It began with a scroll.
Folded tightly and bound with a gold thread, it was passed silently into Aneesa's hand the Malika's sipped her tea. No words were spoken. None needed to be.
Later that day, she slipped through the colonnades and made her way to the west wing, where the private library sat cool and shadowed beneath thick walls of stone and clay.
The attendant at the entrance bowed slightly and opened the door without question. Inside, the silence wrapped around her like a cloak.
She settled into her usual corner beside a cracked mosaic column and unfurled the scroll. The writing was strange, a blend of Latin and Arabic, but fragmented, interrupted by symbols that shimmered like they wanted to move.
This is no poem, she thought. This is a key.
She began to work.
An hour passed. Then two.
She had just begun translating a section that referenced "separation through fire, the third gate of transmutation" when a sound distracted her: a soft thud, the creak of leather against stone.
In the next alcove, partially hidden behind a hanging tapestry, was a narrow reading bench. And on it sat a pile of books.
Aneesa stood and crossed the aisle. Some of the tomes were open, margins covered in handwritten notes, some in Latin, others in Arabic. Alchemical diagrams filled the pages: sigils, elemental wheels, notes on sulfur, mercury, and salt. None of the handwriting matched the palace scribes.
It was his. Tariq.
He had been here. Not just recently, but obsessively. She was still leaning over the stack when the library steward appeared, an older man with sunken eyes and a slow, careful way of moving.
"I wouldn't touch those," he said gently. "His Highness would notice."
Aneesa drew back. "They're his?"
The man nodded. "He's been coming here since he was fourteen. Quiet. Intense. Always hunting for something."
"What is he looking for?"
The steward hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to the locked shelves at the far end of the hall. "Truth," he whispered at last, as though the word itself might summon something best left buried.
Aneesa frowned and asked in a lower voice, "About what?"
The older man glanced toward the far end of the hall, where the oldest volumes were kept under lock.
"About the stone."
She blinked. "The philosopher's stone?"
He nodded.
"It's real," he said simply. "And it's here. Has been for generations."
Aneesa was caught off guard by his confession.
"I..I thought that was legend."
"Most things are, until they aren't. The stone grants not only transformation, but preservation. Longevity. Influence. It's what made our empire feared far beyond these hills. Not just for our warriors or our wealth, but because we held something…eternal."
"Then why hide it?"
He smiled sadly. "Because everything powerful draws teeth."
As he turned to go, he paused at the edge of the shelves.
"Be careful. His Highness may find more than he's ready to hold, and you, my dear," He looked at her, "you may find yourself in the middle of it."
Aneesa stood alone then, the scroll half-translated in her hand, the prince's books surrounding her.
Somewhere in the palace, the stone pulsed with history. And war, she now realized, wasn't only waged with swords.
She tried to gather her thoughts tangled with questions about the stone, Tariq's obsession, and Malika's intentions, and didn't hear the footsteps until they were close. Too close.
From behind one of the towering shelves, a rustle of silk.
Another figure stepped into the aisle, unmistakable.
Tariq.
He didn't look surprised to see Aneesa. Only quietly watchful. "I thought you might be here," he said, his gaze flicking to the open texts and the scroll half-unfurled in her hand.
Aneesa opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of bracelets clinking broke the silence.
"I had a feeling I'd find you here," came Jahima's voice as she emerged from the shadows, a practiced smile on her lips.
She was dressed in indigo, cut tighter than decorum allowed, her scent thick with rose and musk. She wasted no time closing the distance between herself and Tariq, placing one hand on his chest, the other on his arm.
"I missed you," she purred.
Tariq didn't move. His eyes remained locked on Aneesa, who stirred uncomfortably. Jahima noticed and pressed closer.
"We haven't spoken since you banished me from your chambers, your highness," she whispered, her voice sweetly laced with poison. "Surely you still aren't displeased with me."
Without warning, she leaned up and kissed him with a slow, sultry kiss meant to provoke.
Tariq didn't stop Jahima, and he didn't close his eyes either.
They stayed fixed on Aneesa, trying to gauge her response to Jahima's bold move.
She was frozen with jealousy. Her fingers tightened around the scroll, her thoughts spiraling. She had never felt this particular ache before. Something primal and hollow that reached down to the part of her that had started to believe she mattered to him. Was this what the Malika had planned? Her stomach turned with a sharp and unfamiliar pain.
After a breathless pause, Tariq placed a single hand on Jahima's waist and pushed her gently, but firmly, away.
"Clearly you haven't learned from your mistakes," he said, still staring at Aneesa.
Jahima's eyes narrowed. "And yet, you let it happen."
Tariq now turned to her with a look of disgust and said, "Sometimes the only way to convey rejection is to allow someone else to fail in their attempt."
Her smile faltered, then vanished.
"I see," she whispered. "Then I'll leave you…to your new fascination."
She turned in a flurry of silk and fury. Sparing Aneesa one last venomous look before vanishing between the shelves.
Tariq exhaled slowly, then stepped away from the alcove.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what, a concubine fulfilling her duty?" Aneesa asked, more brittle than she intended.
"For the spectacle." He waited a beat, perhaps for forgiveness or a reaction.
Aneesa said nothing.
And so, he left with a look of concern on his brow and haste in his step. But the image burned in her mind: his lips on another's, and his eyes, on her.