growing more upset by how he scratched his trimmed beard, specifically his chin.

"What is your name, little one?" Father asked Idris using the same voice he'd use with me when I was doing something he found pleasant.

Idris' eyes widened for a moment before answering, "Idris, Your Highness."

He bowed so deeply I thought he'd topple over, how scrawny he was.

"And why didn't you go get a guard when you realized my daughter was in your presence, Idris?" Father asked. "Did she not inform you she was my daughter?"

I watched him bend a bit at the hips towards Idris, as if cornering him when he asked his questions. If I didn't know the kind of man my Father was, I would have misread his concern for anger. Idris straightened himself from his bow, looking at my father with an expression I'd only seen on veteran Courts-men whose lies came out at sweet as honey. Father watched him with a gleam of entertainment, as he concocted his string of lies.

"I didn't know, Your Highness." Idris said, keeping his tone level. Father raised an eyebrow at him, as he tried to fight the smile pulling at his lips.

"And what did you make of a pristine little girl in fine quality robes wandering the city on her own?" He asked, crossing his arms. I knew this was him trying to be a bit more intimidating, but Idris stood tall. I wondered how such a young child could handle themselves so fluidly in front of Father, especially one of his stature. I watched from the sidelines, growing more and more frustrated. Idris was in no way to blame for my bad habit. But still, Idris' eyes seemed to look just past Father as he thought of something to say.

"She could have been the daughter of a tradesman, I know several of their daughters wear similar robes...not as fine as hers, though." Idris lied, never breaking eye contact with Father. He looked Idris up and down, scanning for any sign of deceit. And there I stood, silent and shifting on my feet, growing more impatient by the moment. I felt the words come out of my throat before I could stop them.

"Father."

Both of their eyes made contact with mine, as I stood there with crossed arms similar to my father. I was only eight at the time, but my mind was fully made up. I didn't want to see Idris punished for my decision to slip out of the palace, nor did I want Father being such an interrogator to anyone but me or someone who'd actually done something wrong. "He's not the one who snuck out of the palace." I reminded him. He looked at me with a hint of realization, as if the young boy before him had distracted him from something—punishing me.

"You're going to be by your mother's side every day from now on, young Lady." Father said as he stood tall once more. There it was—his King's voice. This wasn't a request, but a command, and while part of me knew better than to argue, I'd been cursed with his short temper and quick mouth.

"But Father!" I whined, trying to sound far more upset by the situation than I truly was. Mother wasn't the worst to spend time with, albeit a little boring, but she was gentle and nurturing, a place of peace for me and so many others in our Kingdom. Still, I held firm on wanting my freedom, trying to convince him to at least punish me by making my chaperone someone far less capable of catching me when I tried to run off.

"She doesn't let me do anything!"

"I don't care. You must learn not to wander out of the palace, Hala. This is for your own safety. What would I do if someone hurt you?" He asked me. I wanted to snap back at him, tell him that when I got older I'd be just as strong as he and Mother. Tell him that I was more than capable of defending myself, in some way or another, but my small brain was too young to come up with the words to express such emotions—so I puffed out my cheeks and huffed. Idris, watching the chastising take place, cleared his throat and spoke up once more, similarly to how he had when speaking to Jamila when she'd threatened to hit me.

"Your Highness, Sir..." He stammered, though the calmness in his voice was slightly off-putting. "Can I...come visit her here?"

Father looked back at Idris, watching him with both awe and satisfaction. When he looked back at me, though, I could see the ghost of a grimace on his face. I could tell that he didn't like the idea of me spending time with a little boy close to my age—he was a protector, after all. I knew as firmly as I knew prayers that Father had no issue with Idris' status—he met my mother when she was a servant of the Jabaals, and relentlessly sought her hand by helping her around their farm. It was the fact that Idris was a boy, and I was a girl. Looking back on it, he knew all along what he was doing when he spoke next.

"Fine." He waved his hands, as if shooing us away in defeat. "I will permit it, but you're to make sure you don't let her slip into town anymore, boy."

Idris and I looked at each other with triumphant smiles, and that began our escapades in the palace. At first, the servants took pity upon him for being so emaciated. Even our poorest peasants weren't usually in his shape, but a few of the maidens would theorize how it had occurred when Mother and I sat idly in the tea room cross stitching. They wondered if Idris was orphaned, and if other peasants merely let him figure out the ropes of poverty himself. Our peasants were usually secluded, choosing to isolate from the rest of the Kingdom out of spite to survive without the help of commoners or nobles tossing dhebals their way. Possibly, Idris had been left alone in the secluded area of the Kingdom where peasants compete for food and shelter—and he lost. I never grew the courage to ask Idris about it, because when he became a common visitor in the palace; his face shone differently. He began to gain weight, though still wiry and unkempt. His eyes were no longer the muted shades of blue; going from light to dark. They were almost entirely light blue, with their dark oceanic color lacing the irises. He could think, speak, and carry himself with a purpose—and he was a friend.

Every day that I'd see him, I'd shoot up ferociously from Mother's side and scream wildly, running to him and slinging my arms around him, as he hugged me back so gently. His hugs were always so meek, as if he were cradling a Lutrov Hawk's egg. I never grew tired of such hugs, finding them different from Mother and Father's tight and guardian-like embraces. When we'd grown to be close to our preteens, I'd give him a kiss on the cheek like I'd watched nobles do to each other. The first time I did it, he looked at me with such wide eyes I thought they'd pop out of his head. I smiled at him, and hugged him tightly afterwards. Mother told me that I shouldn't do such a thing very often—especially as next in line for the throne. I should only kiss those I wanted to bless. I didn't care. I wanted Idris to receive every blessing God had for him, and if my kiss on the cheek acted as a beacon for God's grace, I would shine that beacon each time I saw him. He was my dearest friend, the one I felt deserved the best of the best in life—a good fortune, a happy family, a life of comfort.

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While I studied homemaking and academics, Idris spent more time with Father and Uncle. He'd come back from his time with them looking exhausted, and I knew then that they were trying to get the lanky boy to become a strapping young man. It was comical, watching him flounder to the ground under the trees of the garden as I sat and read books in Strolgian. He told me about the nickname they'd given him; Skwayar, and how it grated his ears whenever they'd beckon him to perform another odd-end chore around the palace in an attempt to strengthen him up. Poor Idris, always looking so tired and run-down, I thought. We'd all sit and eat dinner together later, with Uncle Asad trying to fill his plate until it was overflowing with meats and vegetables just as his did. Idris never ate it all, but by God, did he try.

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It was the day of my 12th birthday that a large party was held in my honor. My Father was going to announce that I was ready for suitors, and the idea of that made my stomach tie in knots. I was more than confident in my homemaking skills, and I could speak several of the living languages. I didn't find myself struggling to grasp being a wife, but I found myself struggling to grasp who would accept me as a wife. The noble boys I met at other parties were always so bland, never able to keep up with my sense of humor—Father's sense of humor. Instead, they shrank from my words as they echoed through whichever room we resided in. Noble girls told me I was too loud, too excitable, too much as a whole. Not that it ever stopped them from lingering around me like flies to horse dung when noble boys were around. I was deemed the prettiest of the group, but also the one who could fend off the pre-pubescent boys who were the real ones who were too excitable. It didn't take much to scare them away from girls like Fatiha, who were quiet and soft-spoken. Just a broadening of my shoulders and a sidelong glare sent them scurrying along their way. Father had also blessed me with eyes that burned with fury at a moment's notice.

The entirety of the day had been spent with maidens, trying to figure out which robes suited me best and how my hair should be styled. I was insistent that I wanted my hair to dry before they'd touched it—to which I was met with snide remarks about how difficult it was to braid or twist my hair when dried. I'd almost rolled my eyes out of their sockets with how often I'd heard the word 'imprudent.' I was much happier looking over books of wildlife and studying Zarvian, but the academics were forced to wait for another, less formal, time.

The night of the celebration, the smell of lentils filled the palace, as maidens and eunuchs spoke in hurried voices about different decorations they wanted littering the palace. I sat in my room, preening my eyebrows and hair, waiting for the festivities to begin. Idris had been busy that day, now 13, trying to catch a stray cat who had nabbed up one of Mother's brooches. I was bored. Unbearably bored. It wasn't until a maiden came into the room to dress me in my now-decided formal attire that I knew the party was ready to begin. My robe that night was the same shade as the coral harvested by our seasides, a vibrant orangey-pink with golden embroidery. It made my complexion seem even darker—another trait of Father's. Mother had such a lovely light olive complexion; Father remained on the tawny and dark side, even in the colder months. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror, admiring the way the color brought my eyes to life. My waves that day had dried just as I'd hoped, too. In my eyes, it was going to be a good night for a party.

I heard another meek knock on my door after changing—Idris. A large smile burst from my lips as I opened the door, and finally got to see Idris' attire. He looked good, wearing a fine cream-colored set of dress-pants and a matching tunic. The tunic was carefully made by a maiden in the palace, no doubt, to fit him in a refined way, and his curls had finally been washed and set to dry away from his face. I crossed my arms in satisfaction, enjoying the sight of my friend in such attire.

"Amazing." I said simply.

Idris balked at me with both insult and confusion lining his face, as if I'd just told him he looked like he'd been dragged through coals and lit ablaze. He looked down at his tunic, holding some of the garment out to study its design as he furrowed his brows.

"You're lucky I caught that cat." He scorned. "I thought I wasn't going to make it in time to be bathed and changed. Are you the one who chose this outfit?"

I couldn't help but chuckle as I shook my head. Such clothing on him was hardly my taste, my mother was the mastermind behind such mature attire on the young man. That was clear by the design, Mother's favorite flower—Camellias. In a different shade of off-white, they'd been embroidered onto the tunic with delicacy. Each stitch was imbued with a prayer, I was sure.

"No, Idris, I didn't choose it—but whoever did was wise to choose such a color on you." I told him.

There it was again, the look of insult and confusion. I could never understand why he couldn't reply with a simple 'thank you' when it came to compliments. He always had to make it something much larger than it was. After all, the cream color complimented his medium complexion, and his eyes. God, his eyes were such an interesting feature. There was nothing I enjoyed more than seeing how they reflected light, and how easily I could read his emotions through them.

"You're so forthright, it's no wonder boys run from you at parties." He insulted.

I let out a bellowing laugh as I took his shoulder in my hand and turned him to walk with me down the halls, though his comment stung. He was right, boys wanted girls who stood and blushed at their words—who weren't contrarians and capable of thinking past the moment they lived in. I squeezed his shoulder, and let my hand fall to my side as we continued walking. He shot a sidelong glance at me, and I think I let my hurt show for a moment as I saw the ghost of a wince on his face.

"That one was a little much...sorry...happy birthday, Hala." He said, picking his cuticle as he held his hands near his abdomen.

As I walked down the halls, into the throne room, the palace seemed fraught with luxury. Extra care had been put into the flowers in the vases, Irises and Violets and Baby's Breath and Tulips, all meticulously arranged to form beautiful accents to our fine marble halls. The golden veins in the marble shone particularly bright that night as the horns bellowed through the halls. My arrival was announced by Father, and soft clapping could be heard just outside of the throne room. Soft yellow embers of light filled the halls as the doors opened, and I saw the visitors lining the throne room to make way for me. With a perfectly-rehearsed smile, I greeted different noble men and women as I sauntered through to the center of the room, Idris at my side. A particular young man met my gaze with a charming smile, offering a small nod of acknowledgement as he stood beside a man donning green and gold, with an intricate yet modest-looking crown atop his head. I assumed him to be Otlak's King—Tavuk; a spindly man with little authority in his stance. I'd read plenty about the history of Otlak, as our Kingdom was once their jewel mines. It took seven brutal years of war, but we came out victorious. My Grandfather, Al'Qital Namir, disdained war itself despite being larger than Uncle. He made sure that Father held the same morals as he, only resorting to violence when struck first. Tavuk's Father was the ruler of Otlak at the time, an imprudent man who I never got to meet, nor did I care to meet from what I read about him. But Tavuk's friend...I'd never seen a man like him. Pale, with strong cheekbones and deep-set eyes of a pure dark brown, matching his hair and eyebrows. The features of Otlakians were always interesting to me; they rarely had humps in their noses, or dark skin. Their eyes were most often blue, though deeper in shade than Idris', with blonde hair—to see Tavuk's friend, who looked so different from the King himself, was like seeing an albino stag in the wild.

I gave a small nod back to the man, returning my gaze to the festivities and meeting with a few girls I'd grown familiar with: Fatiha, Himaya, and Asil. Idris had gone off to speak to Uncle, who had beckoned him over to observe his festive attire. The three girls were half-sisters, daughters of a very well-known tradesman who supplied us our bedding. Each of them looked different from the other; Himaya was the oldest, with medium-olive skin and straight black hair. Her eyes were always so soft, so warm, with their lively shade of brown. Her ovular face was truly enviable, with a youthful glow despite being 19 now. Asil was the youngest, having eyes of hazel and softly coiled hair. Her skin was lighter than Himaya's, and her features of more prominence. She took after her father, with a squared jawline and pointed chin. She always looked so serious, though she was only 10. Then, there was my beloved Fatiha—my closest girl friend. Her skin was darker than mine, with tighter coils than her younger sister and eyes of deep, oaken brown. She had a diamond-shaped face, and upturned eyes with her full lips dawning rouge for the first time that I knew of. We were the same age, and she was such a modest, sweet girl that I often found myself holding my tongue in order to spare her feelings. Though she was the most relatable of the three, because of our age, we had many differences in personality. I wrapped my arms around Fatiha, with a genuine smile on my face as I brought her in for a hug.

"Freznah krodhat, Fatiha, I missed you!" I said as a wrung her like a teddy bear.

"Kazah...freznah...Hala..." She managed to choke out. I giggled as I let her go, looking at her robe. Red, like her rouge, with opalescent embroidery of different flowers and vines.

She was beautiful, and the way she carried herself always left me feeling a twinge of admiration. If I could emulate her...

My thoughts were interrupted by our first horsefly of the night, and I finally realized that Fatiha and I stood alone by the column at the dais. Abandoned by her sisters, she was now defenseless from the overly-excited boys in the room. A young man who was clearly of both Otlakian and Mahsulian descent approached Fatiha and I, his eyes zeroed in on Fatiha. I knew that look all too well, as I'd thwarted it from Fatiha multiple times—rarely, if ever, from myself. It was hungry, predatory, a look that sent my blood from a simmer to a boil the closer it got. His sinewy figure inched closer to us, and Fatiha stood watching all of the other guests, somehow not feeling the boy's gaze as I did. I crossed my arms and broadened my shoulders, gripping into my biceps with my fingernails as I scowled at the boy. As she chatted idly with me about the status of her father's wares, I kept my eyes locked on him. Either he didn't notice me, or didn't care to, because he continued to advance closer towards us. Another noble girl whose name I'll never remember approached Fatiha with a cup in both hands, handing her one and taking a sip of her own as I kept my eyes on the boy. Finally, my eyes must have caught his attention—because when he met my gaze he froze. I unclenched one of my hands from around my bicep, and offering a less than lady-like gesture to tell him to buzz off. His face fell, before he sighed and turned away. A tenacious one, and one I'd be fending off for the rest of the night, I was expecting.

I'd have stood keeping watch over Fatiha all night if the sound of party goers clamoring as servants carrying a Chon board into the room hadn't torn my attention from her. The doors of the throne room swung open as two men carried the game board, and my father, drunk on wine, encouraged Idris to play a game with the man who stood next to Tavuk when I'd first arrived. Father was always a happy drunk, and competitive when entirely inebriated. He held Idris by the shoulders, encouraging him to sit at the board as it was set down just as Tavuk's friend did. I made my way past the crowd, leaving Fatiha and the other noble girl to investigate the clamor. Pushing through nobles was almost a workout in and of itself, as they stood in a tight pack. A couple of them noticed who exactly was pushing past them, and out of nothing more than obligation let me through; I took a seat next to Idris, watching as the game unfolded.

"Careful, Shahin. The boy could beat anyone." Father taunted as he took another sip from his gauntlet.

I rolled my eyes lightly, and leaned in towards Idris.

"What's going on?"

"A game of Chon, obviously." Idris sneered as he observed his pieces. I knew the game at an intermediate level, but Idris really was a master of the game in comparison.

I looked at a few of the white tiles—several pawns, a Captain, a Knight...my eyes landed on an Archduke, and an Imperial Knight that sat on his tile rack.

"Play those." I whispered.

Idris made a gesture at me to be quiet as his opponent set the board with the first move, setting out his three tiles. A Pawn, a Queen, and a Knight. I knew that this was a common first move to play, and I watched with dismay as Idris played a Knight and Captain—only two tiles compared to his opponent's three. I almost said something, but the look in Idris' eyes told me that speaking would cause him to lose concentration. The man, who I assumed to be named Shahin, after my father's comment, made a few more moves. Idris played back, and the game seemed to drone on until the man played his own Archduke. Usually, in a game of Chon, the goal is to take all of your opponent's pieces. Shahin hadn't taken any up until this point, littering the board with his pieces in what looked to be random spots until now. Their tiles were set with different strategy, Idris consuming the board in one large chunk; while Shahin took different spots of the board with little cohesion. His pieces seemed erratically placed, but upon setting the Archduke at the edge of Idris' pieces I almost shot from the seat with shock. Shahin took four of Idris' pieces, replacing them with Pawns of his own. Idris clicked his tongue, and I shot him a sidelong glance.

"That wasn't fair!" I said just quiet enough for Shahin not to hear.

"It's how the game's supposed to be played."

Idris' comment made me roll my eyes and look at his opponent, who was already looking at me. His deep-set eyes made me think him to be no younger than 21, with a soft smile playing at his lips. My heart fluttered as I took in his nigh-beautiful features; how his skin reminded me of high-quality parchment paper, and his hair was fuller than my own. Thick eyebrows sat atop his brown eyes, making him all the more attractive. I smiled weakly at him, trying to hide the frustration I felt towards his gameplay. I looked back at the board, as Shahin played once more. The game continued for over an hour at this point, and Shahin had grown a bit sloppy. He played lazily, shucking out Pawns since he no longer had pieces of 'power.' It wouldn't be until I heard a single laugh escape Idris' lips that he finally played the Imperial Knight I'd told him to play at the beginning. He'd held onto it until the perfect moment, and Shahin sat straight up as Idris took five of Shahin's pieces. The rules allowed him to set another tile down for such an accomplishment. The next tile Idris set down was the Archduke—right next to the Imperial Knight—thus, allowing him to take nine more pieces.

"That's one way to play it..." Shahin muttered as he scratched his cheek with his thumb.

I looked at Idris with a grin, as his blue eyes glimmered with triumph. For taking 18 pieces, he was allowed to set Pawns down one after the other. Idris now dominated the board, his large chunk of tiles swallowing Shahin's. It would be another hour and a half until Shahin's final plot of tiles became Idris' next target—and another 30 minutes of Shahin struggling to fight against Idris' Pawns until victory came. Once Idris took Shahin's final tile, the crowd oo'd and ah'd in amazement at the 12 year-old boy who had beat an adult man in a game of Chon. Father whooped loudly, jostling Idris by the shoulders and standing him up to give him a side-hug. He smiled weakly in return, flushing at the compliments thrown his way. Idris' opponent offered his hand out for a friendly handshake, deeming the game fair and smiling. As my friend took Shahin's hand, I watched as he fought himself from recoiling away from Shahin's touch for some reason. He gritted through the discomfort of whatever bothered him, shaking his hand firmly.

As the night went on, many nobles wished me a happy birthday and gave me hugs. A few young boys even tried their hand at flirting, dismal as it was. The conversations never seemed to last more than three minutes, though, with the longest standing conversationalist losing interest when I offered a funny look at him. The boy sought the company of another girl, one I assumed to be more like Fatiha—demure and gentle. Half of the party goers had left by this time, the ones who only came for appearances. Still tucked away in the corner of the room, though, were Shahin and Tavuk as I stood by a table with the tradesman's daughters. The men were speaking with other nobles—Shahin carrying the conversation. Women seemed to fancy the man, hanging off of his shoulders whenever they spoke to him. The men around him laughed whenever he laughed, grew stoic whenever he did, and even ate a bite of their finger sandwiches whenever he took one from his. I noticed Idris, standing just in earshot as he looked from Shahin to his own reflection in a vase—carefully studying his appearance. I could recognize the look in his eyes, one I'd had in my own when looking at Fatiha earlier that night; or any time I looked at her, for that matter. He was critiquing himself, as if he wasn't already someone worth knowing.

"Idris!" I called, my voice cutting over the clamor of different nobles.

Idris whipped his head around as I held a plate of cake, and I waved my hand for him to come over. As he approached, I took my fork and dug it into the slice I'd already eaten more than half of. With a knowing smile, I offered the forkful to his mouth.

"Try the cake!"

He looked at me with wide and hesitant eyes, before they darted around the room. He was clearly checking to make sure no one saw him, and it only made my smile grow wider. I wanted to tell him how ridiculous he looked, but the expression he'd worn just moments ago as he observed his reflection kept my words at bay. With Himaya and Fatiha being the only ones watching, Idris took the bite. I knew instantly that he tasted the same thing I had when the icing touched my tongue. Rich hints of vanilla, and sweet icing of cacao danced across his tastebuds just as they had mine, forcing him to smile. The cake was almost intoxicating, a distraction from anything and anyone. As I looked away, over Idris' shoulder, I made eye contact with that man again...he smiled at me and offered a small wave, and I smiled back. Returning the fork to my plate, I pointed at it and gave him a thumbs up. Shahin nodded with his eyebrows slightly raised, entertained by my actions. I understood why women seemed to linger by him, as I wanted to see that smile more each time it flashed.

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After Fatiha, Himaya, and Asil left with their father; the only ones left in the throne room were Jamila; her family, my family, Idris, Shahin, and Tavuk. Father and Asad were arm wrestling, slamming each others' arms into the thick oak table as Thueban and his sons watched from the sidelines. I could tell that the Captain was envious of Father and Uncle's strength, as his brows raised and fell with each thunderous bang of one of their arms. Idris and I stood side by side, watching as well, and I couldn't contain my laughter as the two continued to face off. Idris watched with horror, flinching with each thwack just like Shahin did, while Tavuk seemed uninterested in such activities.

"Want to give it a go, young lad?" Asked Father to Shahin.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

"I'd rather leave such feats of barbaric strength to those blessed with it, Your Highness." Shahin replied, shrinking as another crack came from the table. Father had just won again, and I cheered at his victory. Father's laugh echoed through the room as he returned his gaze to Uncle Asad, and their forceps flexed once more to wrestle. Thueban looked at Shahin with distaste, clearly upset by the underhanded insult the Duke had given Father. Something I'd noticed—and Thueban must have as well—was how Shahin didn't look at Father. He always focused his eyes just past him, as if he'd be burnt to cinders if they met gazes.

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The party itself was enjoyable, but a looming sense of distress hung over me as I entered my room and climbed the lattice to the roof. I laid down, watching the glimmering stars, and wished upon the first one that I saw to become a wife by my 16th birthday. As silly as it was; as ignorant as it was, the idea of becoming a wife was the only feminine thing I could seek to attain. I was far too gangly to seek out a feminine body—and far too sharp tongued to hope to speak with a feminine mouth. Even my face looked masculine, to me, having inherited Father's strong features and determined eyes.

With a long sigh, I fiddled with a shingle on the roof. Father had, indeed, announced that I was of age for suitors at the party—but no noble or King stepped forth to ask any further. I knew it was because I was too untamed, and I tried to make a promise to myself from that point, onward, to carry myself with grace. I'd feed into the stereotypes of women if I had to in order to marry—in order to better my people and their futures. I could sacrifice an ounce of pride if that was my reward.

I was surprised to hear someone making their way up the lattice, grunting before their hands met the roof. My body sat up before I could even think about it, and I met eyes with Idris. He was struggling to make it up because of a wrapped box in his right hand. Making my way over to him, I stood on my knees and hoisted him up; which made him come up onto the shingles with a loud thud.

"Do you have to be so rough?!" He asked, getting to his knees quickly and picking up the box he'd brought with him.

"I barely used any strength!" I retorted.

Idris scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. I chuckled, and his eyes met mine. His lips became a thin line as he pursed them, before he looked back down at the orange and white wrapping around what I could only assume to be a gift.

"Here." He said, holding the box out to me.

I looked at the box with feline curiosity, its gold accents around the orange marigolds shone in the moonlight bringing a smile to my face. Restraining myself from snatching the box from him, I took it in the gentlest way I knew how. Our eyes met again, and he looked at me with his brows slightly furrowed. There was that insulted expression, again. Though, softer than usual.

"Thank you." I replied.

I began opening the box, more carefully than I had opened any of my other gifts that night. This gift was special—it was from my best friend. I didn't want him to think I'd open it with the same ferocity as I'd opened my other gifts that evening. Each rip of the wrapping paper made me all the more excited, until the paper fell to the shingles below us. I opened the box to find a gorgeous comb, plated in gold with a silver camellia on it.

"You know camellias are my mother's favorite flower, right?" I asked with my playful smile beaming.

"Can't you just say 'thank you'?" He snarked, crossing his arms as he fell to his bum with a huff.

"I love it, Idris. Thank you." I replied honestly. I gave his a smile that was different than the well-rehearsed smiles I'd given the other gift-givers that night. When he saw it, he looked down to the shingles.

"Then don't ever lose it." He snapped. "It took me months of saving my allowance to get that."

"I won't." I chuckled, bringing him in for a hug. He tensed up before relaxing, putting his arms around me with a more gentle squeeze than usual following it.

"You'd better not." He murmured. I laughed in response.