[ WATTYS '18 LONG-LISTED ]
❝ I have slit throats far more beautiful than yours.❞
In which a thousand brides have fallen, and she is the last, so she spins a tale as old as time to live the dawn.
| an arabian nights x beauty and the beast crossover...
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IN HER NINETEEN WINTERS, SHAHRAZAD HAS NEVER been as trepid as tonight. She looks beautiful, like the moon, destined to die with the first glance of morning. Her obsidian spun hair has been brushed to perfection, detangled, and perfumed with rose scented water, the silks heavy against her dusky skin.
It seems peculiar to her that the king details presentation for someone he wishes to slaughter. Perhaps it is his manipulative lure, beckoning women with riches, only to have their blood staining his plush Persian rugs. He sits on a throne of blood and bones, after all.
The maid-in-waiting ushers her towards the mahogany doors that hold her fate, the room of nightmares wherein exactly a thousand daughters fell with dawn. Shahrazad braces herself for the monster that awaits, the glittery sash that settles on her hips suddenly constricting. She looks beautiful, but she wants to be deadly.
Fluttering her lashes, her hands clasp the intricately fashioned golden handles, breathing dipping as she pushes the doors open. The scent of hyacinths hits her nostrils first, followed by a strong gust of cold wind billowing the satin curtains. His back is towards her, and she fleetingly considers stabbing him with the dagger nestled within the folds of her robes.
No, she persuades her conscious rationally, analysing his broad shoulders. He could slit her throat before her fingers dare to grasp the hilt.
"Malika?" His voice slices the air, baritone richly gravelled in dirt and wrapped in velvet. He turns with a light swish of his robes against the marble floor, and Shahrazad looks at the man who has plunged the kingdom in terror.
She notices his eyes first.
Like Arabian sands, timeless, festooned in depth. Even under the pale moonlight, beautiful as his eyes are, they are cruel.
Shahrazad glimpses the ruthless king brimming under the facade of superficial features. It is noticeable, in the long, purposeful strides he takes, the tight fingers digging into her forearm. "I asked you a question."
"Khalifa," she says carefully, "I apologise but there was no need to answer something so explicitly obvious."
He battles her unperturbed glare, a sadistic smile curving his lips. Leaning forward, his forehead brushes the waterfall of curls cascading down her spine, he whispers, "You are begging for a death sentence, Shahrazad."
"I was made aware of that since the massacre of a thousand girls," she answers, tilting her head, abruptly caged in an odd angle of proximity.
The King's predatorial gaze sharpens, he steps behind, assessing her in a context he had shadowed before.
He could strike her any moment, cut her tongue for the heated impudence, and ensure that her promise to baba would perish to dust.
