“For us,” Qadir declared, his voice a low thrum of possession. The jewel-encrusted shackle chain caught the light, glinting. “So you can never run from me again. You will be my Empress, Zariyah. My world, my light. Bound to me, as I am to you.” His newly-healed amber eyes, startlingly clear and vibrant, fixed on her with an intensity that promised a future irrevocably entwined. He took a deliberate step, extending the ornate cuffs. He genuinely looked pleased with himself, a dangerous predatory smile playing on his lips, utterly convinced this was a grand, romantic gesture. Zariyah stared at him. The man had just helped her save the capital from an abomination, restored his sight, and then immediately pulled out *handcuffs*. “Are you serious right now?” she asked, her voice flat, dangerously quiet. The lingering dust from Tariq’s demise still hung in the air, coating everything in a fine grey film. The Padishah Iskandar was still crumpled on his throne, whimpering. Shirin was trying to brush dust off her pristine white robes. Qadir, however, saw only Zariyah. “Never more so,” he purred, taking another step. “We will rule together. You, by my side, always. And you will wear these, a symbol of our unbreakable bond.” Zariyah took a deep, fortifying breath. All that hard work, all that fighting, all that raw, unfiltered rage channeled into saving this idiot from his own bad life choices, and *this* was his immediate takeaway? Not gratitude, not humility, not even a simple request for her continued presence. Just… a highly polished set of marital restraints. She snatched the manacles from his outstretched hand. They were heavy, cold against her palm. The binding runes carved into the gold pulsed faintly with an arcane warmth, meant to be inescapable. Qadir’s smile widened, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “See? You accept them.” *CRACK!* The sound echoed through the silent, stunned throne room. Zariyah had twisted the cuffs in her hands, her aura flaring just for a split second, and the supposedly unbreakable djinn-steel snapped cleanly in half, shimmering runes and all. She tossed the two broken pieces onto the marble floor, where they clattered like cheap trinkets. Qadir blinked. Once. Twice. His triumphant smile faltered, then vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He looked from the broken cuffs to Zariyah’s face, then back to the cuffs. It was like watching a complex machine stutter and freeze. “Are you insane?” Zariyah growled, her voice gaining volume. “*Binds*? After all that? I’m going back to my plot of greens, you overgrown tyrant! And don’t you *dare* try to follow me with any more of your ‘unbreakable bonds’!” She didn’t wait for a response. Her fist, still stinging faintly from Tariq’s final suplex, connected with Qadir’s bicep. It wasn't a full-power punch, but it carried enough force to make the warlord yelp and stagger back a step, rubbing his arm with a surprised frown. “Ow! Zariyah, what was that for?!” he protested, more shocked by her casual violence than actually hurt. His golden aura flickered around him, not in anger, but in sheer disbelief. “That was for thinking I’d ever let you put anything on me that wasn’t a clean tunic!” she retorted, seizing him by the ear. Qadir, a man who had held the Emperor hostage and terrified an entire court, let out a genuinely undignified squeak as Zariyah yanked him towards the wide-open throne room doors. “And *you*,” she added, turning her glare to the still-cowering Padishah Iskandar, “had better not send any more treason charges my way, or I’ll come back and punch *you* so hard your lineage will forget how to breathe!” Padishah Iskandar scrambled upright, blanching. “Cleared! Completely cleared!” he shrieked, practically bowing low. “All charges against Zariyah Roshan are hereby null and void! For saving the empire, for… for everything! A hero! A true hero!” He paused, then added nervously, “And, um, please don’t punch my lineage, esteemed savior!” Zariyah grunted in satisfaction. “Good. Now, you,” she commanded Qadir, still holding his ear, “are coming with me. We need to talk about boundaries, personal space, and not destroying people’s lives because you’re emotionally constipated.” Qadir, for once, was speechless. He simply allowed himself to be dragged, his towering frame awkwardly ducking through the grand archway, his golden robes swishing behind him. As Zariyah pulled him into the corridor, Shirin, who had been observing the entire spectacle with a serene, almost approving smile, stepped forward. “Oh, Zariyah, darling!” Shirin called, her voice clear and bright. “I’m delighted to hear you’re returning to Firuza! I’ve already sent word ahead to purchase the empty villa next to your property. We’ll be neighbors! I’ve always wanted a quiet life in the countryside, away from courtly intrigue.” She blew Zariyah a kiss, then winked at the departing warlord. “Don’t worry, Qadir. I’m quite good at sharing. Most of the time.” Qadir’s head swiveled, his amber eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. His golden aura rippled with barely contained fury. Zariyah, however, just sighed, tightened her grip on his ear, and dragged him faster. *Ten days later.* The midday sun beat down on Zariyah’s garden patch, baking the rich, red earth. The air hummed with the lazy buzz of desert bees and the distant bleating of goats. A picture of bucolic peace, if you ignored the hulking figure clad in a linen tunic, furiously attacking a clump of weeds with a hoe. Qadir, the newly sighted warlord, now an irritable field hand, glared murderously at the offending greens, as if they were personal insults. He still wore a fine djinn-steel circlet that gleamed in the sun, a gift from Iskandar marking his continued rank, even as his boots were caked in mud. His movements were precise, powerful, but laced with a simmering frustration. Every now and then, his gaze would drift to the low stone wall bordering Zariyah’s property. On the other side, Shirin, dressed in shockingly white, but practical, farming attire, was tending to a small patch of saffron. She hummed a tuneless song, occasionally glancing up to offer Zariyah a warm smile or, more pointedly, to blow a kiss towards Qadir, who would respond with a silent, teeth-grinding snarl that only Zariyah seemed to notice. “Honestly, Qadir,” Zariyah said, wiping sweat from her brow as she knelt, examining a particularly healthy head of brassica. “You’ll ruin the harvest. These leaves have done nothing to you.” “They exist,” Qadir muttered, chopping a particularly resilient weed with excessive force. “And *she* exists.” He nodded subtly towards Shirin, who was now serenading a wilting rosebush with an off-key ballad about Zariyah’s eyes. “She’s harmless,” Zariyah said, though a small smile tugged at her lips. Shirin’s aggressive affection was certainly… persistent. Qadir remained unconvinced, his new amber eyes tracking Shirin’s every movement with the intensity of a hawk. Zariyah plunged her hands into the soft earth, feeling for weeds. She’d finally gotten her quiet, stress-free life. The sun on her skin, the smell of fresh soil, the simple rhythm of planting and harvesting. It was everything she’d ever wanted. Almost. Her fingers brushed against something hard, metallic, and unnaturally cold. It wasn’t a rock. It felt smooth, polished, and oddly geometric. Curiosity piqued, Zariyah dug around it, loosening the soil. A faint, ethereal glow began to emanate from the earth, growing steadily brighter, pulsing with a soft, ominous blue. Qadir stopped hoeing. Shirin stopped singing. Both of them turned sharply toward Zariyah, freezing in place. Zariyah pulled the object from the ground. It was a perfect, multi-faceted octahedron, crafted from pure djinn-glass, but unlike any she had ever seen. Its internal facets glowed with an otherworldly light, projecting a swirling, miniature galaxy within its depths. As she held it, the ground beneath her began to tremble, and a low, resonant thrum vibrated through the air, growing in intensity. The sky, once clear, began to darken, and a strange, shimmering rift, like a tear in the fabric of reality, began to bloom silently above the distant peaks of the Hazara Mountains. Zariyah stared at the artifact, then up at the darkening sky, then at the terrified faces of Qadir and Shirin. She let out a long, slow sigh. “Oh, for the love of—” she began, then stopped. This was *not* going to be a quiet life, was it?

Handcuffs and Cabbages