The guards drew their spears as a hooded figure stepped inside, moving with gazelle-like grace and snatching the air from Nasir’s throat.
“The caliph is no longer holding court,” one of the officials barked.
“Protect the king,” a gold-cloaked guard commanded.
“Drop your hood,” another one snapped.
The children paused in their chores to stare.
The newcomer lowered the fine hood of their cloak, exposing the delicate features that had plagued his nights and days and his every waking moment.
Nasir’s heart saw it fit to pause here. To stop and chronicle this instant in time.
And then he was running, stumbling, racing toward her, missives scattering behind him to Yasar’s disappointment and Altair’s laughter. His hands skimmed her shoulders, her neck, cupped her face.
“Zafira,” he whispered as papyrus drifted around them.
“Nasir,” she replied, as if she had never left. As if he hadn’t forgotten how to breathe.
His lips molded to hers. His life began afresh. Twin sighs escaped them, as if they had both been starving and salvation was finally theirs. The men murmured among themselves, and at the sound of Kifah’s ululation, Zafira pulled away.
“I hear Sarasin is in need of a calipha.”