[ 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...
Oops! Această imagine nu respectă Ghidul de Conținut. Pentru a continua publicarea, te rugăm să înlături imaginea sau să încarci o altă imagine.
SHAHRAZAD'S FACE BLOOMS WARM SHADES, like the kind of sun that sets kingdoms afire. She quietly pushes her disarrayed hair behind her ears, lashes averting in blinking flutters.
He'd had the slyest grin curving his lips as he dragged a hand through his hair, whispering that he would return thereafter.
But she had simply leaned behind, flushing into crimson hues as she dreamt of malicious eyes and hushed feelings.
Even as she eases herself from the humming in her bones, the softest smile cuts into her cheekbones.
There is the dull ache in her heart, between her veins repeating that nothing will be the same again. It is the fear that all tomorrows will weave into sorrows.
She touches her lips, like sunlight on her fingertips.
The Queen wonders, rethinking the events leading up to chaos. She had stormed into the marble palace, dagger entrusted in her hands, and instead, blossoms wreath in her heart. Somehow, she realises that she has stabbed their back.
She has defied the rebels, the rebellion, and her baba.
Her father, the man behind the crafted tales on her silver tongue, the guideline after her mother's death. He had dedicated the dreary years of his life to bring justice to the people, under the gold tinted mask of serving the King.
And she has admitted smatterings of darkness into her soul.
Shahrazad fails to comprehend the moment their nightly encounters ceased to be about her death and the dawn. It rippled into fragile moments under dimming stars and him.
As the morning light sweeps golden strands into her eyes, flashing in thousands, she reconsiders.
Hesitantly, she peeps past the large mahogany doors, raising a mincing brow at the multiple guards stationed outside for her safety. They step to the side lines when she leaves, averting their gazes.
Even as her footfalls reach the end of the hallway, she hears the rushing whispers, "How is this Malika still alive?"
She stills. She stills, because it reminds her that there have been a thousand before her, a thousand women, a thousand daughters.
Her palm rests against the railing momentarily, grasping it in her grip, thoughts fraying.
"Malika," Anwar hisses from the bottom of the perpetually extensive staircase, his expression pallid, "May I have a word?"
Nodding, Shahrazad traces her steps downward, glancing around. "What is it?"
His words are strained, and he ushers her into the stables, dodging the plethora of guards-- the more so than usual, almost as if the Caliph expects an outbreak.
"There is hardly any time for an explanation, but Afshar wants to meet you in person."
She is positive her heart has halted. "He-- why would he suddenly want this?"
