ACT VIII: The Noble Visitor

The young noble followed Roya through the winding streets, his sharp gaze taking in every detail of the neighborhood as they neared their destination. Unlike the towering stone buildings and ornate facades of Britannor architecture, the house before him stood apart—a structure adorned with intricate Persien motifs, its warm ochre walls softened by the golden glow of the setting sun. A lush garden framed the entrance, the scent of blooming jasmine and brewed spices weaving through the air, mingling with the quiet murmur of the attached tea shop.

'So, she is Persien', he thought, noting the familiar elements of her heritage within the homely yet elegant surroundings.

Roya opened the wooden door and called into the house, her voice carrying warmth and familiarity. "I'm home!"

A woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, stepped into view, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Roya's tardiness. "You were meant to be back before sundown, Ruuya. What took you so long?"

'Ruuya. A very peculiar way to call her'

Roya sighed and quickly explained, gesturing to the nobleman beside her. "A certain merchant was harassing this gentleman. I couldn't ignore it."

Her aunt exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "Mr. Thatcher again? Always finding trouble. Well, go on and make your guest comfortable. I'll have dinner ready soon." Her young daughter, peeking from behind her skirts, giggled at the sight of the nobleman before rushing back to her task of kneading dough.

Roya ushered him toward a sitting area adorned with embroidered cushions and an intricately woven rug. She set about preparing tea with practiced elegance, her movements fluid and deliberate. As steam rose from the porcelain teapot, the rich aroma of cardamom and saffron filled the air. She set down a plate of homemade baklava beside the cups and turned to her guest.

"You should take off your jacket," she said lightly, reaching for her sewing kit. "Let me mend the tear."

The noble hesitated, but at her insistence, he relented, removing the finely tailored garment. As she threaded the needle and began mending the sleeve, her eyes flickered over his slender frame. There was something unusual about him—his refined posture, the delicate shape of his face. He was strikingly beautiful, almost ethereal. And yet, Roya found herself wondering… Was this noble truly a man?

Before she could dwell on the thought, the front door creaked open again. Her uncle entered, loosening the collar of his coat as he stepped inside, the cool night air clinging to him. He was greeted warmly by his daughter and niece, given a fresh towel to wipe his face before he settled into his favorite chair.

"I heard quite a commotion at the Merchant Guild," he remarked, glancing at Roya. "You had a scuffle with Mr. Thatcher?"

"It wasn't a scuffle. It was a harassment. There were witnesses" Roya scoffed

"He claims otherwise. Seems that merchant you encountered has been causing an uproar. Claimed he was wronged."

Roya rolled her eyes, sipping her tea. "He brought it upon himself."

Her guest sat up straighter at the mention of the guild. "You are connected to the guild?"

Her uncle gave a knowing smile. "Accountant to the Merchant Guild," he said, offering a firm nod. "And you are?"

The noble set his teacup down, offering a small, courteous bow. "Arsalan," he said simply. "A pleasure."

At that moment, the curtain separating the sitting room from the rest of the house was drawn back. Roya's grandmother entered with a slow but steady gait, her dark grey hair neatly wrapped in a deep indigo scarf. By her side was Arman, Roya's older cousin, whose sharp features bore a serious expression. He seemed lost in thought, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with something more calculating.

Roya studied him for a moment before looking away. If Arman was deep in thought, it usually meant trouble.

"Young man, welcome to our household." The Imani matriarch addressed the noble.

"Thank you" Arsalan bowed in greeting to the elderly woman.

"Guest or not," Grandmother finally said after assessing Arsalan, "he shall not go hungry in our home. Come, young man. Join us for dinner."

The meal was a quiet affair, punctuated only by the soft clinking of dishes and occasional conversation. Her aunt and uncle spoke in hushed tones about business, while Arman listened intently. Roya stole a glance at Arsalan, who was eating with measured grace, observing rather than engaging.

Then, just as everyone was finishing their tea, Grandmother spoke again, her voice laced with nostalgia. "This is not the first time a stranger has dined in our home," she mused. "Many years ago, my husband brought in a guest from an unknown land. A man from the Astia."

Roya and Arman exchanged a surprised glance. Their grandfather had never spoken much of his past.

"It was through him that our family learned the secrets of tea," Grandmother continued, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her cup. "And it was because of him that we built our tea enterprise. But fate is strange, isn't it?" She glanced toward Arsalan, her dark eyes piercing. "One never knows why certain people are brought into our lives."

The room fell into a contemplative silence.

Roya, sipping the last of her tea, could not shake the feeling that her grandmother's words were more than mere reminiscence.

Aunt Safi broke the silence by clearing her throat and eyeing her daughter and niece. Roya and Yasmin immediately helped her packed the dishes to the kitchen and cleaned up the table.

Grandmother Arsha exchanged some few words with Arsalan before she was led away to her room by her son.

Arman was nowhere to be seen. He must have escaped to his room immediately after dinner.

_______________________________________________

The golden glow of the oil lamps flickered against the dark wooden panels of our teashop, casting shadows that danced like specters on the walls. I set down a porcelain cup in front of the nobleman, watching as the steam curled into delicate tendrils. He inhaled deeply, appreciation flickering in his bright violet eyes.

"You have quite the skill, Miss Imani," he said, his voice rich with amusement. "The tea here is unlike anything I've tasted before."

"Thank you," I replied, smoothing my hands over my apron. "It's a blend my grandfather perfected. We've been making it for generations."

Receiving a compliment from a noble such as him meant a lot, especially when they have high taste of things.

His gaze lingered on me, thoughtful. "You're fortunate to have such a strong family tradition. Not many do."

I offered a small smile, though something inside me recoiled. Fortunate. The word rang hollow. He didn't know how fragile traditions were, how quickly they could slip away.

Instead of answering, I reached for the neatly folded jacket beside me. The tear he'd acquired during his scuffle with that merchant had been mended with careful, near-invisible stitches. "Here," I said, holding it out to him. "It's fixed."

He took it, running a hand over the fabric before meeting my eyes. "You're quite skilled with a needle too."

"A necessary skill."

He chuckled. "You seem to have many of those." He slipped the jacket on, fastening the buttons. "I'd like to walk before I retire for the night. Would you accompany me?"

I hesitated. It was late, and my aunt would surely give me a knowing glance if she saw me stepping into the garden with a stranger. But curiosity nudged at me. This nobleman—who still struggled with my name and had simply settled on Roya—was unlike the ones who passed through town with distant stares and guarded manners. He looked at people, spoke with ease, and listened.

"Alright," I said finally.

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faintest trace of orange blossoms from my grandmother's carefully tended bushes. The gravel path crunched beneath our feet as we wandered past the wooden lattice fence, the world wrapped in a hush save for the occasional chirp of crickets.

"You have a lovely home," he murmured, eyes sweeping over the softly lit windows where my Uncle and cousin-Arman were likely preparing for tomorrow's business. "There's warmth here."

I slowed my steps, surprised by his words. "It may not be grand, but it is ours."

"That is what makes it grand." He glanced at me. "And you? What have you studied?"

The question was simple, yet it sent an ache through my chest. I focused on the garden's stone lantern, tracing the delicate engravings with my gaze. "I graduated from the town's secondary school not long ago," I answered, voice even. "I help my family now. The teashop takes up most of our time."

He hummed in understanding. "The tea alone is proof of your skill. You could build something for yourself. A bright future."

Something flickered through me—sharp, bitter, fleeting. A future for myself. A beautiful thought, if it were that simple. I turned my face slightly, masking the grimness that had crossed my expression with a practiced smile. "Perhaps."

His eyes caught mine, a quiet understanding settling between us. He had noticed the shift, but chose not to press.

Instead, he gestured toward the sky. "The stars are brighter here than in the city."

I exhaled, grateful for the change in topic. "They always are. The sky is clearer when you're not looking at it from behind glass and stone."

We spoke of simpler things then—of his life, of the peculiar habits of people he had met, of books we had both read. The conversation flowed like a slow-moving river, unhurried and calm. By the time we returned to the house, the lamps had dimmed, signaling the hour was late.

He inclined his head. "Thank you for the hospitality, Miss Imani. I will take my leave in the morning."

I nodded. "Rest well, then."

—

The next morning, the scent of freshly baked bread and spiced tea filled the air. Aunt Safya had risen early to prepare breakfast, and young Yamin scurried about, sneaking bites of dried fruit from the kitchen. The nobleman sat at the table, finishing his meal with quiet appreciation.

When it was time for him to depart, Uncle Ramin clasped his hand in farewell. Aunt Safya, ever the gracious hostess, insisted he take a small parcel of sweets for the journey.

"I am headed to the station." Uncle Ramin began, putting on his hat "Let me walk you there"

"That will me much appreciated, Mr. Imani." Sir Arsalan tuned his eyes to me. "If Milady Roya would come with us"

The family turned their eyes at me with mixed emotions. I gulped audibly and gave a bashful smile. "Of course. Permit me to get dressed"

I hastily an up to my room, trying to shake off the weight of heavy stares watching me.

I walked him to the train station along with my uncle, the distant whistle of the approaching locomotive filling the cool morning air. Sir Arsalan and my uncle climbed into the train and settled on their seats. It appeared that their destination was different however they decided to keep each other's company on the way.

But when his gaze turned to me, something in his expression sharpened—resolve, perhaps.

"I'll see you again, Roya," he said, voice firm as though it were a promise rather than a possibility.

I studied him for a moment before offering a polite nod. "Safe travels."

As the steam billowed, I felt an unfamiliar weight settle in my chest.

Something had shifted. A new thread had woven itself into the fabric of my life.

I just wasn't sure what it meant yet.