Dawn in Sel?nrah did not enter as light, but as song. The tall stained-glass windows of the palace glowed with amber and violet while the sacred river reflected sparks that shimmered like living mirages. The inner corridors were carved of white marble, polished so finely that they returned the image of whoever walked them, as if the very floor wished to remind each ruler who had crossed it.

  And there walked Azhara Qamar al-Sel?n, Sultan of Al-Rahad. Her bare steps glided over the cold stone in solemn silence, accompanied only by the distant whisper of mosaics creaking under the night’s lingering damp. Her bearing was a perfect contradiction: ethereal and grounded, warm and distant, maternal and formidable.

  Her hair, flowing down past her waist, swayed in the breeze that drifted in from the open balconies. It was silver-gray, like living ash: muted in shadow, pearled under the light. The white robe that enveloped her fell in layered folds, embroidered with sacred verses that seemed to move with her, as if the words themselves followed her in obedience.

  Her eyes, an iridescent blend of aged gold and faded lavender, roamed the corridors as though reading an ancient book. They were eyes that had seen more than they revealed, that kept secrets heavy enough to shatter empires. Only those closest to her noticed how, at times, when she passed a statue or a mural, her fingers trembled ever so slightly—like a memory trying to break free, one she forced back into silence.

  That silence was her kingdom.

  And also her shield.

  The palace of Sel?nrah never slept. Even in those uncertain hours, when the sun had only begun to stain the horizon with copper, the terraces carried the scent of freshly ground spices, incense burning in the altars, and flowers blooming between damp mosaics. From her highest balcony, Azhara gazed at the city stretched out like an endless mantle of domes, minarets, and winding alleys. Sel?nrah breathed like a living being: the murmur of merchants opening their stalls, the distant chant of clerics in the sacred plazas, the echo of ships cutting through the river like slow blades.

  In her hands, she held a dark crystal goblet filled with sharib, a strong drink fermented with dates and spices. It was not a common taste for a Sultana, but Azhara had never hidden her preferences. The sharib burned her throat and reminded her that even luxury could hurt if taken without measure.

  She closed her eyes for a moment. The breeze carried back an echo of her own vow: Never again. A promise made long ago, under circumstances only she remembered clearly. A promise that sometimes weighed too heavily, like an invisible chain still fastened around her being.

  She looked back at the city. Her guardians believed her untouchable, and her people saw her as the embodiment of calm. Neither was true. Azhara knew that even the strongest foundations could shatter if struck in the right place. And in that silence she guarded, there were memories she would never allow to surface.

  Her gaze hardened.

  Stability was a crystal. Beautiful, radiant… but fragile. And it was her duty to ensure no one ever broke it.

  Not far away...

  The three guardians did not sleep within the marble walls of the palace, but in a broad, sober house just a few steps from the golden gates of Sel?nrah. It was a shared home, half refuge, half barracks: adobe walls reinforced with simple mosaics, cool courtyards where the night air carried the scent of spices, and rooms where intimacy barely managed to draw a line between the personal and the sacred.

  Zayrah al-Namir was usually the first to wake. Her white hair fell over her shoulders like a silent mantle, shining under the first light of day. She walked barefoot across the courtyard, letting her feet brush against the warm dust, as if she needed to feel the earth to convince herself she still belonged to the world. Her golden, pupil-less eyes seemed to gaze beyond the immediate: a sun that gave no warmth, a horizon that never arrived. There was in her an imposed solitude, as if even within a shared house she still lived in her own desert.

  Mahtani Rha’a was the last to leave her room, yet always the first to order the day. Tall, firm, with the bearing of a tower that would never yield, she adjusted her double black braid with ceremonial precision. Her blue eyes, lit by a faint glow within, betrayed her: anxiety always pulsed beneath her skin, a hidden nerve that became perpetual vigilance. As she arranged the jade beads of her necklace, the faint crack of her knuckles was enough to fill the room with a tension that required no words.

  Irsah Qalam held the center of that balance. Small, almost invisible beside her taller sisters, yet with a density in her gaze that stilled any excess. Her dark hair flowed like a quiet river, broken only by the white strand crossing her forehead like a scar of time. Her deep gray eyes did not seem to see the present, but to remember it as though it had already passed. When she spoke, it was little; and when she fell silent, she imposed a stillness that turned even the simplest routine into an act of reflection.

  That morning, as on so many others, they shared a modest breakfast: flatbread, fresh dates, spiced tea. None of them needed to speak much. Their presences, contrasted yet united, were enough to fill the air. And though the three were different, in that house near the palace there lived a quiet certainty: whatever awaited beyond the walls was not faced alone, but together.

  The house was quiet, lit only by oil lamps that cast long shadows across the adobe walls. The scent of herbal tea still lingered in the air, mixed with the spices they had used for dinner.

  Zayrah sat on the divan by the window, her white hair falling like a veil over her shoulders. There was something different in her silence, something that did not go unnoticed.

  —Are you going to tell us, or do you expect us to guess? —Mahtani asked, standing with her arms crossed, her voice heavy as a verdict. Her intense blue eyes did not blink.

  Zayrah turned her gaze away, as if she wished to lose herself in the distant lights of the palace.

  —There is nothing to tell —she replied calmly, too calmly.

  Irsah, reclining on a cushion with her legs tucked under her dress, tilted her head. A faint smile crossed her face, more melancholy than mocking.

  —Your aura doesn’t know how to lie, Zayrah. It shines differently. Like sand freshly touched by rain.

  Zayrah pressed her lips together but said nothing.

  Mahtani stepped closer, the dark braid falling over her shoulder.

  —Was it someone from the market? —she inquired with that anxiety she always disguised as interrogation.

  —Or a traveler —Irsah added, almost amused—. Someone who will pass and never return.

  —Enough —Zayrah replied, finally looking at them. Her voice was firm, but her cheeks had taken on a faint blush impossible to hide.

  —It isn’t a crime, sister —said Mahtani, with a sigh that sounded halfway between reproach and relief—. We only want to know if you were careful.

  —And if it was good —added Irsah, with an ironic gleam in her eyes.

  The silence broke with a brief, unexpected laugh that escaped Zayrah. She lifted a hand to her face, resigned.

  —You two will never leave me in peace, will you?

  —Never —said Mahtani, with a hardness that was pure affection.

  —That is the burden of having us —added Irsah softly.

  The early morning went on with comfortable silences and measured words. They needed nothing more. They were three, and that was enough.

  The first light filtered through the mosaics of the windows, painting the inner courtyard in shades of amber and blue. The marble still held the chill of the night, and upon it, the three guardians trained in silence, barefoot, wearing light tunics that revealed the firmness of their bodies.

  Mahtani led the session. Her posture was straight, impeccable, every movement calculated as if she were tracing an invisible shield in the air. Her deep breathing set the rhythm for the others, like a soft but relentless drum.

  Zayrah, to her right, seemed to move at a different frequency. Her arms extended slowly, making the air around her quiver like desert sand under the sun. Each twist of her torso, each measured step, was an echo of the solitude she had learned to turn into strength. She needed no words. Her silence was her discipline.

  Irsah, meanwhile, knelt at the center of the courtyard, her eyes closed. She did not repeat the physical gestures with the same intensity as her sisters; instead, she traced symbols in the air with her hands, as if drawing invisible memories. Her breathing was slow, melancholic, and yet it supported the other two, like an unseen weight that anchored them.

  The training was not a display of power. It was a prayer in motion. A way of remembering that their strength was born from emotion, but should never be slavery. Every fall to the ground, every flex of the body, every moment of stillness was a lesson in control.

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  At last, when the sun was already brushing the courtyard columns, Mahtani clapped her hands firmly, breaking the silence.

  —Enough for today. —Her voice was not harsh, but it was final.

  Zayrah lowered her arms with elegance, her white hair clinging to her skin with sweat. Irsah opened her eyes slowly, as if returning from a distant dream. None of them smiled, but in their gazes there was complicity. The complicity of those who did not need words to understand that they were not only training their bodies, but also the will that bound them together.

  The sun had only just begun to rise over Sel?nrah when the three guardians stepped out of their home. The desert air in the morning was not yet suffocating: it carried a dry freshness, perfumed with dust and the murmur of the sacred river that cut through the city like a golden mirror.

  The market was already alive. Colorful tents fluttered in the breeze, and scents competed in the air: spices red as embers, freshly baked bread, fruits hanging ripe like jewels under the sun. Merchants called out their prices with steady voices, and barefoot children darted between the stalls, laughing, oblivious to the solemnity of the day.

  Mahtani walked in front, tall and upright as if she were still on parade, though her hand held an empty palm basket. Stopping at a spice vendor’s stand, she spoke with the same precision she would use in a military council.

  —Five measures. No more, no less. And make sure it’s from the fresh grinding.

  The merchant smiled respectfully. He did not bow, nor did he make a fuss. He simply complied.

  Zayrah, by contrast, paused before a stall displaying fabrics dyed in vivid pigments. She feigned indifference, letting her hand brush lightly over a deep blue cloth, but her golden eyes lingered far too long.

  —It’s far too ostentatious —she murmured, as if excusing herself to her sisters.

  —Of course —Mahtani replied with soft irony—. That’s why you’ve been staring at it for five minutes.

  Irsah said nothing. She had fallen behind at the stand of an old man selling weathered scrolls, her fingers brushing the edge of one as if she longed to absorb the history it held. The old man gave her a tired smile, and she inclined her head slightly, with that dense courtesy that felt like a ritual.

  The greetings from the townsfolk were simple. A woman carrying a basket of figs dipped her head as she passed them. A child pointed at them with the blatant curiosity of someone who did not yet understand hierarchies. A baker shouted at them in jest:

  —Don’t spend it all on armor! Leave me at least enough to bake bread tomorrow!

  Mahtani answered with a curt hand gesture that seemed stern, but Zayrah let out a brief laugh she could not contain.

  In the end, the basket was filled with bread, dates, honey, and a handful of herbs for infusion. As they walked back through the bustle, Mahtani was mentally listing what was still missing; Zayrah carried the jar of honey as if it weighed more than it did; and Irsah, silent, walked behind, her eyes still heavy with a memory she did not share.

  They were guardians. Protectors of an entire nation. But in that moment, among voices, aromas, and sunlit streets, they seemed simply three sisters arguing over which dessert they would make that night.

  The sun was already high when they returned from the market, bags filled with dried fruits, freshly baked flatbread, and small jars of spices. The bustle of Sel?nrah faded behind them as they turned into the quieter street that led back to their home.

  —Luma has probably locked herself in the back courtyard again —murmured Mahtani, shifting the load on her shoulder—. If I leave her alone, she’ll end up dehydrated from pushing herself without pause.

  —That stubbornness is the only thing keeping her upright —Zayrah replied, though a trace of fondness softened her words—. Still, I admit it frightens me to see her push beyond her limits.

  Irsah, walking a step behind, spoke with quiet calm:

  —Each of us carries something. Nazeera, for instance… she never lets her guard down. Not even when she sleeps. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows what rest feels like.

  A brief silence followed. Then Zayrah sighed.

  —And Shadira… —her voice lowered slightly, reverent—. I only wish she could stop looking back so much. Living with ghosts is not truly living.

  Mahtani glanced at her from the side, without reproach—only with the weight of someone who felt the same.

  The air lightened when Irsah, with a rare smile, added:

  —At least Ahlia always knows how to bring us peace. Even if she wakes half a day later than the rest.

  —Peace, yes —Zayrah chuckled softly—. But if she keeps sleeping like that, one day the desert will swallow her whole.

  —Don’t be cruel —Mahtani scolded gently, though her smile betrayed her—. We all know that without her, our scars would run much deeper.

  Their house was already in sight. And as they climbed the last steps, the air between them carried more than just fatigue: it was complicity, the certainty that—despite their differences—they remained one family.

  The street still buzzed with life as they left the market behind. Children ran between stalls of fabric, an old woman haggled over dates, and the smell of roasted spices seemed to cling to everything. Though some neighbors greeted the three guardians with respect, none bowed or treated them as sacred figures. They were part of the neighborhood, as earthly as the baker handing out warm loaves or the water seller shouting his trade as he passed.

  —So in a few hours we’ll have foreigners under our sun? —said Mahtani, breaking the silence in a tone more dry than curious.

  —If they survive the heat, perhaps they’ll learn something —Zayrah replied, tilting her head with the faintest smile—. Though I doubt the desert will have mercy on those who come from green lands.

  Irsah, always the more restrained, let out a sigh.

  —The Sultana wants us to be witnesses, not executioners. Don’t forget that.

  —I don’t forget —Zayrah countered—. But I can’t help imagining it: them, lost in the middle of a storm, begging for shade and water.

  —Knowing you, you’d give them the shade… and then leave them without the water —Mahtani added with a half-smile.

  The three laughed, but the weight of the conversation lingered in the air like the bags they carried.

  —I don’t understand why we should trust them —Mahtani said again, this time without mockery—. They are weapons of another kingdom. And we… we are the guardians of this one.

  —It isn’t about trust —Irsah murmured, lowering her gaze—. It’s about obedience. At least for now.

  A brief silence wrapped around them as they climbed the steps to their home. The bustle of the market faded behind, but the echo of their words stayed with them.

  —Let the desert test them, then —Zayrah concluded softly—. If they endure, perhaps they deserve a place at our side.

  The three returned to their white adobe house, the cool walls holding on to the morning air. The sounds of the market faded behind them, replaced by the warm quiet of the inner neighborhood. Mahtani set the bags down on the wooden table, Zayrah arranged the spices on a shelf, and Irsah lit the brazier to heat water.

  Soon, the aroma of date-and-mint tea filled the room. They sat on the floor, on worn cushions, around a simple tray with fresh bread and olives. A small gesture, but for them it felt almost like a rite.

  —I like this silence —said Irsah, her low voice as if unwilling to disturb anything—. Here we remember that not everything is war.

  Zayrah nodded, tearing off a piece of bread.

  —Because it isn’t. We are guardians, yes… but also daughters, sisters. And sometimes, just women who want to have breakfast in peace.

  Mahtani took a sip of tea before speaking, her eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cup.

  —And yet, soon we’ll be sharing a roof with foreigners. With girls born in the same kingdom that took a piece of our desert.

  Silence returned, heavier this time.

  —I was going to mention it —murmured Zayrah—. Everyone speaks of peace. But the sand does not forget. Every grain remembers what was spilled upon it.

  —Peace is not forgetting —Irsah replied calmly—. It is barely an agreement. And agreements break easily.

  Mahtani pressed her lips together.

  —Then, should we distrust them?

  —No —Zayrah answered, lifting her gaze—. We must observe. And be ready.

  The tension dissolved slowly when Velka let out a soft laugh, almost unexpected.

  —Look at us, ending up talking about war even with bread in our mouths. Maybe the day we manage to go through an entire meal without thinking of battles… that will be the day there is truly peace.

  There was no reply. Only a shared silence that tasted of bitter truth and, at the same time, of refuge.

  The afternoon faded in an orange glow that painted the walls of Sel?nrah. Inside their house, the three guardians cleared the central space. They moved the rugs aside and dimmed the lamps, leaving only the natural light filtering through the latticed windows, casting geometric patterns across the floor.

  They sat in a triangle, palms open against the stone. Their breathing matched in slow, steady rhythm, as if they were trying to absorb the stillness of the earth itself. The training was neither physical nor combative. It was mental. A way of reminding themselves that before they were weapons, they were part of the desert.

  —Close your eyes —murmured Irsah, her voice as thin as a thread of water—. Feel the warmth the stone still holds.

  Zayrah obeyed. The air around her shimmered faintly, not from unleashed magic but from concentration alone.

  —Remember —added Mahtani—. The sand sustains. The light guides. But it also watches.

  Silence pressed in around them. Only the distant sounds of vendors closing their stalls broke the calm. Outside, the city slowly dimmed. Inside, each breath grew heavier, as though it carried centuries of memory.

  When they finally opened their eyes, they did so at the same time, as if bound by an invisible thread. The air was thick with solemnity, but also with an unfamiliar sense of solace.

  —If we didn’t do this —Zayrah whispered—, I think I’d lose myself.

  Mahtani set a firm hand on her shoulder.

  —That’s why we are together. To remind each other who we are.

  There was no time for more words. A sharp knock on the door shattered the stillness. Mahtani rose at once and opened it. A young messenger in palace uniform bowed hastily.

  —Guardians… I bring urgent news. —His voice trembled.

  Mahtani took the scroll and unrolled it. Her blue eyes lit with immediate tension.

  —What is it? —asked Irsah, rising slowly, though her fingers were already knotting together.

  Mahtani read aloud:

  —“Unregistered mobilization at the northern border. Eiswacht troops sighted in neutral zones. The Council requests immediate vigilance. Awaiting confirmation.”

  The silence that followed was heavier than before.

  —Eiswacht? —Zayrah muttered, her golden eyes slipping into the gloom—. What in the sands are they doing so far from their mountains?

  Irsah walked to the window, staring out at the horizon where desert melted into night.

  —Nothing good. And certainly not if it’s done in secret.

  Mahtani rolled the scroll tight and dropped it onto the table with a sharp thud.

  —We’ll inform the Sultan at once.

  —Do you think it’s connected to… them? —Zayrah asked, meaning the foreigners not yet arrived.

  —I don’t know —Mahtani replied, her brow furrowed—. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nothing in this desert happens by chance.

  Night had fallen completely. Lanterns flickered to life in Sel?nrah’s streets, but inside the house there was only shadow. Three silhouettes lingered in silence, each carrying the same certainty:

  The calm had been broken.

  And what awaited them… would be far more than a simple diplomatic exchange.