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The air inside the great tent tasted of roasted lamb and bitter tea, but for Mathew, it felt like woodsmoke—thick and suffocating.
He sat at the side of Princess Zohra, draped in the flowing fabric of a desert woman. The kohled lines around his eyes felt heavy, a mask worn to blend into the feminine sanctuary of the inner circle. Like the women around him, his eyes remained downcast, never daring to meet a man’s gaze. To the tribe, he was a "fool," a harmless shadow of the Princess. To Auda, he was an abomination.
Auda sat across the fire, his presence consuming the light. He was a Sheikh of the dunes, his dark armor etched with the sigils of his tribe. He had come to claim Zohra—a woman whose fighting spirit matched his own—only to find his prize handed to Khardan, a rival serving a different god. Rejection simmered in Auda’s veins like poison, and he looked for a place to spill it.
His gaze landed on Mathew.
Usually, Auda would look away in disgust, as if seeing Mathew were a stain on a warrior’s sight. But tonight, the gaze stayed. It anchored itself to Mathew, heavy and cold. Mathew felt the weight of it, but he did not look up. He knew this man did not see him as a man. To Auda, he was worse than a bug; he was a glitch in the natural order.
In this land, a man was a pillar of salt and iron—a warrior strong enough to hold a shield against a sandstorm and proud enough never to bow. Mathew was none of these things. His limbs were slender, his skin pale, his body fragile by the brutal standards of the desert. He was a creature of silk in a world of thorns.
"The Princess keeps strange pets," Auda’s voice rumbled, a dangerous sound that cut through the music.
Mathew kept his eyes on the rug, his skin crawling. He could feel the sheer weight of Auda’s judgment—the silent decision of a man wondering whether to ignore the bug or crush it under his boot.
Zohra leaned forward, her hand protective on Mathew’s shoulder. "You dare to slander my hospitality? He is a fool touched by god; he hears things your warriors are too loud to notice."
Auda’s lip curled. He didn't care for the "friendship" of fools. He saw the way Mathew flinched at the rattle of a blade and how his hands trembled while pouring tea. It was a fundamental hatred of weakness. Today, however, Auda did not look away. He watched Mathew as if calculating a trajectory—deciding how he would dismantle this fragile "Blossom" and find his use.
When Zohra stood to retire, Mathew followed like a ghost. Only when the heavy fabric of the inner tent fell between them did he breathe. But even then, he felt the phantom weight of Auda’s gaze burning through the cloth, marking him.
This was the last dinner before they marched toward the city of Kich. Zohra would not give Auda the heir promised to him by his god, Zakhrin. But in his prayers, Auda had seen this man—this Blossom—weighted with his child. It seemed impossible, a trick of the mind. But if it was the will of a god, he would have him. To Auda, Mathew was more woman than man, a creature of hidden magic.
Under the glow of a blood-red moon, Auda stood and followed the fool.
Mathew had his own tent; no one would share a home with a fool. It made him an easy target. When Auda stepped inside, Mathew froze, the world stopping as their eyes finally met.
"Blossom," Auda spoke, his voice dropping an octave. "It seems those you love have left you alone."
Mathew’s face flushed a deep red. "I respect their privacy... and tradition," he whispered. It was a feeble answer from a man who loved both Zohra and Khardan—a love that would never be returned. In his own eyes, he was as much a fool as Auda was for wanting Zohra.
"Tomorrow is the last day," Auda stated, closing the distance between them. "I will have my revenge, and you and Zohra will lead the people from the prison of Kich."
"Why did you come here?" Mathew’s voice was nervous, breathless.
Auda stepped closer, near enough to see the pulse jumping in Mathew’s neck. The boy had no hair on his face; his skin was unnaturally clear. Auda reached into his pocket and pulled out a pendant. With one hand, he seized Mathew’s wrists, pinning them, and forced him back against the carpets.
"What are you doing?" Mathew cried out, but the sound was muffled as Auda’s mouth crashed against his.
It was a kiss of fire and iron. Mathew’s eyes went wide, his mind reeling. Will he kill me tonight? It made no sense for a Sheikh to act this way. When the kiss broke, Auda pressed a finger to Mathew's lips.
"Shhh, dear Blossom. I have a proposal for you." Auda’s breath was hot against his neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You love Khardan. You want him saved."
Mathew struggled again, but Auda leaned his full weight onto him. "Listen carefully. I will release Khardan from his oath. I will save his life when the time comes. But in exchange, I want something only you can give."
He waited until Mathew went still with dread.
"You will be mine tonight. We will conceive my heir, and you will care for the child as if he were Khardan’s."
Mathew stared in disbelief. "It is impossible. I am a man."
"Are you?" Auda mocked, his hand traveling from Mathew’s neck to his chest. "You have no hair on your face. Your constitution is fragile."
Mathew gasped as Auda’s hand rested on his hip, pinning him to the floor. He felt suffocated by the warrior’s mass.
"The hips are narrow," Auda smirked, "but I must verify what surprises hide under these clothes that fit you better than a man's ever could."
Suddenly, the pendant began to emit a steady, pulsing light. As the glow grew stronger, Mathew felt his magic—the very spark of his soul—begin to dim and dampen. The world around them grew dark and quiet.
Auda did not wait. His hand slid beneath the silk robes, his eyes locking onto Mathew’s. "Well, my little witch... what is your answer?"
Mathew’s breath hitched, caught in a throat that felt suddenly too tight. His senses were hazy, swirling like a sandstorm that had moved inside his mind. He couldn't understand what was happening; one moment he was a prisoner of fear, and the next, he was drowning in a wave of desire that felt unnatural, ancient, and unstoppable. It was a heavy, feverish dream—the kind that clings to the skin long after waking.
Auda did not move. He remained poised above him, a predator of iron and shadow. He was like a falcon circling high in the burning blue, waiting with infinite patience for the rabbit to bolt from its burrow. The silence in the tent was deafening, broken only by the crackle of a dying lamp and the frantic thrumming of Mathew’s heart.
Mathew tried to reach for his thoughts. He knew they had been discussing something vital—a bargain, a life, the safety of Khardan and Zohra. But the logic was melting away. His body was burning with a heat that didn't come from the desert sun. It was a spiritual wildfire, stoked by the pulsing violet light of the pendant Auda had forced upon him.
Somewhere, in the deepest, most untouched corner of his consciousness, he heard a voice. It was a silver tingle, cold and clear: "Mathew, no." It felt like the touch of an angel—a divine warning from a power he had never dared to believe in. But that voice was a whisper against the roar of Auda’s presence.
Mathew forced his eyes to focus. He looked into the dark, obsidian depths of Auda’s gaze and slowly, with the last of his fading will, he gave a single, shaky nod.
The smile that spread across Auda’s face was petrifying. In all the weeks of travel, in all the shared meals and silent stares, Mathew had never seen the Sheikh smile. It was not a gesture of warmth; it was the baring of a conqueror’s teeth. Mathew couldn't tell if it was a good omen or a death sentence.
"Zakhar is listening to my prayers," Auda rasped, his voice thick with a hunger that made the air vibrate.
He leaned down, his massive frame casting Mathew into total shadow. "Do not be afraid, Blossom. I will take care of you, for you are no longer a fool. You are a gift from my god."
Auda was breathing heavily now, the scent of leather, musk, and cold metal surrounding Mathew. He braced his elbows on the carpet beside Mathew’s head, pinning him effectively without needing to use his hands. With a surprising, terrifying tenderness, Auda reached out and brushed the long, bronze hair away from Mathew’s damp forehead.
The touch was a brand.
Then, Auda claimed him again. He kissed Mathew with a demanding ferocity, as if he were trying to pull the very soul out of the smaller man's body. It was a kiss that asked for everything—every secret, every bit of magic, and every ounce of resistance—until there was nothing left of the "Fool" but a vessel waiting to be filled by the dark warrior's will.
As the light of the pendant flared one last time, the walls of the tent seemed to vanish, leaving them alone under the red, watchful eye of the moon. The bargain was struck.