Blood and Betrayal

The throne room buzzed with tension as the early evening sun cast long shadows along the colorful tiles that lined the walls.

Tariq stood at his father's right, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed on the map of the northern passes now marked with crimson ink. Generals and ministers murmured in heated clusters. Servants poured tea that they knew no one would drink.

"The eastern route was sealed," one advisor said. "We received confirmation only three days ago."

"Then we were lied to," Tariq replied coldly. "Or someone sold our silence."

The Sultan's eyes burned beneath his gold-threaded keffiyeh. "Find out who. I want their names by nightfall."

Before anyone could answer, the great doors opened.

The Malika entered without announcement. Unapologetic. Unforgiving.

She moved like a storm risen from the sea, draped in black and violet. Her veil was drawn back, revealing her infamous eyes, both burning like twin flames beneath arched brows.

Behind her came Aneesa, her robe disheveled, but her posture unbroken. A purpling bruise bloomed across her cheekbone, and Tariq's heart clenched at the sight. The room fell silent.

All eyes turned, commanded to witness the Malika, who met the Sultan's gaze without blinking. Their stare was a language older than speech, forged from shared power, deep love, and a lifetime of war.

"Mother," Tariq said, concerned. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I bring you names," she replied. Her voice was like steel wrapped in velvet.

The Sultan arose, slowly.

"I bring you treason," the Malika said, casting her gaze across the room as several men paled.

"This is outrageous!" one advisor burst out. "What are these women doing in the throne room? I—"

"She is the Malika," the Sultan said sharply. "And I trust her with my life. I suggest you be quiet."

The Malika didn't wait for permission. She stepped forward, sweeping across the room with the scroll in hand. She unrolled it before the Sultan and their son, her voice clear.

"These are correspondences between our council and commanders from Castile. Hidden in cipher. Decoded by Aneesa, with my commission. They were passed through the east gate."

She looked directly at three of the seated men, all minor lords, all gray-bearded, all suddenly faced with their mortality.

"Do you deny it?" she asked.

None answered.

The Sultan eased back into his throne. The Malika stood beside him, tall and unyielding. 

Tariq looked down at the symbols, ciphers he recognized from the scrolls Aneesa had translated by firelight. The dates matched the breach exactly.

He looked up at her. She stood in the doorway, frozen. Her hands were shaking, though she held her spine straight. He raised two fingers to his lips, providing quiet reassurance. '

The silence in the hall pulsed like a held breath.

The Sultan's voice broke it. Low. Measured.

"Is this true?"

Still, none dared to answer.

He closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, then lifted his hand.

The guards moved.

The Malika's voice cut through the air: "I see you are all suddenly speechless." Her tone sharpened. "Take them."

The three men stood, outraged. "You can't—!"

"I will," the Malika said coldly. "You conspired to sell our city. Now you'll pay in its name."

The guards dragged them toward the far wall of the chamber.

Tariq didn't speak. Aneesa didn't blink.

The Malika smiled.

There, beneath the intricate ceiling of colored glass and an intricate geometric depiction of heaven, the three men were forced to kneel.

There was a pause, and then they were executed.

Three blades. 

Three falls. 

Three stains blooming red across the marble.

The silence that followed was stunned. Absolute.

The Malika turned to the Sultan. He stood and took her hands in both of his.

"You asked for names," she said, slowly raising her voice as she continued. "And it is I who delivered them. Now all who whisper in the dark shall be dragged into the light to face the wrath of the throne."

She turned, robes sweeping behind her, and strode from the hall. The Sultan followed, surrounded by guards in a tight procession.

As they passed the threshold, the Malika glanced back first to Tariq and then to Aneesa, who clung to the doorway like a shipwrecked soul gripping wood. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Her lips were parted in horror.

Blood pooled on the floor where pride had once stood.

As the bodies were dragged away and the servants set to cleaning the marble, the throne room cautiously exhaled.

-------

The guards did not speak as they dragged Jahima down the worn stone path leading from the Alhambra's back gate. Her arms were bound. Her lip was split. Her pride in ruins.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" she spat, stumbling as her feet met the dust of the outer slope.

"You've been stripped of your position," one guard snarled. "By the Malika's order. See that you never return."

With a hard shove, they threw her to the dirt.

The gate slammed shut behind her.

Dust choked her throat. Her silk robe, torn in places, fluttered weakly in the evening wind.

She rose to her knees, fists clenched, hate boiling beneath her skin.

"She'll pay," she muttered. "They all will."

"You speak like a woman who has something to offer."

The voice came from the shadows of a nearby olive grove just beyond the steps. It was like the hiss of a snake. Male. With a foreign edge. Castilian.

Jahima turned.

A man stepped from the shadows. He was tall with light features, dressed in the robes of a merchant. His eyes were eager yet wrong: they were dark and cold as if he were not of this realm. A curved blade hung discreetly at his side, and a scroll case was tied to his saddle just behind him.

Jahima looked around, her heart racing with fear and desperation. 

He held out a hand.

"I've been waiting for someone like you."

She stared at him warily.

"Why?"

"Because you've seen what's inside," he said, nodding toward the palace. 

She took his hand reluctantly and turned back towards the palace from where she was exiled one last time. He guided her to a white horse bound to a tree deep within the olive grove and hoisted her up on the saddle before jumping on behind her. He held her small waist tightly with one hand and grabbed the reins with the other before clicking his heels to command the horse north. 

She brought her hands to rest on top of his at her waist and didn't let go.