The night sky above the desert was bruised in deep shades of blue, the sand glittering like crushed gold beneath the full moon. A caravan cut through the dunes, its torches burning low against the wind. In the back of one of the covered wagons, Amira sat chained at the wrists, the cold iron biting into her skin. Her silk dress clung to her damp skin, torn at the hem from the journey.
She could still hear the sound of drums in the distance. Not from the caravan. From the palace.
It was the sound that meant the Sultan was awake.
And waiting.
The guards surrounding her wagon were silent. Not one of them dared look her in the eye. They didn’t need to. Everyone knew what would happen to a woman brought to the palace in the middle of the night. She wasn’t a guest. She was an offering.
Amira
