sorry for no extra content guys i've basically only had the energy to work on the game so far but i really wanted to at least post this!! hope you like it!!
Malik:
The Sultan’s banquet was enjoyable, a whirlwind of colour, politics, and information. You thought you’d done well, before an overeager Zafaran envoy leaned in and asked if the two of you were together. You’d answered on instinct.
No, I’m not his type.
In the growing quiet of the palace hallways, amongst the dappled moonlight filtering through the latticed windows, the silence between you is almost oppressive. Deliberately uncomfortable. Pregnant with unspoken words. The question hangs between you like smoke.
Malik tilts his head. “What makes you say that?”
You don’t feign confusion.
“You’re the Grand Vizier. One might think you’d have more refined tastes than your apprentice.”
The Grand Vizier says nothing. Only holds your gaze, steady and patient. Waiting for you to look away.
You do.
He scoffs, amused.
“Interesting.”
You glance back. “What is?”
He leans in close enough for the air to shift. Green-flecked eyes flicker to your lips and back, so quickly you almost question it.
Voice low, secretive – yet confident all the same – he replies: “That you think you’re only my apprentice.”
Alimah:
She’s been quiet since you answered the envoy’s question. Whether in thought, or annoyance, you can’t tell. Alimah’s always been hard to read – her golden eyes give nothing away.
The gardens are a welcome respite from the rush of the banquet; she gazes up at the night sky, her side profile regal against the soft reflections of cool moonlight and warm lamplight.
She turns suddenly – you look down, embarrassed to be caught staring.
“Look at me.”
You do.
Her voice is steady, but there’s a softness threaded in that’s reserved only for you.
She’s always careful, always reverent in how she handles you. Cradles your hands between her own, brings one to her lips. Leaves kisses on your palms.
“If you weren’t my type,” she murmurs, in between her worship, “I’d make that very clear.”
Her certainty cracks something within you.
You lean in. She meets you halfway – tender, controlled, but with a heat that trembles under her composure.
Zahra:
As soon as the words left your mouth, it felt wrong.
No, I’m not her type.
Zahra’s expression didn’t shift dramatically — she was too composed for that — but the hurt was there, barely hidden behind the irritation. A subtle tightening around her eyes. A halt in her breath. A flash of something wounded before she shut it behind composure again.
“Is that how you feel?” she asks quietly.
“Or how you think I feel?”
It’s not an easy question to answer. That’s why Zahra asked it.
“I—”
She hesitates, then grasps your wrist and pulls you close. “My type,” she says, eyes flitting over you, “has never been as simple as you think.”
Jasiri:
Jasiri is fidgety tonight. His feet long for the waves, his hands tug at the edges of his sleeves. When that’s not enough, he removes his dagger from its sheath and admires the glint of the steel against the candlelight of his chambers.
You’d caught him just before bedtime; his shirt half undone, his locs resting against his chest. He’d opened the door as he usually did; an easy smile adorning his face, warm hands caressing your waist.
You thought you’d successfully avoided discussing the too-loud laugh he barked out, the flash of confusion he’d displayed at the banquet earlier – when you’d firmly told the envoy that no, you were not Jasiri’s type.
“I think you’d be surprised, you know.”
He’s already looking at you, gaze darker, steadier – tinged with an unfamiliar intensity.
Your brows knit. “By what?”
His smile is gentler now – smaller, and somehow braver.
“What I consider to be my type.”
You hold his gaze for what feels like eternity, searching for a joke that doesn’t come. He’s being genuine – and it leaves you speechless.
Taking advantage of your silence, Jasiri steps closer.
“Don’t dismiss yourself like that. Not to me.”
Nura:
“Why?”
The word is soft, but it lands like a stone thrown into a still pond.
You blink. “Why what?”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Instead, she steps closer, the faint lantern glow catching the pearlescent sheen of her robes.
“Why do you think that way about yourself?” Nura cuts to the core. She has never feared truth – always treated it like a balm of salvation.
Your throat tightens. “Should I… not have said that?”
“You are entitled to say what you wish.” Her gaze searches yours, pleading without desperation. “But…” There’s a tremor in her voice, a hurt she only barely allows to surface. “Do not – don’t ever denigrate yourself in my presence. Not when I have never seen you the way you see yourself.”
Her fingers reach for yours, hovering. They’re close enough to offer comfort, but not enough to assume permission. A sacred kind of intimacy.
You make the first move. Clasp her hands in yours, finding permission granted in her gaze, soft and steady at the same time.
“You are precious to me in ways I cannot express. I won’t stand idle when you speak of yourself so cruelly.”
There’s no anger in her words – only a quiet, fierce devotion.
Zahir:
“Yes you are.”
You stop walking. Almost trip. The quiet corridor of the Council’s guest wing feels suddenly cooler.
“…What did you say?” you ask, turning to face him.
Zahir doesn’t look away. He continues to look straight ahead, as though discussing something as mundane as the weather. “What I said.”
He’s perfectly calm—too calm. That careful, poised composure he uses when something has genuinely unsettled him.
You open your mouth to respond, but he lifts a hand slightly – a polite request for pause.
“I am aware that I am private,” he begins, voice smooth and measured. “Reserved, even. But I thought I had made my… regard for you clear.”
The admission is quiet, but its weight is unmistakable.
He steps closer, but only a fraction – enough for you to feel its intent.
“So, allow me to clarify, since you seem uncertain. You are very much my type.”
A beat.
“And I do not appreciate hearing you declare otherwise. Least of all out of misplaced courtesy.”
Zahir resumes walking, leaving you behind. As you watch his receding figure, you notice, belatedly, that his ears are bright red.
