Dead Girls Tell No Tales

t w e n t y - t w o

SHAHRAZAD WAS IN THE SIXTEENTH year of  the dull winter sun dancing across her skin when she first heard of him.

Alqatil, they whispered in the bazaars, killer.

He lounged beneath the shadows of the palace, revelling in the quiet slinking of blood, like ink on parchment. Tales of his maniacal tendencies rippled through every street, and every house, and daughters were hid, for they could be his next victim. Perenial fear was etched into the tired bones of the people, looming over them threateningly.

And as the spell of doom presently coils into the narrow passages, Shahrazad wonders if her heart is eluding her rationale. It hums in response, tugging the pit of her stomach in a cold, bottomless feeling of fighting with the cloak of menace hanging on her shoulders. 

She nervously rubs her elbows, eyes flickering towards the increasing number of guards. The Caliph is aware that a rebellion is brewing, and she cannot rid the eerie voices in her mind, the palpable notion that someone awaits her at the every turn of the stairs. 

"Malika, you are heading the wrong way."

Her bangles rattle in response to her startle, body curving into a feral position, finally composing herself with an unescaped breath. "You frightened me, Laleh."

The handmaiden's face is pained briefly, before assuming its usual montone. "How long will this go on, this state of absolute fear, Malika?"

Shahrazad sighs, long in thought.

While the defensives are in place with most of the members of the palace pledging themselves, the uncertainity of the rebel's attacks has clothed the walls in paranoia. A surprise infiltration, and the misplaced sense of information regarding the war coupled at once sags her proud shoulders. Afshar's contingent could take them at any point, perhaps at their most vulnerable.

The risk of slipping up at any moment claws at her throat. "We need to push them to attack us, bait them," she whispers, "and when they do, we will be waiting."

Laleh grasps her arm, fingers curling lightly without pressure to lead her further from the ears' of the guards. "But how?"

In her bearings, the spectacular foundations metaphorically have chips, cracks running along its foundation. Its impending domes seem to have shrunk, recoiling. "Where is Anwar?"

"Either grooming the horses," Laleh's quiet voice answers, "or practicing swordsmanship with the King."

The filtering sunlights cascades along their forms as they step outside, sweltering their dusky skin. Shahrazad pushes the hair from her face, tone harsh. "I will be going to the rebel camps."

Beside her, the handmaiden halts, facing her with a grimace. "While I do understand that the Malika is reckless, this is unacceptable."

"Hear me out," she mutters, placid.