#royal!dc

۩ — INFO POST

۩ — 𝕻rologue ; When two empires collide

𝒜rc I: 𝕻ride 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter I ; The Lion’s Den 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter II ; A Cage of Silk 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter III ; Chains in Silk 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter IV ; A Crown of Chains

𝒜rc II:𝕾tate 𝕺f 𝕲race 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter V ; Sultana 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter VI ; Embers Before the Ball 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter VII ; The Strike 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter VIII ; Paranoia 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter IX ; Caged birds 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter X ; Flowers

𝒜rc III: 𝕱ractures 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter XI ; Fractures 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter XII ; Numbness 𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter XIII ; Mirrors & Mothers

𝒜rc IV: 𝒜rc V: 𝒜rc VI:

— MASTERLIST Pairing: (aged up!) Sultan!Damian Al-Ghul x Princess!Spartan reader Tropes: Royal AU , Arranged marriage , Enemies to Lovers , Slow Burn , yearning so much that i wanted to cut my head off — SUMMARY : When the two greatest empires collide, threatening to plunge the world into endless war, only one solution remains: a union sealed in marriage. Yet peace comes at a cost. To secure it, you must surrender your homeland, your people—and bind your fate to a man you can neither trust nor love.

— WARNINGS : Blood , cursing , mentions of sexism, yearning , violence , DID I SAY YEARNING ? (more to be added as this series is written !)

𐙚 PLAYLIST 1, 𐙚 PLAYLIST 2, 𐙚 PLAYLIST 3 , 𐙚 PINTEREST BOARD

A/N: HEYYY so this is my very first long fic?? I HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY IT! This doesn't mean I won't keep posting my usual content! By the way,reader is mentioned to have ethnic features (curly/wavy hair,tanned skin...) BUT I WILL TRY TO KEEP IT VAGUE ! And i don't think this series is going to have any +18 (sex) scene. THANKS @gothamwing FOR HELPING ME ELABORATE THE IDEA! By the way,this is purely fictional ! I WILL ALSO CREATE A SEPARATE TAGLIST FOR IT! if anyone wants to be added pls tell me in the comments ! A/N 2: Also! @gothamwing will be writing a secondary series based on this one, protagonized by Knight!Jason Todd x maid!Reader CHECK IT OUT 👹👹👹👹👹

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @tikitsune , @honeydrzzldpeaches , @specklesreid , @gojoswaterbottle , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @vivian-555 , @ough-rogue , @d4wnl1ght-x-l @senatorpadmeamidala, @dhazefawn , @chiizuluvr , @kermits-bitch , @strawbrysapphic , @thejokersfavouritecrowbar , @anotherbook-obsessedhoe , @crutoyu , @adeptusxia0 , @morganblues , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @niccocia , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST

TW: forced proximity, defiance, reader nearly breaking damian's head ( i am not joking)

That first night in the Sultan’s palace, I could not breathe.

The chambers were too large, too silent, too perfumed with rosewater and musk. The very walls seemed to press in on me, as though reminding me that I was a guest here — or a prisoner. Perhaps both.

And then there was him.

Him,and his stupid loud breathing,his arrogant stance.

Damian stripped away his armor with precise movements, his back to me, the glint of steel catching lantern-light. He moved like a man who belonged here, whose every breath carried authority.

I hated him for it.

When he finally turned toward the bed, my body went rigid.

“I’ll take the right,” he said flatly, as if we were simply dividing a battlefield.

I crossed my arms. “And what makes you think I’ll take the left?”

His eyes flicked to mine, dark and sharp. “Would you prefer the floor?”

I scoffed, climbing onto the bed with more force than necessary, dragging silken sheets around me like armor. “I’d prefer an entirely different palace.”

“Yet here you are,” he muttered, extinguishing the lantern.

“Not for my will,remember?” I said, rolling my eyes as I sat on the comfortable bed, I glared at him with my arms crossed.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I snapped.

“Are you planning to glare at me until dawn?”

“Perhaps. Better than turning my back on a snake.”

He scoffed, slowly seating to stare at me “If I were a snake, Princess, you’d already be dead.”

“Not if I cut off your head first.”

His mouth twitched—whether in amusement or irritation, I couldn’t tell.

I seethed. For several long minutes, I refused to move, sitting there in my travel-worn gown, fists clenched, arms crossed. At last, with a growl of frustration, I yanked the coverlet aside and lay stiffly at the farthest edge of the mattress.  He casually laid down,I felt the mattress dip under his weight

We lay there, backs to each other, the loud silence tormenting my thoughts.

“You will not survive here if you bite every hand that reaches toward you,” he muttered,out of nowhere, into the dark.

“And you will not survive me if you think to tame me,” I hissed back.

His chuckle was low, humorless. “You mistake yourself for a lion. But lions learn obedience when cornered.”

I whipped around, ready to claw him to ribbons with words, only to find him already turned away, broad shoulders tense beneath the linen. His dismissal burned worse than his words.

“Whatever” I shut my eyes tight, fury keeping me awake long into the night.

The room fell into darkness, save for the faint moonlight spilling across the mosaic floor. I turned my back to him, my spine stiff as iron.

“Do not touch me,” I whispered into the dark.

“Trust me,” came his reply, smooth and edged, “the thought never crossed my mind.”

I bit down on my lip, fury warring with a strange, hollow ache in my chest.

⸻🕌

I woke to chaos.

The chamber swarmed with maids in silken veils, bustling in and out with trays of perfumes, jewel-boxes, ivory combs, and fabrics that gleamed like molten gems. My maid stood at my side, wide-eyed and bristling, trying to swat them off me like flies. They swarmed like doves, tugging at curtains, laying out robes, scattering trays of perfumes and jewels across the tables.

She was shoved aside with scandalized gasps — “She cannot be in here!” — though she snarled her way back to my side, elbowing a girl in the ribs hard enough to make her yelp.

‘’Huh? What–? What is this? Why are you all in my chambers?” I demanded, clutching the sheets to my chest as three women tried to drag me upright. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing you, Sultana,” one said breathlessly, fumbling with a tray of gold bangles. The title threw me off,and left a sour taste on my mouth “The wedding—”

“The what?” My voice cracked sharp enough that the room froze.

My maid blinked at me, then whirled on the nearest maid. “Explain yourself before I break your nose.”

The girl trembled, eyes darting between us,the small Kohl vase in her hands trembled. “The Sultan has declared it. The ceremony will be at dusk. The palace is already preparing the feast.”

My blood turned to ice.

I stormed from the chamber half-dressed, silks trailing behind me, My maid hot on my heels,following me almost worried if I would strangle the sultan to death. To be fair,I contemplated the decision.

Down the corridor, guards scrambled to bow, viziers averted their gazes, but I ignored them all. My fury propelled me straight into the training courtyard, where I found him — Damian, already in fresh robes, sparring with his stupid knight as though nothing in the world could trouble him.  

My hands grabbed the ceramic vase on the floor.

“You dare—!” The words ripped from my throat before I had even crossed the marble. “You dare arrange my wedding without my knowledge?” I mumbled with the vase in my arms,threatening. Jason quickly unyielded his sword.

He turned, calm as a still lake, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yesterday, you said you were not my wife.” A pause, deliberate. Cutting. “I am correcting that.”

Heat flushed up my neck, hot and suffocating.  Is this guy on his senses?

“You tricked me—”

“You delayed what was inevitable.” He snapped,his gaze burned into mine. “This union is no longer negotiable, Princess. The empire must see us as one. Sparta must see you as mine.”

“MINE?” I spat, the word like venom on my tongue I said as I raised the vase.

Behind me, my maid quickly grabbed the vase from my hands, hissed a curse in Greek, loud enough Jason barked out a laugh.

Damian’s eyes did not waver. “Prepare yourself, princess. Tonight, there will be no more doubts.”

“You bastard—“ I yelled at him as my maid quickly dragged me away.

‘’Watch your tongue,ʿhayatī’’

Damian’s gaze flicked to me, and for the briefest second, I swore I saw him smirking,his knight was already on the floor laughing.

He reached for the vase on the floor. His voice was flat. “The ceremony will take place at sundown. Be ready.”

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @tikitsune , @honeydrzzldpeaches , @specklesreid , @gojoswaterbottle , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @vivian-555 , @ough-rogue , @d4wnl1ght-x-l@senatorpadmeamidala, @dhazefawn ,@chiizuluvr , @kermits-bitch , @strawbrysapphic , @thejokersfavouritecrowbar , @anotherbook-obsessedhoe , @crutoyu , @adeptusxia0 , @morganblues , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @niccocia , @awakenedevildays (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST

The journey east had been long, endless stretches of dust and desert wind swallowing the horizon. I had thought the silence of the road unbearable, but nothing could compare to the roar of the city as we finally entered the gates of the Sultan’s palace. Gold-plated arches towered above us, carved with verses I could not read. Minarets climbed toward the sky, their shadow stretching like spears over the crowd. The air was thick with incense and spices, with sweat and song, with the press of thousands of eyes—watching me, weighing me, judging me. A bride. A stranger. A prize. My friend shifted in her saddle beside me, her jaw clenched. She was trying not to reach for the knife strapped beneath her traveling cloak. “This is no welcome,” she muttered low enough only I could hear. “It’s a spectacle.”

She was right.

At the steps of the palace, soldiers in crimson and black lined the marble courtyard. At their head stood a figure who radiated command like a blade radiates steel.

Damian Al-Ghul.

The man I had been promised to. His gaze cut through me the moment our eyes met—sharp, dark, utterly unreadable. He was dressed in deep silks and armor that gleamed like obsidian, a sword strapped at his hip as if war itself clung to him.

I hated that my first thought was he looks like a king. And I hated myself even more when my heart stumbled in my chest. I dismounted slowly, spine straight, chin high. If he thought I would bow, he was sorely mistaken. “Princess of Sparta,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with steel. “Welcome to your new home.” “This is not my home,” I answered before I could stop myself, my tone sharp as my blade would have been. “It is merely where I have been sent.” The air shifted. Soldiers stiffened. Viziers exchanged glances. Even my maids hand twitched at her side. Damian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, though his eyes never left mine. “So the lioness bares her teeth.” He stepped closer, close enough that the air between us grew taut. “Let us hope you remember that pride does not rule empires. Discipline does.”

My lips curved into the faintest smile, brittle as glass. “Where I come from, Sultan, it is pride that keeps lions from being tamed.” A dangerous silence followed, the kind that precedes the draw of swords. But instead of striking, Damian simply turned on his heel and gestured to the vast carved doors of the palace. “Come. You will need to learn quickly.”

The palace was dazzling. Walls painted with golden calligraphy, mosaics gleaming under lantern-light, fountains singing in every courtyard. Yet beauty could not hide its cage. Every corridor we passed, eyes followed. Every servant’s bow felt like a reminder: I was not one of them. I was foreign. I was alone.

And my maid—my poor friend—was not spared either. The women of the palace gathered like doves in silken flocks, whispering behind jeweled hands as we were escorted to my chambers. They studied her with open disdain, their gazes raking over her plain Spartan garb, her calloused hands, her proud stance. When a serving girl offered to “show her how things are done here,” Her answer was a blade-edged smile. “If how things are done here means bending the knee to someone who breathes the same as I do, then no. I’ll keep to my ways.” The girl gasped, scandalized, before scurrying off. “Careful,” I murmured when we were finally alone in my chamber, our trunks being unpacked by silent hands. “They’ll try to push you out.” “Let them try,” She said flatly,I noticed how her lips curled into a smirk. “Sparta did not raise me to bow to pretty girls with sharp tongues.”

We did not remain alone for long. Later that evening, when the sun dipped low and the call to prayer echoed through the city, the Sultan summoned me to the great hall. She followed, though she was quickly halted by a knight who barred her path with a gauntleted hand.

Jason Todd.

Damian’s personal knight, if the armor and air of smugness were any indication. He looked me over with disinterest before turning his gaze to her. “Only the bride enters.” His voice carried that same lazy arrogance of men who thought themselves untouchable. “Servants wait outside.”

“She is no servant,” I snapped. “She comes with me.”

Jason tilted his head, lips curling in amusement. “Here, she is what I say she is.” His eyes flicked to her, deliberately slow, deliberately insulting. “And she doesn’t look like she belongs.”

She bristled, stepping forward. “Say that again,” she hissed, her hand already drifting toward the dagger she had smuggled past the palace guards. Jason’s grin widened, sharp and cruel. “Go ahead. Draw steel in the Sultan’s halls. It’ll make the execution quicker.”

“Enough.” My voice cut through the tension, colder than the marble beneath us. I fixed Jason with a glare that could have burned holes through armor. “If she is barred, then I go nowhere. Tell your Sultan his bride will not be treated as less than the lowest dog.”

For a moment, something dangerous flickered in Jason’s eyes. Then he leaned back, resting his weight casually against the doorframe, as though it all amused him. “Fiery. No wonder he looks half ready to strangle you already.”

But he stepped aside. She brushed past him with her chin high, a proud smirk while muttering under her breath in Greek, curses I prayed he did not understand,with a stubborn sigh closed the doors behind us and walked towards the sultan with a lazy smirk.

The great hall awaited us—pillars soaring toward vaulted ceilings, lanterns burning like constellations above, the scent of musk and rose clinging to the air. And there, seated on the throne carved from black marble, Damian al-Ghul studied me with eyes that stripped me bare.

I lifted my chin higher. If this was to be my battlefield, then I would bleed with dignity.

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @tikitsune , @honeydrzzldpeaches , @specklesreid , @gojoswaterbottle , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @vivian-555 , @ough-rogue , @d4wnl1ght-x-l @senatorpadmeamidala, @dhazefawn , @chiizuluvr , @kermits-bitch , @strawbrysapphic , @thejokersfavouritecrowbar , @anotherbook-obsessedhoe , @crutoyu , @adeptusxia0 , @morganblues , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @niccocia , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST

The olive trees beyond the balcony swayed beneath the evening wind, their silver leaves hissing like a thousand whispers. From here, the horizon burned with the setting sun, draping the palace in firelight. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like a funeral pyre.

Inside, my mother’s voice cracked against the stone walls, harder than the wind, harder than the grief gnawing at my chest.

“You will not throw away centuries of peace for pride.”

Her words landed like arrows, sharp and commanding. She spoke not as my mother, but as my queen—the general who had once led spartans into battle.

My hands curled into fists at my sides. “You ask me to marry a man I do not know. A man whose armies pressed at our borders only months ago. You would make me a pawn, Mother, and call it sacrifice.”

Her eyes flared, and for a heartbeat I saw the warrior beneath the silks of court. “This is not about you.” Her voice softened only slightly, as though it cost her to do so. “It is about Sparta. About our people. About every child who will never bleed in battle if you agree to this union.”

The words should have struck me with conviction. Instead, they hollowed me out.

I turned toward the balcony, toward the banners of my homeland, blood-red and proud, snapping in the wind. The stones beneath my feet were soaked with the history of my people, carved with their blood and their names. To leave these walls—to leave Sparta—was a punishment crueler than death.

But I had seen what she had seen: the black banners of Al-Ghul, swelling like storm clouds at the edge of the East. Whispers of desert kingdoms rising, swallowing smaller empires whole. And I knew—gods help me, I knew—that Sparta, strong as it was, could not stand alone forever,not against the caliphate.

I forced my voice to remain steady. “If I go, I do not go alone. I take with me my maid, my sister in arms, my dearest friend.”

My mother’s head inclined, the steel in her gaze softening by degrees.

At the sound of her name, the straightened where she stood at the chamber’s edge, her chin lifted, her eyes defiant in the firelight. She had bled beside me, trained beside me, shared laughter in stolen moments of freedom. If I was to be caged in a foreign palace, she would be my tether to the self I refused to lose.

“So be it.” My mother’s voice dropped lower, as though the queen in her had stepped aside and left only the mother. “May Ares guide your steps, my daughter. And may you find strength in what is to come.”

That night, silence filled my chambers—broken only by the rustle of fabric, the scrape of trunks being closed. My hands lingered on each thing I packed: my armor, polished though it would never see battle again; the scrolls of philosophy I once pretended to enjoy; the ivory combs my mother had used in my hair when I was still a child. Relics of a life I was about to abandon.

My friend folded silks with more violence than necessary, muttering under her breath. “You should spit in their faces when you arrive. Show them you are no jewel to be displayed.”

A hollow laugh slipped from me, though my throat burned. “And if I do, you’ll be the one wiping their spit from my cheek.”

Her smirk was faint, but her eyes gleamed wet in the lamplight.

When the last of the trunks were closed, I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at the night fires of Sparta glowing beyond the balcony. Each flame a life I had sworn to protect. Each flame a reminder of what I was surrendering.

My hands curled tight in my lap, nails biting crescents into my palms.

“I do not know him,” I whispered into the dark. My voice trembled, but the truth rang bitter. “I do not want him.”

But my answer had already been given.

For my people.

For Sparta.

When dawn comes, I would ride east—toward a Sultan I neither trusted nor loved, and a fate that already tasted of chains. And with that I will secure stability for my people.

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @tikitsune , @honeydrzzldpeaches , @specklesreid , @gojoswaterbottle , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @vivian-555 , @ough-rogue , @d4wnl1ght-x-l @senatorpadmeamidala, @dhazefawn , @chiizuluvr , @kermits-bitch , @strawbrysapphic , @thejokersfavouritecrowbar , @anotherbook-obsessedhoe , @crutoyu , @adeptusxia0 , @morganblues , @xxdiaqiaoxx , @niccocia , (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST , ۩ — PREVIOUS CHAPTER

 TW: misogyny, harem gossip (WE LOVE YOU INAYA,WE SCREAM IN UNISON), loneliness, slow burn court intrigue

⸻🕌

The palace walls grew tighter with every passing hour.

Guarded halls. Whispering viziers. Jason Todd’s shadow at every turn. Damian’s order—his leash—still rang in my ears: The Sultana does not leave the palace.

So I wandered, silk skirts brushing marble floors, searching for cracks in my gilded prison. My wound ached, my pride more so.

It was in the gardens that I found her.

Inaya.

She sat cross-legged beneath the shade of an olive tree, a silver pitcher of sherbet at her side, her veil loose and her eyes half-lidded with boredom. She looked up when I approached, and to my surprise—smiled.

“Sultana,” she said warmly, shifting her skirts so I might sit beside her. “Have you escaped the throne room too?”

I eased down onto the grass, grateful for the respite. “Escaped? No. Banished, perhaps. My husband thinks the palace walls will protect me.”

Inaya’s laugh tinkled like bells. “Ah, so he has finally done to you what he has done to us all. Welcome, sister.”

Her words were pricked, but her smile was soft, sincere. For the first time since stepping into this palace, I felt… not alone.

We sipped the sherbet in silence for a while. Then, casually, Inaya leaned closer, her dark eyes glinting with mischief.

“Tell me, Sultana,” she whispered. “Has Malika shown you her peacock dance yet?”

I blinked. “…Peacock dance?”

Her grin widened. “Of course not. She saves it only for Damian. Swears it is his favorite. She thinks if she sways her hips long enough, he will forget every other woman in the harem. Obsessed, that one. She would climb into his shadow if she could.”

I couldn’t help it—a laugh burst from my lips. I quickly stifled it with my hand, but Inaya’s laughter joined mine, bright and unrestrained.

“She nearly fainted last month when he ignored her at supper,” Inaya continued, delighted. “I thought she would throw herself into his lap just to force his gaze. You should have seen her face when he walked out without a word.”

I smirked, the image delicious. “Perhaps I should encourage her. Let her dance herself into exhaustion. It would spare me his temper.”

We dissolved into laughter again, and for a brief, shining moment, the palace walls did not feel like a cage.

⸻🕌

That night, restless, I wandered. My feet carried me past darkened courtyards, the glow of lanterns, until the scent of spice and roasted lamb drew me toward the kitchens.

Inside, warmth embraced me—the crackle of fire, the hiss of oil, the steady rhythm of a knife against wood.

Ali, the palace chef, looked up from his work. His beard was streaked with grey, his broad hands sure and practiced. He blinked in surprise, then bowed.

“Sultana. Forgive me—I did not expect… well, anyone at this hour.”

I waved the formality away. “Please. Do not bow. I only wished for air. And perhaps… company that does not bow every second word.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Then you have come to the right place.”

He poured tea without asking, sliding a steaming cup toward me. I sank onto a wooden stool, grateful.

“You are far from home,” Ali said gently. “And yet you carry yourself as though you built this palace yourself. My Maryam would call you a lioness.”

“Maryam?”

“My daughter. Six years old. She insists on helping me knead the bread. Someday, she swears she will be my apprentice. I tell her the bread will rise faster if she lets it be—but she does not listen.”

His smile was fond, his voice warm with a father’s pride. Something inside me cracked. For a moment, I thought of my own mother, my homeland, the weight of everything I had surrendered.

“She is lucky,” I whispered. “To have you.”

He studied me for a long moment, then set a gentle hand against his chest. “And you, Sultana, are not alone here,we might not be sparta,but we are as nice as them. Should you ever need a friend, or a father’s ear—my kitchen is yours.”

My throat tightened. I sipped the tea to hide it, the heat burning my tongue.

“Thank you,” I managed.

And for the first time since my arrival, I believed it.

⸻🕌

When I returned to our chambers, the fire was low. Damian was at the desk, sleeves rolled, quill scratching furiously over parchment. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“You were gone,” he said flatly.

I bristled. “To the kitchens. Not the city, not the festival. The kitchens.”

Finally, his gaze lifted, sharp as a blade. “You think I am paranoid.”

“I think you are a gaoler,” I shot back.

The quill snapped in his fist. Ink bled across his fingers as he tossed it aside. In two strides he was before me, his presence heavy, his breath taut.

“You make light of arrows and blood,” he hissed. “But if they had struck true—”

“They did not.”

“By God, woman, do you wish to test fate until it does?”

I met his fury with steel. “Why do you care? You have a dozen women to warm your bed. Malika would throw herself upon your sword if you asked for it.”

His jaw locked, his nostrils flared—but for once, he did not lash back. He only stared, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Finally, with a ragged breath, he turned away. “Sleep,” he said hoarsely. “Before I chain myself to silence.”

He dropped into the chair again, shoulders taut, his back to me. The scratch of parchment filled the silence. I lay stiff for a long moment, staring at his broad frame silhouetted by lamplight.

“You always complain of me being late to our chambers,” I said at last, voice edged with dryness. “And yet you are always writing. What is it today?”

For a moment, I thought he would ignore me. Then Damian exhaled heavily, setting the quill down. His hand dragged across his face, weariness etched deep into it.

“The borders,” he muttered. His emerald eyes flicked to the map sprawled across the desk, ink stains smudged where his quill had snapped. “The south is restless. Caravans attacked. The eastern routes—weak. I do not know what else to do to reinforce them. Every knight I move leaves another gap.”

There was no anger in his voice. Only exhaustion.

I hesitated, then rose, my bare feet brushing the carpets as I padded closer. The map stretched wide beneath the lamplight—mountains like jagged teeth, rivers like veins, red lines marking danger.

I leaned over the desk, the silks of my sleeve brushing his arm. He stiffened, startled at my closeness, but I ignored it.

“You send cavalry here,” I murmured, pointing to the eastern trade route. “But the terrain is all stone and narrow passes. Horses will falter.”

His gaze slid to me, sharp but curious.

“Foot soldiers,” I continued, tracing the pass with my finger. “Spartans never trusted cavalry in stone. Infantry can hold this line far better. And here—” My nail tapped a curve of the river. “Build an outpost. Not grand, not costly. Just high enough that your men see movement before it reaches the border.”

Silence stretched. I glanced at him, half-expecting mockery. Instead, Damian’s lips curved—not into a smirk, but into something quieter, almost unreadable.

“You think like a general,” he said softly.

“I was raised by one.” My throat tightened with memory. “My mother put a spear in my hand before I learned to braid my own hair.”

His eyes lingered on me. For once, there was no fury there. No battle. Only… thought.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me as though seeing me for the first time. “Perhaps,” he said at last, voice low, “this marriage will not be my ruin.”

Heat flared in my chest—anger, pride, something else I refused to name. I straightened, pulling back from the desk.

“Do not grow used to me saving your empire,” I muttered, retreating toward the bed. “I did not marry you to become your knight.”

A/N:I LOVE THE COLORS I CHOSE FOR THIS LAYOUT MUAHAHA GO READ ;'WHEN THE WATER MEETS THE SAND” by @gothamwing FOR A PARALLEL STORY/POV OF THIS LONGFIC TUGVISRFI LOVE HER WRITING

۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST , ۩ — PREVIOUS CHAPTER

⸻🕌

“I see you’re rather happy today—for someone who’s been acting depressed all week.”

His voice reached me before his reflection did.

I paused mid-stroke, the brush caught in my curls as I lifted my gaze to the mirror. Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, posture deceptively loose. Watching. Studying. As if he’d been there longer than he wanted to admit.

“Excuse me?” I asked coolly, returning my attention to the mirror.

“Since when do you like Jason?”

The brush stilled again.

I blinked once. Then twice. Slowly. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, stepping farther into the room. The door clicked shut behind him, soft but deliberate. His tone sharpened, edged with something unmistakable. “Since when do you talk and laugh with my men in the kitchens? Alone.”

I turned on the stool to face him fully, one brow arching. “Good morning to you too.”

“Sultana,” he snapped, irritation flashing across his face. “Answer.”

I rose to my feet, smoothing my robe as if entirely unbothered. “I was helping him cook something,” I replied evenly. “For my friend. The one who almost died, in case you forgot.”

His gaze flickered—just briefly. Then hardened again.

“I see,” he said. “That explains why you spent nearly all noon and afternoon with him.”

There it was. The accusation dressed up as observation.

I laughed, soft and dismissive, though my heart thudded traitorously. “Are you jealous?”

His eyes darkened.

“At least he’s funny to be around,” I added sweetly. “And surprisingly gentle. A rare quality in this palace.”

Damian stepped closer, invading my space. “I am not jealous,” he said immediately. Too quickly. “And I am far funnier than he is.”

I looked him up and down, deliberately slow. “If you say so.”

Silence stretched between us, taut and crackling. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as if he were restraining something far sharper than words. Then his eyes flicked to my face—really looked at me.

“You look…” he began, then stopped himself.

I tilted my head. “I look what?”

Annoyed. Hesitant. Almost caught.

He cleared his throat and turned abruptly, irritation replacing whatever he’d almost said. “Get ready quickly. We’re having breakfast with my mother.”

I turned back to the mirror, but not before catching his reflection again. He was already at his wardrobe, pulling out a pristine white thobe, movements precise, controlled. The ease with which he said my mother unsettled me more than his jealousy ever could.

“You’re smiling,” he added without looking at me.

“So?” I replied lightly.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he said. Then, after a beat—quieter, almost begrudging—“But it… looks good on you.”

My fingers stilled on the vanity.

I met his eyes in the mirror. Just for a second.

“And you,” I said calmly, “look less unbearable when you’re bothered.”

He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

“I already know about breakfast,” I added, turning back to my curls.

“Good,” he said, voice clipped again.

Yet he lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary.

Watching.

⸻🕌 Breakfast with Talia al-Ghul was not a meal.It was a battlefield—one lined with porcelain plates, silver cutlery, and smiles sharp enough to draw blood.

She sat at the head of the table like a queen carved from patience and poison, her back straight, her presence absolute. Talia al-Ghul did not need a crown to command a room. The servants moved around her as if pulled by gravity, careful, reverent, afraid. Her dark eyes flicked between her son and me with an amused precision that made my spine prickle.

“So,” she said lightly, lifting her cup as if we were old friends sharing idle gossip, “I hear my son has finally learned to listen.”

Damian groaned. Actually groaned. “Mother—”

“To his wife,” she added sweetly, her gaze slicing toward me. “A miracle, really.”

I met her eyes and smiled thinly, politely. The kind of smile you wear into war. “I do try to be persuasive.”

Talia laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained hum of amusement.

She laughed—rich and genuine, echoing slightly through the chamber.

“Oh,” she said, studying me anew. “I like her already.”

Damian muttered something under his breath and stared intensely into his tea as if it had personally betrayed him.

“And how are you finding married life, Sultana?” Talia continued, spearing a piece of fruit with elegant precision. “My son has always been… difficult.”

“That’s one word for it,” I replied smoothly, buttering my bread with careful calm.

“Cold?” Damian cut in. “You could say cold.”

I shot him a warning look. Talia merely hummed in approval.

“Good,” she said. “Then you won’t bore each other.”

She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, posture relaxed—too relaxed. This was the stance of a woman who knew she had already won something. “So,” she continued, voice deceptively gentle. “Grandchildren.”

Damian choked on his drink, coughing violently as a servant rushed forward in alarm.

“Mother,” he snapped once he could breathe again. “Absolutely not.”

I pressed my napkin to my lips, barely managing not to laugh.

Talia’s gaze slid to me, sharp and knowing, as if she were weighing my soul. “In time, of course. But empires need heirs.”

“Your empire,” I said calmly, meeting her stare without flinching, “has only just survived an assassination attempt.”

“And children,” she replied without blinking, “are the best answer to fear.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, reverent.

Damian’s jaw tightened. My hands stilled.

The rest of breakfast passed in a haze of polite smiles, honeyed words laced with veiled threats, and Damian glaring at the table like it had personally conspired against him. When it was finally over and I was dismissed, I exhaled as if I’d escaped a cage—one gilded, perfumed, and very nearly deadly.

⸻🕌

They let me see her that afternoon.

Finally.

I didn’t wait for permission.

I ran.

My skirts tangled around my legs as I rushed through the corridors, ignoring the startled looks of servants. I burst into the chamber and found her propped up against pillows, color slowly returning to her face, though she still looked far too small in the bed. Fragile. Breakable.

When her eyes opened and found mine, she smiled weakly.

“Sultana,” she whispered.

I was at her side in seconds, gripping her hand like I might anchor her to this world through sheer will. “You absolute fool,” I breathed, tears blurring my vision. “You scared me half to death.”

She winced faintly. “Worth it?”

I laughed through the ache in my chest, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “Never do that again.”

A presence shifted near the doorway.

Jason stood there, arms crossed, posture guarded—but his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. Not a knight. Not a weapon. Just a man who had almost lost something.

He nodded once. Respectful. Quiet.

“…Thank you,” I said after a moment, my voice steadier than I felt.

“For what?” he asked.

“For not letting her die.”

His jaw tightened. “I won’t let it happen again.”

I believed him.

For the first time since arriving in this palace—since being buried beneath silk, suspicion, and whispered threats—I felt something settle in my chest.

⸻🕌

The gardens were quiet in that rare, fragile way that only existed between obligations.

Sunlight filtered through the carved arches, scattering gold across marble paths and beds of jasmine. I had kicked off my slippers, letting the cool stone kiss the soles of my feet as I sat beneath a fig tree, skirts pooled around me like spilled ink.

Inaya sat beside me, knees drawn to her chest, a piece of fruit balanced in her palm.

“So,” she said casually, biting into it, “is it true the Sultan scowls in his sleep?”

I choked on my laugh. “He what?”

She grinned, delighted. “Malika swears he frowns like he’s at war with his own dreams.”

I covered my mouth, laughter spilling out anyway. “That explains so much.”

Inaya laughed too, bright and unrestrained. It startled me how easy it was with her—how natural. No titles. No measured words. Just warmth.

“You know,” she said after a moment, softer now, “I thought you’d be… different.”

I raised a brow. “Worse?”

“Colder,” she admitted. “Or cruel. Court stories tend to do that to women in power.” She shrugged. “But you’re kind. And brave. Reckless, but—”

“—charming?” I offered.

She smiled. “Infuriatingly so.”

We laughed again, shoulders brushing. I told her about the kitchens, about Ali’s scolding and Maryam’s flowers. She told me about growing up in the southern provinces, about dancing barefoot in the dust before silk and jewels replaced freedom.

For a moment, I forgot I was a Sultana.

I forgot I was watched.

Then the laughter faded—not because it ended, but because it thinned, like air before a storm.

Inaya’s smile faltered first.

I followed her gaze.

Across the garden, half-hidden behind a column wrapped in ivy, Malika stood perfectly still. Silk clung to her form like a second skin, jewels heavy at her throat. Her expression was carved from something sharp and poisonous, dark eyes fixed on me with naked disdain.

Not anger.

Possession.

Her gaze slid briefly to Inaya, then back to me—assessing, measuring, resenting.

I felt it then, that familiar tightening in my chest. The reminder.

This palace does not allow softness without consequence.

Inaya straightened subtly, her laughter gone. “She’s been watching you more often,” she murmured. “Since the ball.”

I didn’t look away from Malika. “Let her.”

Malika’s lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.

A promise.

And as she turned and disappeared into the colonnade, I knew this quiet moment in the garden had already been marked.

Not for peace.

۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST , ۩ — PREVIOUS CHAPTER

⸻🕌

The palace had gone quiet since the poisoning. Not the peaceful kind of quiet— the heavy, aching kind that presses down on every corridor and turns every word into an echo.

Even the servants whispered softer when I passed.

I hadn’t stepped into the maid’s chamber in five days. The physician had forbidden it—said she needed to rest, that excitement could worsen her recovery. But how was I supposed to rest when half my soul was sealed behind that door?

I spent most mornings staring at the balcony, the light spilling uselessly across the marble. Damian and I still shared a roof, a throne, a kingdom—but not words. Not since that night.

He still dined across from me. Still looked like a Sultan carved from stone and duty. But our meals had turned into ritual—one silence offering another.

Sometimes, I’d hear his chair scrape against the floor as he left before I finished. Sometimes, I’d be the one to leave first. We had turned avoidance into an art.

That afternoon, Ali came in, a small clay bowl in his hands. His daughter, Miriam, followed, half-hiding behind his legs. The little girl’s hair was tied in uneven braids, and she held a handful of garden flowers—wild, mismatched, beautiful.

“My Sultana,” Ali bowed, placing the bowl on the low table beside me. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten since morning,” he countered gently. “Not even the dates from the kitchen.”

Before I could answer, Miriam slipped forward. She climbed onto the couch beside me and laid the flowers in my lap.

“For you,” she said shyly. “Baba said they make people feel better.”

The scent—sweet, wild, alive—hit me like a memory. The garden, the fallen petals, the trail that led me to my maid. My throat tightened.

“Thank you, Miriam.” I brushed her hair back. “They’re lovely.”

She smiled, missing one front tooth. Ali exhaled softly, grateful, and bowed again. “Try to eat, my Sultana. Even sorrow needs strength.”

He left us, and I stared at the untouched bowl. Steamed rice and roasted lamb—her favorite dish, not mine. I forced a single bite anyway.

⸻🕌

Later, Inaya came. One of Damian’s concubines. She had always been kind to me in a quiet, careful way—too wise to play politics, too gentle to threaten anyone.

“You should rest, my Sultana,” she said, kneeling beside me with a tray of tea. “You haven’t slept.”

“Rest?” I laughed bitterly. “While she’s behind a door I’m forbidden to open?”

Inaya poured the tea without replying. She had the kind of patience that could shame a saint. When I finally looked at her, she smiled softly.

“She’ll wake soon. You’ll see her again.” Her voice was steady, like a promise. I wanted to believe her. I almost did.

⸻🕌

That night, Damian came to my chambers. I heard his boots before I saw him. I didn’t rise. I just kept looking at the lamp flickering on the table.

“You’re still awake,” he said quietly.

“So are you,” I replied, not turning.

He sighed. “You’re making everyone anxious.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Exactly,” he said, sharper now. “You’re not eating, not sleeping, not ruling. The servants say they hear you crying.”

I turned then, slowly. “Let them talk. Perhaps the rumors will make me human again.”

His jaw tightened. “You think being human is a weakness.”

“No,” I whispered. “I think it’s the only part of me I still recognize.”

He looked at me for a long time—too long. There was something raw behind his usual calm, and for a second, I almost saw the man beneath the crown.

Then he said, quietly but cruelly, “She’s alive. You’re acting as if she’s dead.”

The words cut deep. I stood, the chair scraping against the floor. “Don’t.”

“I’m trying to make you see reason—”

“Don’t you dare use that word with me,” I hissed. “You have no idea what I’ve lost.”

“You think I haven’t lost?” His voice rose, cold and sharp. “Every day I command men to die for this empire. You think your pain is greater because it’s personal?”

“It’s greater because I let it happen under my roof!”

The silence that followed was deafening. He looked like he wanted to say something—maybe even apologize—but instead, he turned away.

“Get some rest,” he muttered. “That’s an order.”

And just like that, he was gone again.

⸻🕌

The next morning, the palace woke to the sound of carriages. Talia had returned.

The Grand Sultana Mother entered the hall with her usual storm of attendants and perfume. Her voice echoed down the marble like silk wrapped in steel.

“I heard someone was poisoned,” she said, her eyes sweeping across the room until they found me. “Tragic. Terribly inconvenient for morale.”

I bowed my head, saying nothing. Damian, standing beside me, stiffened.

Talia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “And tell me,” she continued casually, “how fares the royal line?”

Damian blinked. “The… royal line?”

“Yes, my dear,” she said brightly. “A Sultan needs an heir, does he not?”

She gestured, and a servant stepped forward, presenting a small wooden box carved with silver vines. “For my future grandchild,” she said.

I frowned. “What is it for?”

Talia’s smile sharpened. “For my future grandson or granddaughter, of course.”

Damian choked on his tea. The sound echoed absurdly loud in the silent hall.

Talia merely sipped her own cup as if nothing had happened. “I do hope you two find time between political catastrophes,” she added sweetly, “to think of legacy.”

My fingers tightened on the armrest, but I forced a polite smile. “Legacy requires stability, Your Grace.”

“Then you’d better find it quickly,” she said, turning toward the doors. “Before the palace finds it for you.”

And just like that, she left—her perfume lingering long after she was gone.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the fountains murmured. Somewhere far away, the maid slept in her chamber, breathing because fate allowed her to.

And beside me, Damian slept on his side of the bed—far enough that we could pretend not to notice each other, close enough that I could hear him breathe.

⸻🕌

The kitchen was almost empty by the time Jason burnt the syrup again.

The smell of scorched honey clung to the air, sweet and bitter all at once. I had come down here because I couldn’t sleep — not unusual lately — and found him standing by the fire with his sleeves rolled up, looking utterly defeated by a pan.

“You burnt it again,” I said, arms crossed.

He startled, nearly dropping the spoon. “I… yes. The syrup—”

“—can’t burn,” I finished for him, stepping closer. “You need to be careful.”

He nodded, silent, obedient in a way that didn’t suit him. Jason was all precision and control in battle, but here, with a pot of honey, he looked almost human.

I watched him start again, awkward but determined. “Why are you even making Pastelli?” I asked, suspicion lacing my tone. “You’ve never eaten it before.”

He hesitated. “It’s… a request.”

I frowned. “From who?”

He avoided my eyes. “Does it matter?”

It didn’t. Not really. But my mind supplied the answer before I asked. Of course. Her.

The realization came like a small spark in a dark room — and, strangely, it didn’t hurt. Not the way I expected.

“You’re making it for her,” I said softly. He looked up then, surprised.

I smiled despite myself, the first time I’d felt my face do it in days. “Get another bottle of honey,” I said, reaching for the ladle. “You’re hopeless at this.”

⸻🕌

We ruined five batches.

The kitchen filled with laughter, sticky counters, and the smell of caramelized sugar. Jason tried to follow my instructions, but his hands were too heavy, his patience too short. Each time the syrup crystallized too early, he muttered curses under his breath that made me laugh harder.

By the sixth attempt, the syrup was perfect — golden, fluid, obedient. We mixed it with the sesame seeds and poured it into the molds. When it cooled, I took a bite.

It was imperfect. Uneven. A little too sweet. But it tasted like Greece. Like training mornings and sun-warmed fields and simpler times before I learned that loyalty could bleed.

“She’ll like it,” I murmured.

He glanced at me. “You think so?”

“I know so.” I looked down at my hands — still stained with honey — and smiled faintly. “And maybe… I needed this too.”

Jason said nothing, but his expression softened. It was the first time I’d seen kindness in his eyes that wasn’t bound to duty.

⸻🕌

Later, when I returned to my chambers, I couldn’t sleep again. I kept thinking about the smell of honey and the feel of warm sesame between my fingers.

At some point, I must have dozed off, because when I woke, the faint morning light was spilling through the window. Something glimmered on the table beside me — a small golden plate.