Rustam’s arms, typically deliberate and unyielding, were unexpectedly gentle as they cradled her. The scent of polished leather and clean linen clung to his uniform, starkly at odds with the coppery tang of her own blood blossoming across the immaculate white fabric. His hand, calloused from years of gripping a sabre, pressed against her back, steadying her. His gaze, typically a fortress of calm, fractured with alarm as he surveyed her torn shoulder, where blood seeped through torn silk.
“Farzaneh,” he rasped, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it. He didn’t wait for an explanation. With a swift, powerful motion, he swept her into his arms entirely, her legs dangling uselessly. The world tilted, a dizzying blur of gilded archways and hushed corridors as he moved with a speed that belied his scarred leg, bypassing her own chambers without a second glance.
His private quarters were spartan, yet exuded an austere elegance. A low-slung bed with crisp linens occupied one corner, a heavy, darkwood desk laden with maps and scrolls another. The air smelled of ink and some faint, peppery spice. He set her down with care on a plush divan, the rich crimson velvet quickly soaking up her blood. Before she could even gather her wits, he was already at a tall cabinet, pulling out a first-aid kit, his movements precise and urgent.
“This needs immediate attention,” he stated, his back to her as he rummaged for supplies. “The bleed is deep. What happened?”
Farzaneh took a shaky breath. The venom still burned, a dull ache that throbbed with every beat of her pulse. She needed to think. Fast. Her mind raced, piecing together an absurd, but believable, cover story. Her past self would have scorned such an elaborate performance. Her present self embraced it.
She let out a soft whimper, her eyes welling with manufactured tears. “Oh, Rustam! It was… it was awful!” She clutched at the front of her ruined silk tunic, feigning a shiver. “I was just so desperate for the cardamom-rose pastries from old Baba Tariq’s stall, you know the ones near the Moonstone Arch? They only bake them after midnight, and I thought… well, I thought I could sneak out just this once!”
Rustam turned, a roll of pristine gauze in his hand. His brow furrowed. “That stall is on the other side of the Merchant’s Quarter, Farzaneh. And sneaking out of the Pavilion after curfew is…” He stopped, his gaze dropping to her shoulder, a small, involuntary flinch in his posture. “And how did you acquire *that* injury?”
“Well, that’s the awful part!” she wailed, leaning into her performance with gusto. “The grounds are so dark, and I was trying to be quiet, and then… *thorns!* It was that wretched glass-thorn bush by the eastern gate! The one with the wicked, glinting spikes. I tripped, Rustam, I tripped right into it! And it caught me so badly, and I tried to be brave, but it just hurt so much…” She let her voice trail off into a choked sob, burying her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers to gauge his reaction.
Rustam’s expression, carved and unreadable, underwent a subtle shift. The alarm in his eyes was still present, but now a new, unexpected emotion began to bloom. His chin set rigid, a muscle twitching near his ear. His gaze narrowed, not with suspicion, but with something akin to… possessiveness. His eyes swept over her, then beyond, as if picturing a midnight rendezvous.
“Baba Tariq’s confections,” he repeated slowly, a low rasp in his chest. “After midnight.” The implication hung in the air: she had gone to meet *someone* for fritters. The air thickened between them, charged with a heavy, thrilling heat.
He moved towards her, the scent of his skin – dry sand and faint spices – filling her senses. He knelt, his strong hands surprisingly gentle as he carefully cut away the torn silk from her shoulder, revealing the full extent of the gash. “You could have woken one of the maids,” he chided, his voice still rough, but now laced with something possessive. “Or me.” He dabbed a stinging antiseptic onto the wound, and she hissed, a genuine sound this time.
“I didn’t want to bother anyone!” she protested, feigning a pout. “It was my own silly fault for craving sweets so badly.” She watched him, a thrill of triumph running through her as she saw the barest hint of green flare in his deep, brown eyes – the spark of jealousy, just as she’d intended. Her heart gave a genuine flutter, a strange mix of satisfaction and something warmer.
Before he could reply, the doors to his private quarters burst open. Darya stood panting in the doorway, her neat braids knocked askew. In her hands, precariously balanced, was a large silver tray laden with… “Pastries!” Farzaneh exclaimed, stifling a laugh of relief.
Darya stumbled in, taking in the scene: Farzaneh on the divan, Rustam kneeling beside her, bloodstains on the crimson velvet. “Farzaneh! Oh, by the Ancestors, I heard a commotion, and then a guard said you were with the General, and I thought… I thought you needed these!” she gasped, her voice shrill with genuine fear. “The last batch from Baba Tariq! I barely made it!” She gestured vaguely with the tray, trying to corroborate the lie she had no idea she was part of.
But as she spoke, her foot caught on the edge of the thick rug. The silver tray wobbled, then tipped precariously. Farzaneh watched in slow motion as a small, leather-sheathed object, hidden beneath a pile of syrupy pastries, slid free. It clattered onto the polished marble floor, landing with a sharp, metallic ring right between Rustam’s knees.
It was a dagger. Not just any dagger. Its hilt was carved with the stylized soaring falcon of the Zirid Royal Armory, a mark that screamed ‘stolen contraband’ to anyone with a military eye. The blade, still gleaming despite its fall, was crafted for swift, silent work – a rebel’s tool.
Rustam’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing from jealousy to something far more dangerous. His gaze, now razor-sharp, fixed on the weapon. The gentle hands that had been tending her wound stilled. He slowly reached down, his fingers closing around the hilt of the dagger. His thumb brushed over the familiar falcon emblem. His eyes, cold and assessing, rose to meet hers.
“Farzaneh,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. The excuses, the glass thorns, the tender concern—all stripped away in an instant. “Are you secretly funding the rebellion?”