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Al-Haitham dislikes doing chores, specifically those of others. Their work is sloppy, with clothes being folded carelessly and items placed in inappropriate locations. It makes more work for him, mumbling as he returns everything to its rightful place, ignoring how the other servants snicker. He knows they’re doing this intentionally—lazily—and performing horribly. Things would get done much faster if they did it right the first time.
As the heat of Sumeru beats down on his back, Al-Haitham pauses and wipes the sweat from his brow before dipping the clothes back into the water. He peeks over his shoulder, watching some servants gossip, laughing before returning to his work. Even if it is a ridiculous amount of clothes to clean, he can’t be bothered to ask. Somehow, they would find a way to abandon their chores.
Just as the remaining clothes are washed, another servant comes out with another basket of clothes. “We missed these. Could you help us out and do them for us?” He doesn’t miss how she bites back a laugh, but says nothing, taking the clothes. The girl prances off, joining the other girls. From this distance, he can hear the girls talk about a ball held in the city, how a prince would choose a bride to be his queen.
“I hear he’s very strict. Wouldn’t it be nice to be a queen? We wouldn’t have to do chores anymore,” one girl says.
“That’s if the lord of the house will let us,” another girl snorts, stretching out her long legs and lying on her side. “Oh, but what a dream it would be! I would wear so many pretty dresses every day,” she sighs dreamily.
Another girl laughs. “Ha! As if the prince would choose you of all people, Nazanin,” she teases.
Nazanin glares, folding her arms over her chest. “Do you think you have a better chance than the rest of us, Vasundhara?” she mocks. “You can’t even do your makeup properly. You look like you got punched in the eye.”
“How about I give you a matching one?” Vasundhara snarls.
“Girls,” comes a stern voice. The head servant stands, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes narrowed. “You ought to be finishing your chores. The laundry still needs to be tended to, and I see three lazy girls lazing about. None of you will attend if you aren’t done,” she warns.
Nazazin huffs, rolling her eyes. “But Miss Fukayna, we finished our chores for the day. Al-Haitham said he would take care of the rest,” she says.
Fukayna hums, turning her gaze to Al-Haitham. “Is this true?” she asks.
“Yes. I’m taking care of the rest of the laundry. They’ve finished for the day,” he lies. Rest assured, Al-Haitham is not doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He would much rather do everything right the first time than have to go back and redo it later.
The head servant stares longer, scrutinizing his face before clicking her tongue. “Very well,” Fukayna says, turning to the girls. “Stop engaging in pointless squabbles. If you are wanting to attend the ball, you will need to mind your manners.”
Once she leaves, the three girls share a look and roll their eyes. “She’s so uptight,” Nazanin complains.
Vasundhara laughs. “It’s no wonder she’s unwed. Could you imagine being married to a stiff like her?” she jabs. “Perhaps that will be your future, Nazanin: sad and alone.”
Nazanin stands up, grabbing Vasundhara by her forearm and dragging her across the field. “Oh, I’ll show you who will be sad and alone,” she bites out, ignoring how her colleague flails and scratches at her arm before shoving her into the small pond. She laughs when Vasundhara flails, sputtering, her makeup streaking down her face. “Now, who looks pathetic?” she jeers.
“You!” Vasundhara shrieks, launching out of the water and tackling Nazanin. They tussle while the other servants shout at them to break it up, and a few of them run to grab the head servant. Al-Haitham says nothing. It’s none of his business, and he feels no obligation to come between them.
Just as he hangs the last article of clothes, Fukayna appears with hardened eyes and a scowl on her face. She strolls past Al-Haitham and the surrounding girls, then rips Nazanin away from Vasundhara. “You!” she snaps, pointing at Nazanin. “Inside and to the servants’ quarters.” She then turns to Vasundhara with the same icy look. “And you—to the infirmary. Do not leave until I’ve talked to the both of you.”
Both girls obey, shooting each other dirty glares before disappearing inside. Fukayna faces the surrounding girls, her hands on her hips. “And what are the rest of you doing?” she hisses. “Move, or I’ll have you join them,” she threatens.
The other servants resume their chores, falling into an eerie silence, occasionally exchanging glances. Al-Haitham finishes his chores and returns the basket inside, grateful that he has some free time to skim the master’s library and flip through a few books he’s been eyeballing.
As the morning sun sets and the other servants finish their chores, Al-Haitham remains tucked into a corner in the library, surrounded by a mountain of books as he flips through the aged pages. It’s a story about a god falling in love with a priestess. A little sappy and cliché, but the storytelling was excellent, and he couldn’t put it down.
“Al-Haitham? I know you’re in here,” comes a familiar voice. There’s a loud thud with a sharp yell that follows; Al-Haitham snorts and flips to the next page.
“Near the back. Do mind your step. I would rather not clean up your messes,” Al-Haitham hums.
His oldest (and only) friend, Kaveh, huffs, rounding the corner with his hands on his hips. “You do know they’re serving dinner now? I swear you would die in this library if no one bothered to check on you,” he says.
Al-Haitham flips to the next page, never looking up. “Well, it’s a good thing I have you here, now, is it, Senior?” he hums.
“I’ll let you starve,” Kaveh threatens.
“You wouldn’t do that. I’m your only friend here,” Al-Haitham points out, gesturing to the spot on the floor.
Kaveh huffs but joins Al-Haitham and his mountain of books. “Oh, that’s not true. I have plenty of friends like Nazanin,” he says.
“The girl who steals your makeup and never replaces it?” Al-Haitham questions with a raised brow.
“It was a one-time thing! She can be great when she’s not picking a fight with Vasundhara—”
“Which is every day,” Al-Haitham interjects, dog-earring the last page and setting the book aside. “You have horrible taste in friends.”
Kaveh laughs, brushing his hair out of his face. “And what does that say about you since we’re friends? Does that mean you’re a bad friend?” he teases.
Al-Haitham ponders for a moment. “I am the exception. You still have abysmal taste,” he says.
Kaveh snorts. “Says you. They’re rather lovely people when you get to know them on a deeper level, as I have,” he states matter-of-factly. He then stands up, stretching out. “As much as I would love to stay and chat in your hiding hole, we should get dinner.”
With a nod, Al-Haitham follows him into the dining room, weaving through crowds of people and filling his plate. He sits with Kaveh, who waves and smiles at Nazanin. She comes over, pulling him in for a hug and kissing his cheek. “I thought you would have missed dinner. You wouldn’t believe the scolding I got from Fukayana,” she complains, plucking a berry from Kaveh’s plate and popping it in her mouth.
“Well, if you hadn’t picked a fight with Vasundhara, you could have avoided that,” Al-Haitham mutters, breaking off a piece of his bread.
Nazanin rolls her eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from you of all people,” she huffs. “Kaveh, I don’t understand how you can be friends with such a stiff. It’s no wonder that you and Fukayna get along so well.”
Al-Haitham says nothing but rolls his eyes, continuing to eat his dinner. He lacks the patience to engage in arguments or let situations escalate. Instead, he sits and silently eats, listening to Nazanin and Kaveh talk about the ball being held in a few days. It is said that Prince Cyno is seeking a bride, and all eligible women in the kingdom are invited.
Kaveh complains, wishing he could attend the ball as well. “You’ll have to tell me all about it,” he says. “Oh, let me do your makeup if you attend.”
Nazanin hums, finishing the last of her meal. “Of course, I’ll be attending. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I just need to buy the fabric to make a nice dress. I want to show up Vasundhara and charm the prince,” she grins. “Which do you think would look best on me: purple or teal?”
“Teal would suit your skin tone more, but I think a purple dress with gold accents would enhance your looks,” Kaveh says, going over the right aesthetics for Nazanin, how her hair should be styled, what makeup would suit her features best, all useless nonsense that Al-Haitham doesn’t care for.
He finds no need to get this excited over a dance with a prince. Of course, there are many benefits to marrying a prince, but Al-Haitham doesn’t see the point in getting overly excited. It is implausible that a prince of Cyno’s caliber would pick a servant.
“Al-Haitham, you should help me get ready for the ball,” Nazanin says. “Or maybe not. Kaveh tells me you have a terrible eye for fashion, but I have seen your handiwork. You have incredibly small stitches.”
Al-Haitham raises a brow. “What would I gain from helping you? I certainly wouldn’t want to put a target on my back, especially if Vasundhara catches wind of your plan. That’s a fight waiting to happen, and I would rather not get involved in the matter.”
“I’ll do your chores for a week,” Nazanin offers in a sing-song voice.
“Chores that I will have to correct and redo myself? I’ll pass.”
Nazanin huffs, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s just one small favor. There must be some way I can repay you?”
“You can start by not fighting with Vasundhara every chance you get,” Al-Haitham says. “Save us all the headache.”
With a roll of her eyes, Nazanin taps her fingers on the table. “It’s not my fault. She’s the one who starts the fights, not me,” she whines.
Al-Haitham frowns.
“Okay—maybe seventy-two percent, but I can hardly see how it’s my fault,” she mutters, folding her arms. “But if I stop picking fights, will you help me?”
“We’ll see,” Al-Haitham says.
Surprisingly, Nazanin has stopped picking fights with Vasundhara. Whenever the other girl starts pressing her nerves, Nazanin exhales and exits the conversation, busying herself with chores and talking to Kaveh. It’s a nice turn of events, and honestly, Al-Haitham is surprised she lasted this long.
As promised, Al-Haitham helps with preparations, taking the fabrics Kaveh and Nazanin have selected to start fashioning a dress. Kaveh stays with him the entire time, commenting on his technique.
“I didn’t know you knew how to sew. When did you have time to learn?” Kaveh asks one afternoon.
“My grandmother taught me before she passed,” Al-Haitham murmurs, spreading out another bolt of fabric. “She taught me a little bit of everything.”
They fall into silence; Kaveh just watches Al-Haitham, and he’s grateful for the quietness. His grandmother is still a sensitive subject, even after all these years. Thankfully, Kaveh never pries and lets him process and adjust at his own pace.
He steadily works, ignoring the dull pain in his fingertips with each prick of the needle, pausing to wipe his fingers so as not to stain the fabric. After a few rounds of pricking his fingers and wiping his hands, he finally finishes. He picks up the dress and holds it out to Kaveh, showing off the final product. “Now, tell me how it looks. You know Nazanin better than I do.”
Kaveh picks up the finished piece and looks it over, brushing his fingers over the delicate material with a low hum. “Good choice with a lower neckline and gold accents. It will complement her skin,” he murmurs before turning the dress around. The back is completely exposed, and the sleeves are long and translucent.
“It seems you have learned a few things from your senior!” Kaveh beams, setting the dress on the table.
“Yes, my senior has taught me many things,” Al-Haitham begins, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Like how not to blindly trust people and wear my heart on my sleeve.”
Kaveh sputters, spinning around and shoving an accusing finger in Al-Haitham’s face. “I do not trust people blindly, nor do I wear my heart on my sleeve! It’s not my fault that you’re so anti-social and haven’t got a single friend here,” he huffs.
Al-Haitham hums, stretching his cramped fingers. “Is it that I’m anti-social, or do I choose not to play nice with everyone who wants to be my friend?”
“I think you should be more sociable. I don’t understand how you haven’t gone mad yet,” Kaveh huffs, sitting on the edge of the table with his legs crossed.
“I’m content with the company I currently keep,” is his retort.
The blonde rolls his eyes playfully, dismissing him and sliding off the table. “I’ll tell Nazanin that her dress is ready and she should try it on so we can make any more adjustments,” he says.
So Al-Haitham is left to his own devices, sitting with his legs crossed and the dress draped across the table. While he is not the most sociable person, he wouldn’t mind attending the ball. There was no possible chance that he was eligible for marriage, but a change in scenery would be nice.
“Is it finished? I’m so nervous,” she says as she walks in with Kaveh, sitting beside Al-Haitham.
“We have to make some final adjustments, but for now, it’s finished,” Al-Haitham says, letting Nazanin get a better look at her dress. She fawns, running her fingers over the material. Kaveh helps her into the dress, slipping it over her head while she shimmies out of her tunic.
Kaveh hums, stepping back to examine her. “It’s a little loose around the waist. Maybe we could fix that?”
Nazanin spins around, enchanted by the billowing skirt. “I like it. Plus, Al-Haitham has already done so much for me. I really can’t thank you enough. I’ll be sure to pay you back.”
Al-Haitham makes a noise, but says nothing more. Nazanin continues to spin in her skirt, running her hands down her torso. It looks stunning on her, and Al-Haitham, while he would never admit this out loud, hopes she has a good time at the ball.
“I’m going to pick out a pair of shoes and jewelry to match,” Nazanin says, picking up her tunic. “Kaveh, come help me?”
“As long as you don’t insist on wearing those gaudy earrings. They hardly match any outfit you own.”
Nazanin pouts. “They are not gaudy,” she argues, “you just have bad taste. Al-Haitham, back me up here.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are they the big, triangular ones with a gem embedded in the center? If so, then I will be inclined to agree.”
“Rude—both of you,” Nazanin huffs. “I can make them work with an outfit. Just trust me on this.”
The entire estate is in disarray on the day of the ball. While some male servants help the women prepare, Nazanin stresses and paces the garden, chewing her nails.
“You’re overthinking things,” Kaveh says assuredly, getting her to sit on the bank of the pond, rubbing her shoulder. She lets out a defeated noise, slumping against the blonde. He reaches up, gently stroking her hair and offering a smile. “You look great. You should see yourself.”
“I’m just… what if I make a fool out of myself? I could never live with myself after,” she complains, massaging her temples. For days, she has been stressed, picking her cuticles, biting her nails, and chipping her nail polish. Each time, Kaveh has been right there (along with Al-Haitham), comforting her and telling her that everything would be alright.
Tonight is no different. She had been stressing about the ball, picking at her face, criticizing her appearance, before swiping her makeup off her small dresser, breaking down, sobbing into Kaveh’s arms, letting him pet her hair. She had ruined her makeup three times, and Kaveh had to restyle her hair every time she made a fuss.
“Overthinking things will only make things worse,” Al-Haitham says, his eyes never leaving the page. “You’ll only make a bigger fool of yourself if you keep stressing over everything.”
Nazanin sighs, playing with her golden bracelets. “You’re right. It’s just… my nerves,” she mumbles.
“You’ll be okay,” Kaveh says gently, rubbing her shoulders. “You leave in a few minutes, right? Just try to take a few breaths, and I’ll walk you out to the carriage. Just make sure not to sit next to Vasundhara. That’s a fight waiting to happen.”
She snorts, wiping her tears away. “You’re right. I just need to clear my head first,” Nazanin says, standing up. Kaveh follows, telling Al-Haitham he’ll be back before he notices. Al-Haitham nods, waving them off, and continues reading, comfortable in the soft patches of grass.
This is the most alone time he’s had in a few weeks, and Al-Haitham savors every moment of it, reaching down and unbuckling his sandals, setting them aside, and crossing his legs. He can hear the eagles above him, letting out a series of high-pitched whistling. He pays them no mind, occasionally glancing up before returning to his book, too sucked in to notice one stray eagle flying too low. It swoops down, snatching one of Al-Haitham’s sandals before soaring into the air.
“Hey!” Al-Haitham snaps, dropping his book. The eagle is too far for him to chase and too high in the sky for him to coax the bird back down. He sighs. Of course, something like this would happen to him of all people. He looks at his remaining shoe and then at his bare feet.
Well, he’s glad the grass around the estate is soft.
Prince Cyno sits on his throne, rubbing the ring around his finger, gazing at the seemingly endless sea of maidens. He smiles, playing his part with polite bows and small talk before redirecting the single girls to the dance floor to mingle and chat as he introduces himself to yet another woman. They are attractive, he will admit, but this all seems pointless.
“Prince Cyno,” his friend, Nilou, says, approaching his throne with a curtsey. “How is the ball?”
“Lady Nilou,” Cyno returns, gesturing to the empty throne beside him. He senses her hesitance, seeing how her smile wavers and her throat bobs. “It’s alright. If anyone causes a scene, I’ll have them escorted out. You’re one of my closest friends, and I would appreciate your company for the evening.”
“People will get the wrong idea,” Nilou argues. “And I’ve already drawn too much attention to myself these past few weeks.”
Cyno shrugs. “Let them talk. The crown protects you.” Again, he gestures to the empty seat, and this time, Nilou doesn’t argue and sits beside him with her legs crossed and her hands placed in her lap. “How are things with you and Lady Layla? I’ve noticed you two have grown rather fond of each other.”
She flushes, her cheeks a dusty rose. “Oh, things are progressing well. We've started living together, and she attends my shows even when she’s tired,” Nilou smiles.
“I’m happy for you two,” Cyno smiles. He can hear the people around him whispering, their eyes darting from the prince to Nilou. She visibly wilts in her seat, twisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands. Gently, he touches her hand, his smile never faltering. “Ignore them. Let them talk to their heart’s content.”
“It’s still… upsetting,” Nilou murmurs. “I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
Cyno shrugs. “People will talk regardless. Let’s just enjoy tonight,” he says.
They continue to talk, only pausing when a woman approaches the throne and bows to the prince, introducing themselves before disappearing back to the dance floor. An advisor whispers to Cyno, suggesting he entertain the rest of his guests. It’s the last thing he wanted to do, but Cyno fulfills his duties, rising from his seat and telling Nilou they would talk another time. He makes his way to the dance floor, taking the hand of the first woman who approaches him, offering her a dance. It’s nice, and Cyno does have fun, but he has no interest in her.
As he pulls away from her, thanking her for a lovely time, another woman approaches him with her hand extended. Not wanting to be rude, Cyno takes her hand and dances with her as well, one hand resting on her trim waist, guiding her through the next song. Her attempts at flirting with Cyno are adorable. He only smiles, acknowledging her attempts, but does not reciprocate her feelings.
The minutes feel like hours, time blurring as he dances and talks with women from his and neighboring nations. They are charming women, he cannot deny that, but he feels nothing for them.
Excusing himself from the dance floor, Cyno steps outside and sighs, leaning over the railing, staring out into the city. It’s all beautiful, a gem sparkling in the moonlight. A part of him yearns to escape his party and venture into the city, to experience a commoner’s life for a moment, and escape his duties as the crowned prince. Just once, he would like to be ordinary; not a prince, not an influential diplomatic figure, but simply Cyno.
“Cyno?” Nilou says from behind, joining his side and gazing off into the city. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed,” Cyno sighs. “The party is too much. My court insisted that I find a bride and sire a child.”
Nilou frowns, touching his hand. “Is that not the future you desire?” she asks.
“I wish to be the master of my own fate. I want to marry when I feel it is right. I am still young,” Cyno explains. He wants to explore, travel, and see the world. He wants to experience more than life behind the palace’s walls. A sigh escapes him, and Cyno slouches over the railing. “I envy you, Nilou. You have far more freedom than I will ever.”
“We could always sneak out. The guards aren’t paying attention, and I know a secret path,” she offers with a smile, taking Cyno’s hand. He doesn’t protest, allowing his friend to drag him away from the palace, away from the suffocating duties as the prince. The sound of music and laughter grows distant the further they get away. Cyno feels his heart racing as he enters the courtyard, his excitement growing.
The night air is crisp against his flushed skin. Cyno lets out a sigh of relief, his body more relaxed as they sit on the water fountain. It’s not too far from the palace, but it’s better than being swarmed every time he’s not entertaining his guests. He would much rather be in his room, sorting through his favorite cards, than dancing and drinking.
“It’s beautiful outside,” Nilou sighs, staring up at the stars.
“It is,” Cyno agrees. murmurs in agreement. They stare at the stars; Nilou laughs at Cyno’s ridiculous and corny jokes; he listens attentively as she talks about the new production she and the troupe are preparing for the summer festival.
Just as they are about to leave, an eagle swoops overhead, dropping something from its talons. Cyno catches it, staring at the object. It’s a golden sandal, bigger than his feet. He raises an eyebrow, looking to the sky, but the eagle is gone. “How… odd,” he mutters.
Nilou practically leaps for joy. “This is a sign!” she declares. “Eagles are symbols of love. Cyno, you have to find the owner of the shoe!”
Fate works in such strange ways. Cyno feels something stir inside his chest, a strong desire to seek out the owner. He never had an interest in marrying before, but now, he has to find this person. Standing up, he enters his palace and declares to the guests that he will seek out the owner of the shoe and marry them. People talk, whispering amongst themselves before Cyno returns to his chambers, ending the party early.
His court tries to tell him to think reasonably, that he must marry a princess within the month, but he ignores them, holding the sandal and locking himself in his room.
Nazanin runs up to Kaveh and Al-Haitham the next morning, carrying her breakfast before plopping down. “I hear that Prince Cyno is looking for his bride,” she says. “He’s traveling to each household and having the women try on a sandal that was dropped from the sky by an eagle.”
“Eagles do represent love,” Kaveh chimes in. “What are the chances that he will visit here?”
“He did say he would visit each home until he finds the one that fits the shoe,” Nazanin says, breaking a piece of her bread. “Last I heard, he hasn’t found a bride. Do you think any girl will be able to fit the sandal? I hope I can,” she smiles.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try,” Kaveh says. “What do you think, Al-Haitham? Do you think anyone here will fit it?”
Al-Haitham looks up from his book. “A very slim chance,” he answers.
“Party pooper,” Nazanin huffs, settling in the grass. “Come on, the sandal has to belong to someone. Wouldn’t it be funny if it belonged to someone here?”
It would be funny. The girls here haven’t stopped talking about how pretty the prince was and how he was determined to find the one who fit the sandal. That person would become his bride, and they would live in the castle with him. A life of luxury sounds nice, but Al-Haitham fears he would just be bored all the time. Not only that, but the responsibility of running a nation? No, thank you.
“Right this way, Your Highness,” Fukayna says, her voice cutting through the air. Al-Haitham shuts his book, watching as the head maid escorts a man dressed in expensive clothes.
“The Prince is here!” Nazanin exclaims, standing up and smoothing out her skirt. “Do I look okay? Is there anything on my face?”
“You look fine, Nazanin. You’re just overthinking,” Kaveh says. He then turns to Al-Haitham. “You’re joining us, right?”
Al-Haitham tucks his book under his armpit and pulls himself up. “I suppose I have no choice in the matter?”
Kaveh grins, “No, not in the slightest. I was going to drag you along, one way or another.”
“And you say I’m the one lacking manners.”
“Oh, quiet. It’s a one-time exception,” Kaveh argues.
“Now, where have I heard that before?”
Kaveh makes an indignant noise, swatting Al-Haitham’s shoulder. “You truly are the worst, I hope you’re aware of that!” he huffs.
Al-Haitham hums. “I’m sure you’ll remind me if I forget.”
“You are unbelievable.”
Fukayna clears her throat, interrupting their little argument. “I expect you all to behave better in front of His Highness," she says coolly.
Cyno smiles. “It’s no trouble at all, Miss Fukayna,” he says.
She hums and relaxes. “Of course, Your Highness.” She then turns to the three, holding out the sandal. “If you are not aware, Prince Cyno is looking for his bride. Whoever can fit the sandal will be his wife. Nazanin, you are the last girl. No one else has been able to fit the sandal.”
Nazazin sits in the grass, lifting her skirt and sliding the sandal onto her foot. Sure enough, it’s too big. Cyno frowns, his shoulders drooping. “This is the last house.”
“Perhaps we missed a girl, Your Highness,” one guard suggests. “We can search again.”
Cyno waves it off. “No, there’s no use. Our search ends here,” he says, taking the sandal from Nazazin.
“Your Highness,” Al-Haitham finally speaks up. “The sandal. May I see it?” he asks, holding his hand out. “I believe it’s mine.”
Fukayna frowns, stepping in front of Al-Haitham, blocking him from view. “Now, Al-Haitham, that is a rather cruel joke. I wouldn’t have expected this from you,” she says in a clipped tone. “His Highness is looking for a bride.”
He brushed her off, stepping around her, his hand still extended outward. “May I, Your Highness?” Reluctantly, Cyno hands it over, their hands brushing against each other. Al-Haitham toes off his shoe and slips his foot into the sandal, lacing the leather straps around his calf.
“It’s yours,” Cyno whispers. He drops to one knee, taking Al-Haitham’s hand. The smile on his lips is warm and welcoming. The two stay like that, staring at each other, drinking in the sight of one another.
The prince produces a ring from his pocket, sliding it over Al-Haitham’s index finger. “Will you marry me?” he asks.
Al-Haitham mulls it over, glancing over his shoulder at Kaveh and Nazinin, who are nodding and smiling. “Alright,” he says calmly. “I’ll accept your proposal, but I have one request.”
Sunlight streams into the room through rainbow-stained windows. Dancers welcome the couple in, musicians gathered around, beating their drums. A priest meets them at the altar and proceeds with the ceremony.
Each moment shared, each minute that passes, is a step toward their new life together. Cyno smiles warmly as they anoint each other with oil, smearing a thin layer across each other’s foreheads.
After the Blessing of the Crowns and the priest's admonition, they finally come together. Al-Haitham closes the gap between them, his warm palm cupping Cyno’s cheek. It’s strange how things turn out, but he’s not complaining.
“You can always commission a painting if you like staring at me,” Cyno teases.
Al-Haitham rolls his eyes. “I’m starting to think this marriage won’t work after all,” he hums.
“You’re stuck with me,” Cyno says smugly, showing off the golden band around his wedding finger. “We have witnesses, a marriage certificate, and you’ve already been named my husband.”
It’s true. They’re already married, having gone through every tradition, and have announced their marriage to the kingdom. Still, he doesn’t regret it. Al-Haitham cups Cyno’s cheek again, bending down to catch his mouth in a kiss. The prince returns with fervor, arms wrapped around Al-Haitham.
The crowd cheers, whistles, and claps as the couple continues to share a tender kiss. Fate had brought them together in the strangest way possible, but what a beautiful union they make.