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BURHAN ABELHAMID'S JAW TIGHTENED SO hard he was certain he heard a bone in his face creak. His dark eyes were venomous as he watched from his bed—the bed of the Sultan of Al-Fāw, the scent of bakhoor being burned with mint in the air was prevalent, though it did little to soothe his tense muscles and the fury that had embedded itself permanently in every bone in his body.

A dancer swayed at the foot of the bed—a woman decked in glitter and gems, looking to be in her early thirties with half her face covered in a sheer veil and her dark hair pulled into a tight knot at the crown of her head. Burhan watched her, the woman's hips swaying and dipping and her wrists twisting every which way as a slave strummed an Oud—giving music to the woman's movements—somewhere in a corner of the room.

The woman was the tenth. She was the tenth of a succession of court dancers Burhan had accepted for his entertainments on nights where the thought of Dilruba was close to strangling him in his body and drowning him in his mind.

He did it out of spite—out of blatant hot anger that was seemingly hurting no one but himself. At first, upon the instance of the first girl, when Ghazi had come and hesitantly asked for Burhan's permission to accept the gift from a nobleman, Burhan had been furious and had instantly refused. But then, nightfall had come and his thoughts had ventured onto his own woman and her absence—and Burhan couldn't fucking breathe.

He thought perhaps he would find a release, with these damned placeholders. But no, none of them—fuck, none of them could even compare to Dilruba. In body, Burhan's woman was a goddess—and the way she moved, it eviscerated his ability to think. Her eyes—those deep pools of enchanting emerald, her olive-golden skin and her luscious lips. Her heart—her fucking mind, her words.. fuck, Burhan didn't believe there existed anyone who could even compare.

All the women brought to him—gifts, tokens, from noblemen and families of Al-Fāw—were stale in comparison. All ten of the ones Burhan had accepted, and all of the fifty that he hadn't. Purposefully Ghazi had maneuvered to include ones from the fifty that looked somewhat like Dilruba—dark long hair, olive skin—which was why the pool had shortened to only fifteen or so who Ghazi thought could compare, and then after Burhan had accepted ten of them, in the low lights of the nightfall, he failed to see anything in either of them.

No woman like Dilruba could exist, he was certain of that now, and the fact of it alone made fury engulf his chest and set it on fire.

His form repelled him from coming close to any of the ten women who had crossed his threshold one by one every night. They had danced for him and he had watched them for no more than a minute before they became no more significant than the carpet on the ground. Some of them he had instantly asked to leave, and others had just left of their own accord, fearing to come close to him or to seduce him.

This tenth woman that he had on tonight, was going to be the last, Burhan knew that. He will be damned if any other woman entered his throne room and bedroom other than Dilruba. He thought he had been letting them near out of spite—to see if anyone might catch his interest like Dilruba had, but it was a fucking stupid thought to even have. Dilruba had bewitched Burhan, and he would die if he couldn't ever have her again.

Every single hour passed since he had last spoken to Aladdin, and had him thrown back into the dungeons devoid of a few fingers, Burhan had been determined to find the tahararat min alkhatiya and in turn, Dilruba. The former genie knew where she was, and at present, even with some of Burhan's spies in Agrabah and some heading for Hegra, he was certain that it was Bahjat who would be able to tell him where his woman really was. But first, Bahjat would have to answer to Burhan for enticing Dilruba to go away—for getting her to leave Burhan and his guild. The tahararat min alkhatiya would fucking answer for that.

What could Bahjat possibly have said to make Dilruba's decision to leave concrete? She had already wanted to leave, he she wouldn't be able to understand everything that Burhan stood for, let alone the little that he did share with her. But Bahjat? Couldn't the being sense how much Burhan loved the woman? After everything they had been through, did not the tahararat min alkhatiya spare some consideration—some thought even—to the wild desire and need Burhan had for Dilruba? Could not the all-seeing, once powerful genie, guess? Could he not realize that there was no one before who had made Burhan feel as Dilruba Badawi made him feel?

Burhan Abelhamid's entire life—every inch of his personal misery and bloodshed—was laid bare in front of the former genie once when they had traversed paths about ten years ago in the Cave of Wonders in Jerash. Bahjat had granted three wishes for Burhan, yet there was seemingly nothing in between them anymore—regardless of the trust Burhan had put upon the genie in the cave, and allowed himself that last display of vulnerability.

Then there was the damned street rat Aladdin—lanky, fit for nothing, lazy, but possessing his innocent face and despicable charming manner. How could such a man—a mere man-child—garner Bahjat's loyalty? How could Bahjat have none to spare for Burhan?

Frustration seeped through him, the oud strings in his hearing making him more angry than relaxed. He snapped his fingers and the slave stopped his strumming, as the dancing woman paused, looking at Burhan reluctantly.

"Get out," Burhan spat, his hard eyes fixing themselves on her form once as she visibly swallowed and nodded, before spinning to hurry out of the room barefoot as the bells on her anklets twinkled with her steps against the wooden floor.

She was too terrified of him and his glares to even attempt to seduce him like that last woman before her had done, and that made satisfaction and anger swirl in the new sultan of Al-Fāw—both emotions battling with equal strength.

The oud player too exited, but with more decorum than the woman had shown, approaching and bowing to Burhan twice before slowly backing away—with his front to the sultan—and exiting.

Left alone in the sweet smelling air of the throne room-cum-divan room, Burhan shut his eyes tight, watching Dilruba dance in his mind's eye. For a moment, in the silence, he was back in Agrabah. He was at Hajjar Dagher's abode, sitting on the nobleman's chair in his assembly gathering, his eyes affixed on the gorgeous form of the Hegran court dancer swaying about in the center of the room. Every curve swaying in perfection, her hair mesmerizing in dark waves, her kohl lined deep emerald eyes, the gush of her vanilla and jojoba scent when she swept passed, her rising and falling chest—her breasts gorgeous mounds underneath her blouse and her belly shaped like a perfect quince. Fuck, Burhan could see it all.

His jaw hardened against and he shut his eyes tighter, desperate to keep watching—desperate to reach out and grab hold of her so that she doesn't again slip through his fingers like the desert sand.

To him, she was everything. She was his salvation, and he had been stripped of her—the most precious thing he had ever had in life. When he had seen her dance that day at the nobleman's abode, he had been stricken. If earlier their encounter at the Agraban street had shaken him in the face of her entrancing beauty, watching her dance had completely taken him away.

He had known then at Hajjar Dagher's abode, that he would make her his. He had set his sights on her completely then, and he hadn't fucking looked back. And now, after acting out of spite and fury and his distaste at her abandonment of him, Burhan had realized that there would be no one second to her—it was her that he wanted. He wanted Dilruba and no one else. She was his, and his alone.

He remembered the taste of her like it was the elixir of life. The feel of her velvet skin, the taste of the ambrosia between her legs, and the taste of her mouth. He remembered how he had felt, buried deep inside her. He remembered his mouth around her breasts and his tongue on her nipples, he remembered her hitched breathing and her panting and her yelling out his name—even the thought of it all made him stir and harden again, every muscle in his body as tight and erect as his member.

But what was near infuriating was that it wasn't just lust. It wasn't just the heedless, condemning desire he felt for her body, it was the gaping ache in his chest that she had left. Burhan Abelhamid's chest hurt and throbbed in pain at every thought of Dilruba as though he had swallowed sharp stones and they were carving out his insides—creating a bloody mess. It would've been much bearable had it been just lust that he felt for her.

A knock came on the door of his room, and his eyes pounced open, cruelly bringing him back from his reverie of her. His fists tightened at his side as an overwhelming urge to crush the interrupting man's skull overtook him.

"Come in," Burhan forced himself to bark, his hands snaking to the back of his neck as he tried to hold onto himself like he was an animal lashing out of control.

"Rayis," It was Saif's voice, and the seventeen-year-old boy sauntered swiftly in, his presence making Burhan diffuse some of his anger into the air.

"What is it?" Abelhamid asked then, something tightening in him as he found himself inching into alertness, hoping Saif had good news to depart—anything to rid Burhan of his present misery.

"I found the tahararat min alkhatiya, rayis," Saif uttered, grinning in the low fire lighting of the room. "The man dug himself out quickly once word about the former prince of Agrabah spread. You were right. I found him easily after that."

Burhan exhaled, relief making vengeance flash in his eyes.

"Good work, Saif," He let out. "Now bring him to me."

"As you wish, rayis," Saif managed, bowing as a smirk lined his voice, then he pivoted and sprinted off to fetch his hunt.

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The Thāj city center was the host to the biggest marketplace in the city. The enormity of the crowds gathered, the squawks of crows swooping about in the air, the plethora of colors on every vendors' stalls almost blinding underneath the scorching gaze of the sun, the scent of cinnamon and cardamon in the atmosphere—all of that coupled with the aggressive voices of haggling men and women and defiant vendors and sellers made Rubaiyah overwhelmed into a state of soul exhaustion.

Her mind was rushing hard and fast, for the environment was supremely familiar to her. The prices being yelled into the air, the vendors calling out to her—using various pet names made from the color of her abayah or the color of her eyes, to grab her attention—and even the scents themselves, everything was familiar. She couldn't tell if she had been at the Thāj marketplace before, for no one particular sight was strikingly familiar, rather, it all carried a sense of familiarity, as though she had been in marketplaces a lot in her life, just not this precise one. Or perhaps she had been in this precise one before, and had merely forgotten.

"Let us try that seller," Akbar's voice came with effort as the dwarf stepped out from behind Ruba, trying to sidestep men and women much taller than him and trying to keep up his pace.

He pointed towards a seller with exotic shawls and pieces of dyed cloth draped all over his stall—his own attire of plain brown complete with a bejeweled turban that was bound to catch anybody's eye. The man was already engaged with five women haggling with him and a man holding himself taut beside those women—the male customer was either one of the women's sons, or husband to all of them.

Akbar led the servant boy—that he had employed from Khairunnisa Sayida's household for today's use—to the vendor's stall, and Rubaiyah saw the dwarf making the boy take out her yellow two-piece dress from the cloth sack for what seemed like the twelfth time in this marketplace.

She turned her eyes away, her green orbs observing the bustle of the marketplace again with a sort of hopeless detachment. She had come here so eager for answers, but none of the sellers they had approached had been able to offer any insight. What could it all mean? If no seller at this particular marketplace recognized her clothing from that night, did that mean she doesn't belong to Thāj at all? What if she had merely gotten the clothes from elsewhere, but she did live in Thāj? Who would ever be able to clarify it all for her then?

Allah, did she have people in Thāj missing her? Or were her people somewhere else and she was looking in all the wrong places? Did she even have people at all?

She shut her eyes tightly. No, she couldn't spiral like that again. These questions—though they plagued her every night as she lay to sleep—should not be allowed to plague her in the daytime. Akbar, Ferhat Khayyi and Khairunnisa Sayida supported her somewhat in their own way, did they not? They were patient with her, they were expectant but not forceful. Could she not be the same way with herself?

Rubaiyah's eyes spotted a vendor's stall not so far away, behind which stood an old woman. The stall displayed gorgeously decorated and painted pottery of all shapes and sizes—some bedazzled and bejeweled with gems and reflective glass pieces. There were no customers at the stall, and the old woman manning the stall was staring out into space, her eyes fixated ahead but her mind somewhere else. Ruba had the sudden urge to approach the woman, to talk to her and buy something from her. But she had no money, and she was hesitant to ask for money from Akbar or even Khairunnisa Sayida—not after they were giving her everything for her comfort that money could buy.

"Rubaiyah!"

Akbar's call brought her back from her reverie, and she looked towards him. Her yellow attire was now draped at the side of the turban wearing seller's stall, and the man was looking at her with intrigue. She turned her eyes to the dwarf, and found impatience and a certain excitement clouding the little man's beady eyes.

"Come! He knows your clothes!"

Rubaiyah hurried over to the stall, just in time for the seller to scoff. The women he had been haggling with had gone off now with the man that had been with them, and the seller as a result of that haggle seemed profoundly irritated.

"Knows? I made the attire myself, dwarf!" The man touched his jeweled turban to make sure it was still put on right.

"See this?" The man grabbed the hem of the yellow blouse and showed it to Akbar. "This is my handiwork! I made only one of this design. I sat days and nights stitching this under the sun and then candle lights, let me be cursed if I forget the work of my own hands."

Rubaiyah's heart tightened at his words, and her eyes stung as she tried to compose herself again, before carefully looking back at the seller. His words were no personal jab against her of course, he was entirely unaware. Still, how harsh words are.

"Only one of this design. Then you must know if this woman got it from you, and when she bought it," Akbar raised a brow.

The seller scrunched his brows, eyeing Rubaiyah briefly before looking back at the dwarf.

"Why? Is she a thief? Did she steal this?"

"No," Akbar ground his jaw. "Just look at her and tell us if she bought this from you."

The seller—his beard long and braided to his chest, and his face thing and equally long—scanned Ruba's face and form with intrigue bordering on amusement, making a show of doing what he was told—a sneaky pleasure marring his scrutiny at the inspection of the beautiful girl, but Rubaiyah could already tell what the answer would be for there was no recognition in his eyes.

"No," The seller affirmed, having decided that his eyes had had their fill and there was much more important business to tend to in his day.

"I have never seen this woman before in my life."

Ruba looked away, trying to keep disappointment away from her lest it completely took over and made her cry. How many times were they going to do this? How many more sellers till Akbar gave up? Because Rubaiyah was already beginning to.

"Then who bought this from you, and when?" Akbar pressed, fully furious, "Speak man!"

The man in the turban twisted his lips, sudden skepticism on his features.

"Why?"

Akbar glared at the man, slamming his fist at the stall, but his little fist made no difference in shifting the effect of the scene—especially considering the fact that he was having to look up hard whilst the seller was merely looking down at him.

"Well, I could tell you, but I have a little trouble remembering," The seller pursed his lips, bringing his thumb and forefinger together and rubbing it in indication.

The dwarf fumed, his skin prickling red as he brought out three coins from his pocket, reached, and laid them flat on the edge of the stall.

The bearded seller grabbed the coins instantly and they disappeared on his person.

"A man brought this set, about weeks ago—nearly a month," The man started then, nose wrinkling. "A crooked thug, if you know what I mean. One of those kinds of men."

Rubaiyah blinked, her heart pounding in her chest as anxiety lined her blood flow.

"Be clear!" Akbar let out.

"It was a thug, I say! I don't know from where he was. But he was a young man dressed in black, with a silver-hilted dagger at his waist. I know because I kept eyeing the dagger, it looked special and very costly. It didn't look like something forged by any smithy or weapon garrison here in Thāj—at least, I don't think so."

Ruba dug her fingers in her palm hard, trying to get herself to remember anything she could that resonated with what the seller was saying.

"And?" The dwarf prompted, "What do you mean by one of those kinds? Did you speak to him? Did he say anything? Who was he buying it for?"

"I meant a criminal! A plain killer and crooked thief sort of thug. He asked me to show him the best I've got, because he needed to buy it for his rayis' woman," The seller uttered, annoyed at the investigation. "He threatened me, said that if I show anything faulty he would hang me up with my tongue cut off at my own stall! Or if I sell something faulty and he discovers it later then.. then his rayis would have my.."

"Have your what?" Akbar asked, and Rubaiyah looked at him horrified. Terror was already engulfing her heart and she couldn't fathom what point there was in knowing more.

"My genitals!" The seller spat, "He said his rayis would have my genitals shoved down my throat! There, is that satisfying to you dwarf?"

"Do you have any idea where this man could be from?" The dwarf managed.

"He could be from Thāj, because he spoke the dialect," The seller touched a ringed finger to his lips. "But that dagger he wore.. If you were to ask my definite guess, I will say that he was someone born and raised in Thāj but now hails from elsewhere."

"Have you seen this man around since? In the marketplace or in the city in general?"

Rubaiyah looked to the seller as Akbar asked this last question, on edge by the back and forth questioning that seemed to be doing nothing for her except making her heart constrict tighter each second.

"I have," The response was laced with irritation as the man's brows furrowed.

"When? Was it recent? Where did you see him?" Akbar leaned upwards as his hold on the vendor's stall edge tightened, standing on his tiptoes—letting his desperation show.

"I believe I glimpsed the man here, in the market place, less than a week ago," The bearded seller pointed to the street that led out of the marketplace and into the eastward city square.

"He was going that way. He met my eyes briefly and for a second I feared I had sold him a faulty attire that day, but he kept on walking. There was another man—taller build, wearing the same black clothing and the exact same costly looking silver-hilted dagger at the waist as well—who joined him about.. there, at the edge of old man Yaffet's fruit stall."

"Now go!" The man waved his hand when he was done pointing out the direction, "Get away from my stall if you are not going to buy anything."

Akbar gestured to the servant, and the boy packed the yellow two pieces back into the sack as they all stepped away from the stall.

Rubaiyah's mind was racing, her heart pounding so hard in her chest that she almost couldn't breathe. Akbar met her eyes in the bustle of the marketplace, and she saw a reluctance in his gaze, mixed with a certain.. sympathy? Pity? Fear?

There were people pressing close to them all around, and Ruba could tell that Akbar kept purposefully silent, waiting to speak to her once they were out of the crowds.

His rayis' woman. If the seller was to be trusted with his recollection, Ruba was someone's woman—a rayis' no less. A leader, a master, a head, of a group of specific people. She couldn't believe her ears, was she—was she owned by this rayis? Was she loved by this rayis?

But who could this rayis be? A slave master? A trade merchant? A tavern owner? These vile threats that the thug had given—Allah, if the man had truly been a thug, then perhaps his rayis was too. But what did the term thug even qualify for? How could the seller have surmised such a thing when the man had paid for the purchase and only worn a silver-hilted dagger? But then again, no one else could give such horrific threats to a mere marketplace seller.

Rubaiyah swallowed thickly, following the dwarf's lead as he weaved them through the crowds. She was no longer in control of where she was going, only making sure to hold the hood of her abayah cloak over her head so that it did not get pushed back by her movements or the hot winds cascading through the marketplace. Her feet followed Akbar's lead mechanically, and the servant boy they had brought along brought up the rear of the formation, obediently following behind Ruba as he carried the sack of her clothing and jewelry.

The jewelry no longer mattered now that they had some.. answers, through the clothing pieces being accounted for. Terror struck Rubaiyah then as her mind concentrated on the fact that the person who had bought the clothing for her might still be in Thāj. The seller suspected that the man—the thug—hailed from elsewhere but was born and raised in Thāj, and he had seen the man again less than a week ago. What if the man was still in the city?

Rubaiyah did not want him to be. She was suddenly fearful and no longer eager, to find out about her past. If her past was amongst criminals and thugs—if she was one of them too, then she truly did not want to know.

Tears sharpened in her eyes and clouded her vision. How could this be? She did not feel as though—in her heart she did not.. resonate, with any of it. In her heart she knew she couldn't be what every clue was suggesting her to be. That pretty girl in blue—inflamed in her anger and hatred—screaming at Ruba and calling her a 'whore' in her recurring memory dream, and now this connection to thugs through simply the attire she had been wearing that night. None of it.. resonated. Her heart couldn't accept any of it, they felt like.. lies.

But just because she lost her memory did not meant she could distance herself, and hold herself blameless, from the crimes she might've committed in her past—the kind of person she used to be. Ruba knew that, she understood that. She wanted to be ready to be held accountable for everything she might've done and everything she might've been, but why was it all graver than she could anticipate? Why was her past so terrifying?

They passed by a begger who held an oud in his hands as he stummed a tune. Rubaiyah hadn't been able to hear his music until now when she was passing by so close to him. The tune was haunting as the frail man's expert fingers strummed and clutched strings with precision, his head bent over his instrument and his eyes shut tight as though he was honoring the music that he was making, regardless of whoever else heard it or not.

Ruba did not realize she had stopped to watch him, something in her heart pulling her to the music and the quiet solitary worship that the frail man was engaged in himself. With crowds of people haggling, shouting, laughing—all of them passing by and not acknowledging the beggar, she felt a certain shock that his music had ensnared him and others were heedless around them.

What was it about this scene? This music? She couldn't say, but she recognized the pull in her heart. It was as though she had felt the feeling before—as though she had heard this music before.

Khairunnisa Sayida's household despised music. No instruments were allowed in her estate and no musical entertainers given leave to entertain. The woman of the house deemed music to be a fruitless distraction from the real purposes of life, and Rubaiyah hadn't truly held an opinion on any of it.

But hearing this oud—in the hands of this beggar—it tugged strings in her own heart. She felt as though the music was speaking to a dormant section of her heart—a section that she did not know existed.

Ruba felt the sudden urge to tell Akbar, to tap his shoulder and ask him if he felt it too—but as she turned to look at her side, the dwarf was nowhere to be seen.

She spun, looking all around her, but wherever Akbar was, he had been swallowed by the crowds in the marketplace—washed away by the waves of the busybodies of Thāj, assuming that Rubaiyah was right behind him. The servant boy from the estate too had disappeared, and Ruba could spot none of the two men's familiar faces in the crowd.

Instead of a panic, however, her heart stirred in a serenity, for the music was still vibrant in her ears—drowning out the bustle of the marketplace and the unspoken terrors of her own mind.

She looked back at the beggar, only to find him raising a hand to wipe at his eyes—tears coming due to the intensity of the notes he played.

Ruba's heart tightened. She wanted so much to put a coin into the earthenware pot that sat near the beggar, but she had no money on her.

It was then that a man—a figure dressed in black approached the pot from her side and tossed a coin inside.

Rubaiyah raised her eyes to look at the man, a pleasure in her chest at the humanity of the stranger, and just as her eyes ventured onto the back of the man's head, he had turned around to leave.

His eyes met her and he froze. Ruba managed a polite smile—despite her confusion at the stranger's reaction, her emerald eyes observing the young man in front of her. His brown hair was messy and dusty, his eyes bright but dulled in a misery. The man sported a cut on his lip that had scabbed over, and there were hollows under his eyes as though he hadn't slept in days.

She couldn't understand the shock on his face at the sight of her, and was about to turn and leave when her eyes caught the glint of a silver-hilted dagger at the man's waist, tied securely to a scabbard attached to a belt.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied it briefly, could it be the same dagger the bearded seller had spoken of?

She raised her eyes to look at the man's face again, only to see his lips part in his shock.

"Sayidati?" The young man uttered then, his voice barely above a shocked whisper as though he spoke from a hoarse throat.

Ruba blinked, her heart tightening in her chest as she realized that the shock in the young man's eyes had long turned into a plain yet distinctly vulnerable recognition.