Twelve Years Ago...
The wind carried spices and smoke.
Amira's small fingers wrapped around her mother's hand, warm and steady. She skipped beside her, shoes tapping against the uneven stone road. Around them, the market pulsed with life voices rising like birdsong, colors spinning in every direction. Crimson silks, copper bowls, baskets of lemons that glowed gold under the sun. She breathed in deep, sweet air laced with the scent of oranges and baked bread.
She tilted her head up and beamed. "Mama, look!"
Her voice was bright and sure, and her other hand pointed eagerly toward a small wooden cart. Perched on its velvet cloth was a music box, the ballerina inside frozen mid-twirl, waiting.
Her mother so soft and who always seem to be glowing in the light, her honey-colored eyes filled with warmth that followed her gaze with a smile. "Do you like it, my little bird?"
Amira nodded quickly, her curls bouncing. "Yes! She's dancing, Mama."
"Alright, let's see what he has for sale," her mother said, voice lilting like a lullaby. Her hand gave Amira's a tiny squeeze as they stepped forward together.
The merchant, with sun-wrinkled skin and a feather tucked in his hat, greeted them with a toothy grin. "Good day, madam. Finely crafted music boxes, only the best. Which one caught your little one's eye?"
But Amira wasn't listening anymore.
Just beyond the stall, laughter peeled through the air. A small crowd had gathered clapping, gasping. Where a puppet master wasJuggling apples. And making a Puppets dancing. She blinked and drifted away drawn by the colourful show and tugged by invisible threads.
She didn't mean to let go. She just did.
The sound grew louder. The puppets swirled in the air. Someone flipped a coin that landed in a child's hand with a giggle. Amira clapped too, eyes wide, completely enchanted.
"Yay!" she squealed as the juggler caught five apples without a single drop. She laughed, full and bubbling.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. Real. Too loud.
The music stopped. The air shifted.
"Run! The enemies are raiding!"
It was like lightning split the sky without warning. The crowd exploded. Crates tipped. A woman shoved past with a crying baby. Someone screamed again. Amira turned, panic blooming like fire in her chest.
"Mama?" she choked out. "Mama?!"
The wind kicked up dust and ash. People were running. Horses thundered past, hooves crashing against stone. Someone shouted her name maybe?
"MAMA!"
She spun, searching, trembling.
And then she saw her.
Her mother was pushing through the crowd, eyes wild. "Amira!!"
Amira flung her arms out and ran, her sobs barely louder than the chaos. Her mother dropped to her knees, catching her mid-run and pulling her close, burying her face into her hair.
"I'm here, I'm here, my love," she whispered, voice trembling. "I've got you."
But the moment didn't last.
An arrow flew silent until it hit.
Her mother stiffened, then crumpled. They both hit the ground hard, Amira's cry swallowed by the sounds of panic.
"MA—!"
A boot struck. Her mother's arms closed tighter around her, shielding.
Then the world went black.
---
She woke to silence.
Gray ash floated in the air like snow. The sun was pale, distant.
Amira's face was sticky with tears and dirt. She stirred, nestled against her mother's body, stiff now. Cold.
"Mama?"
No answer.
She sat up slowly, fingers gripping at the blood-speckled gown.
"Mama, it hurts," she whispered.
The silence pressed in.
Then a crunch and sounds of boots followed by Voices.
"She's alive."
Amira looked up, blinking dust from her eyes. A man in dark armor crouched beside her, reaching out. Behind him stood a boy silver-haired, his face unreadable.
"Will she make it?" he asked.
"She's hanging on."
Amira didn't think. Her tiny hand shot out, gripping the boy's vest. Her fist curled into his shirt like it was the only real thing in the world.
"Mama..." she whispered again.
The boy stared down, his expression tight but quiet. Sad, maybe.
He didn't speak. Just let her hold on.
Then he turned away. "Take them to the carriage. The border is still open."
And gently like he knew it would break her he unwound her fingers from his shirt.
---
Present Day...
The palace gates of Rooth Hallow towered before her.
Amira stood still, her fingers cold despite the sun. Her dress felt too heavy, her shoes too tight. Her father stood beside her like a statue, not even sparing her a glance.
Her siblings stood behind three sisters, two brothers, all dressed like they were ready for a portrait. No one spoke to her.
No one had spoken to her in days.
Only now, with her brother Marshall taken and the prince missing only now had they remembered her name.
Her father's voice sliced through the air, low and cold. "Be good, Amira. You don't want anything to happen to your brother, do you?"
Her mouth was dry. "I don't want to go."
"Don't be foolish," he snapped. "They asked for a bride. You are the price."
"But I heard rumors. He kills his wives. Father, please—!"
The slap came without warning.
Her cheek flamed.
Lady Martha, her father's second wife, stepped forward quickly. "She doesn't mean it, Barbarossa. She's a child."
With practiced hands, she dabbed powder across Amira's cheek. Her voice was calm. "You were never meant to stay here, you know. So make the best of this."
Amira's throat burned. "You think I'll survive?"
"You'll learn how," Martha said.
The carriage arrived.
No one kissed her forehead. No one offered blessings.
She climbed in alone.
As the wheels turned and the palace shrank behind her, she lifted the curtain and watched her home disappear not with tears, but with hollow silence.
---
The journey blurred.
She slept in broken pieces. Her head knocked against the wooden panel as the coach rocked. She ate only when her stomach twisted too hard to ignore. Once, she dreamed of ash falling from the sky. Once, she dreamed of a silver-haired boy with kind eyes.
Then—the gates of Oaken Vale.
Green, alive, almost too beautiful. It wasn't like the desert she'd been warned of. It smelled of rain and ripe fruit.
A butler greeted her. "Lady Amira. Welcome."
She followed him into the palace. Cool marble beneath her shoes. Golden light catching crystal chandeliers. She tried to focus. She couldn't.
They walked through halls she didn't know, past doors she didn't care to open.
He stopped. Knocked gently. A voice inside answered. "Enter."
Amira was pushed forward.
The room smelled of flowers. A group of women looked up from the cushions and laughter.
"Is she the peace offering from Rooth Hallow?" one of them asked, almost lazily.
Amira bowed. She felt small in their midsts. Her voice didn't work.
The queen sat near the center, her gown shimmering with tiny gems. Her eyes, feline and unreadable, settled on Amira.
"Welcome to Oaken Vale," she said.
Amira curtsied.
"You'll rest now," the queen added, her voice clipped. "There's a banquet tonight."
A maid took her arm.
And just like that she was gone again. Down another hall. Through another door, she had no time to think. No time to breathe.
Just this ache in her chest.
This feeling that once again, the feeling of not belonging.