The Prince and The Phantom Bride

The great hall of Galimar was a place designed to impress, to awe, to impress the will of those who entered beneath its high-arched ceilings. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, painting the marble floors with jewelled light. The scent of burning myrrh hung heavy in the air, and the distant trickle of water from an indoor fountain echoed softly against carved stone walls. Combined with the scents worn by the people in attendance, haoir oil and perfume, the entire room was spiced with scent.

Servants wove through the gathered men and women in their silk finery, holding silver platters of olives, figs, persimmon and wine free to those in attendance. Their subtle fragrances filled the air with hints of spices and fruits from across the kingdom, adding to the aroma in the room.

For Prince Khaled al Muzari, heir and acting ruler of Galimar, however, the grandeur was no balm. The banners of his house hung proud above the throne, crimson stitched with golden lions, yet he sat with the air of a man who looked as if he would prefer to be anywhere else. The perfumed air clutched at his throat, cloying and choking, while the circlet on his head weighed him down, pinning him in place.

Oh to be on the hunt, hawking or drinking with friends. He thought. Anything but to be surrounded by these poisonous old bores.

No crown graced his brow, only a circlet of gold, light compared to the weight of expectation it symbolized. He leaned back on the carved throne, drumming a finger against the armrest as Razoul al Fazir, one of the wealthiest merchants in the city, extolled the endless virtues of his caravans.

“…saffron from the high plains,” Razoul was saying, gesturing with jewelled fingers. “And cinnamon from distant isles, each worth more than silver by the ounce. My men risk the teeth of raiders and the fury of sandstorms to bring these treasures home. With your blessing, Prince, my household might act as permanent trade envoy, securing prosperity for Galimar and riches for your coffers.”

Khaled suppressed a sigh. Trade was necessary, yes. Prosperity was important. But his heart was not in treaties and tariffs. His pulse quickened for different things: the cry of a hawk stooping to its prey, the thunder of hooves across desert flats, the taste of freedom unbound by walls or councils.

Once, before his father’s illness had confined the old king to his chambers, he had lived like that; fierce, wild, laughing under the stars with companions and wine. But duty had found him, heavy and unrelenting. Now, day after day, he wore the mask of ruler while his spirit clawed at its cage.

“…glassware from the coastal lands,” Razoul continued, his voice smooth as oiled silk. “Clearer than spring water, coveted by sultans and emperors alike. If you wish it, Your Highness, the first shipments may adorn your tables within the week...”

Khaled’s eyes had glazed with disinterest. He let them wander across the chamber, taking in the guards standing to attention, the courtiers whispering at the edges of the room, the long train of Razoul’s servants and attendants waiting with bowed heads.

And then he saw her.

At the far back of Razoul’s entourage, half-concealed behind a guard’s broad shoulder and a servant balancing a basket of figs, stood a young woman. Her head was bent low, a scarf of faded green falling across her brow, but Khaled noticed the curve of her cheek, the quick dart of her eyes.

They met his, for the briefest instant only and the world seemed to still.

It was not merely that she looked at him. It was the way she looked at him: startled, yes, but not with fear alone. There was something else; longing, as though she had waited years for this single glance.

Khaled straightened imperceptibly on his throne. His blood quickened in a way that no caravan, no treaty, no banquet ever had.

The merchant’s voice droned on, but Khaled no longer heard him. His gaze was fixed, sharp as a hawk’s, on the figure half-hidden in the rear. She shifted, trying to shrink further into the shadows, as though hoping to make herself invisible. But she was already branded on his eyes, her image seared into his mind.

A shock of midnight hair shone from beneath the headscarf, the old material faded and worn but serviceable. Dark eyes dared to glance up at him, their gaze locking on his for an eternal moment. Framed by long, curled lashes, there was a haunted look to her eyes, a pleading need that broke on his soul like waves on the shore. Mocha skin, smooth as polished, light mahogany stretched over aa face containing the beauty he had only seen in statues and art.

The epiphany of beauty, her expression contained a sadness that clutched at his chest. An eternal misery that carved a hollow in his chest as if it was his own pain.

“You!” He cried, pointing.

The word left his lips before he thought. It rang clear across the chamber, cutting through Razoul’s practised flattery.

Heads turned. The courtiers hushed. Even Razoul faltered mid-sentence, blinking at the prince.

Khaled leaned forward, his dark eyes locked on the figure in green. Yet somehow he was unable to focus fully on her as if she were translucent or semi visible. It felt as if his eyes were turned from her but through force of will, he kept her in his sight.

“Step forward,” Khaled said in a calm but firm voice.

For a heartbeat, the hall was utterly still. Dozens of eyes turned toward the back of the merchant’s entourage, to where his gaze pierced the shadows.

Where she had stood, there was nothing. The space was empty. Figs balanced, guards in place, but no girl. His heart jumped, skipping a beat with a shock that brought prickling to his skin.

A ripple of confusion swept the chamber. Razoul turned in bewilderment, scanning his people. His hands fluttered nervously at his robes.

“My prince?” He asked, his voice breaking slightly.

Khaled rose from the throne, his cloak of scarlet and gold sweeping behind him. His gaze scoured the room, sharp and searching as annoyance clutched at him.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Forgive me, Highness, but… where is who?” Razoul asked swallowing hard.

“The girl,” Khaled said, his voice like a blade drawn in warning. “Green scarf, dark eyes. She was there a but a moment ago.”

The merchant turned to his attendants, but each shook their head, wide-eyed and pale. The guards shifted uneasily. None of them seemed to know of whom the prince spoke.

“I swear by the Gods, my lord,” Razoul stammered, “I know of no such girl among my company.”

Khaled’s jaw tightened, fury prickling beneath his skin. He did not suffer liars well, least of all in his own hall. Yet he could read the man’s face: bewilderment, fear, but not deceit.

Still, his pride was stung. He had seen her, he knew it and yet, before all these eyes, she had vanished as though the air itself had swallowed her whole.

With a sharp gesture, Khaled seized the quill from the clerk’s hand and scrawled his signature across the trade treaty. Ink spattered, thick and careless.

“Take your papers,” he said coldly to Razoul. “The matter is settled, my patience is not.”

Without waiting for a reply, he descended from the dais. His guards scrambled to follow as he swept from the hall, his cloak flaring like storm clouds behind him.

The courtiers whispered in his wake. Some with confusion, others with fear, and still others with sly amusement. But none dared speak too loudly for they had seen the fire in the prince’s eyes. A fire they had not seen there in many months.

Khaled did not slow his pace until he reached the palace courtyard. The air blew cooler here, touched by the breeze that rustled through tall date palms. A fountain bubbled at the centre, its spray catching the light like scattered gems. Normally, this place calmed him, reminded him of freedom beyond the marble walls.

Not today.

He stopped beneath the palms, his hands clenched at his sides. The guards hovered at a respectful distance, uncertain.

Finally, one of them — Jamil, captain of the watch — stepped forward cautiously. “Highness? Is all well?”

Khaled turned, his eyes hard.

“Did none of you see her?” He demanded in frustration.

The men exchanged uneasy glances, none of them willing to risk his rage.

“See… who, my prince?” Jamil asked carefully.

“The girl,” Khaled snapped. “Behind Razoul’s entourage, in green. She was there, she looked directly at me. Her eyes…” He trailed off.

The guards looked at each other, then back at him, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear, unused to their prince behaving this way.

“Forgive me, Highness, but… we saw only the merchant and his people,” Jamil said shaking his head slowly.

Khaled’s nostrils flared. Either they were blind, or something far stranger was at play. He ground his teeth, his pride refusing the possibility that he had imagined it.

I know what I saw. She was there. He thought, anger mixing with something else inside him. Something like sorrow.

Or need.

“Then what do I pay you for?” Khaled demanded. “What use are any of you if you do not spot the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. What if she had been there as an assassin?” He went on. “There to murder me or someone under my protection?” He asked, watching as Jamil shrank back from him. “Double the watch at the gates,” he ordered sharply. “No one leaves the palace without my command. If someone is playing games, I will have them. I will not be made a fool of in my own court!”

The guards bowed deeply, their voices overlapping in assent. Khaled swept past them, his boots striking hard against the marble as he strode toward his private chambers.

But no matter how far he walked, how fast, he could not escape her eyes.

Wide, startled, longing.

Eyes that would not let him rest.

Eyes that woke long forgotten feelings inside the depths of his soul.

The corridors of the palace swallowed him, lined with murals of Galimar’s victories, their painted heroes forever frozen in triumph. Once, Khaled had looked on those murals with pride. Today, he barely saw them.

He strode through passage after passage, courtiers flattening themselves against the walls as he passed. His pace was too quick, his shoulders too stiff, his expression thunderous. No one dared speak.

At last he reached his chambers and dismissed his attendants with a flick of his hand. Only when the heavy cedar doors closed behind him did he let the mask slip.

He began to pace, deep in thought, his mind whirling like a sandstorm.

The room was richly appointed. Silks from Merasia draped the walls, rugs from the east softened the stone beneath his boots, bronze braziers burned with fragrant oils. Khaled saw none of it. His mind consumed with thoughts of the girl and the image of her haunted eyes.

He stopped at the window, staring out over the city of Galimar. Its whitewashed domes gleaming in the sun, the river cutting a silver path through the heart of the city, boats laden with goods inbound while empty ones cut a path away to be filled and returned. Beyond the city stretched the desert, vast and endless, cruel and unyielding, its dunes rolling to the horizon.

Usually the sight stirred him, reminded him of the freedom he once knew. Today it felt like a cage; suffocating and closed.

“She was there,” he muttered, gripping the stone sill until his knuckles whitened. “By the gods, she was there.”

The memory of her eyes replayed itself again and again. The way they had met his, startled but unflinching. The way they had seemed to hold questions unspoken. And then, gone.

Did she slip away in the confusion? He wondered. Impossible, the guards would have seen her. Had she been smuggled in by Razoul for some odd purpose? But why would the man feign ignorance, knowing his life and business hung on my word?

Or. The thought needled at him, sending shivers over his skin. Was she a spirit?

He raked a hand through his hair, angry at himself for even considering it. Spirits lived in stories, fables told to children around the fire. He was a prince, raised on steel and reason, not superstition. And yet…

And yet, he could not shake the way she had vanished, the way she had

The hours passed slowly. Attendants brought trays of food, roast lamb, figs, spiced wine, but Khaled touched none of it. He paced, sat, rose again. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

When night finally fell, he lay on his bed, staring at the carved beams of the ceiling. The palace was quiet, save for the faint music of flutes drifting from the distant quarters of the servants. He craved sleep but his mind refused to rest.

He turned over the memory again and again, searching for detail. The scarf of green, worn and faded. The curve of her cheek, fine but not adorned with jewels or paint, not a noblewoman, then. The way her eyes had darted nervously, as though afraid to be seen while needing to be seen.

Then the way they had locked onto his.

It was not fear he had seen there. Not only fear. There had been something more, a hunger, almost, a reaching, a need.

Need for what? His mind demanded. Need to... What?

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes rubbing until random patterns and colours appeared.

“Who are you?” He whispered into the dark.

No answer came, of course. Only silence and the ceaseless echo of his own thoughts.

By dawn, Khaled was still restless, he rose before the servants came with breakfast and strode into the courtyard, the cool air biting his skin. He drew his sword and began to practice alone, the blade flashing in arcs as he struck invisible foes.

But his rhythm faltered and his focus slipped. Each time he brought the blade down, he saw not an enemy but the girl’s face, half-hidden by green cloth.

With a growl of frustration, he sheathed the weapon and stalked back inside.

The palace was alive with gossip. Courtiers whispered in corners about the prince’s sudden outburst in court. Servants traded tales of a girl no one else had seen. Some said Khaled had gone mad from the burden of rule. Others claimed he had seen a djinn, sent to test him.

Khaled heard the whispers and ignored them.

Let them think me mad, if they wish. He thought with indifference to them all. I know what I saw. And I will find her.

That evening, as the sun sank low and the priests sung their prayers, voices echoing across the city, Khaled stood once more at his window, blank stare unseeing. The sky burned crimson and gold and the desert shimmered with heat, a vast, endless sea of gold.

He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and made a vow.

“Whoever you are, spirit, woman, or phantom, I will not rest until I have found you. And when I do, I will know the truth.”

The wind stirred, carrying the scent of warm spice and hot sand. It whispered through the chamber like an omen, unseen fingers grabbing at him.

Khaled did not flinch. His eyes were steady, his jaw set.

For the first time in months, the prince of Galimar felt alive.

And though he did not yet know it, his life had already changed forever.