The shrine of Sidi Yahya lay half-buried in the earth, a mile east of the city gates. It was a ruin of the old world, a small stone dome cracked by time and the roots of a twisted cypress tree. Inside, an ancient cistern leaked water through the masonry, causing the western wall to shine with slick, dark moss. In the moonlight, it looked as if the stone itself was weeping.
Khalid stood in the shadows, his hand resting on the hilt of his khanjar. He had been waiting for an hour. Every rustle of the wind in the dry grass sounded like a soldier's boot; every cry of a nightjar sounded like an alarm.
He was terrified. Not of the Pasha, not of death, but of the note crumpled in his fist. The bird must fly before the petals fall.
A shadow detached itself from the line of olive trees.
It was small, cloaked in the rough wool of a servant, but the walk was unmistakable. It was the fluid, hurried grace of someone running from a fire.
"Layla?" he whispered.
She didn't answer. She ran the last few steps and stumbled into the sanctuary of the ruin. She pulled the rough hood back, revealing a face pale with terror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her breathing ragged.
"Khalid," she gasped, reaching out as if to verify he was real. "You came."
"I would have come even if the sky were raining fire," he said, stepping forward to catch her hands. They were ice cold. "What has happened? What does the note mean?"
"The Spring," she choked out, the words tumbling over each other. "The Pasha... he has set the date. When the almond trees bloom. My father... he has agreed." She looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching. "I cannot do it, Khalid. I will not. I have seen the women in his palace. They are not wives; they are ghosts. They walk without sound. They have no eyes."
She began to shake, a violent trembling that started in her shoulders and ran down to her fingers. "I would rather drink poison. I swear it. I have the bottle hidden in my—"
"No!" Khalid's voice was sharp, echoing off the damp stones. He pulled her closer, breaking the space between them. "Do not speak of death. Not here. Not to me."
"Then speak of life!" she cried, gripping the front of his robe. "Because I have none left in that house!"
Khalid looked down at her. In the pale light, she looked fragile, like a glass vessel about to shatter. But beneath the fear, he saw the steel. She had come here, alone, in the dark. She was fighting for her soul.
And he realized, with a clarity that cut through him like a blade, that he had been fighting for the wrong things all his life. He had fought for his father's approval, for Hamza's respect, for the honor of a tribe that thought his poetry was weakness.
But this? This woman trembling in his arms? This was the only verse that mattered.
"We will go," he said. The words were simple, but they changed the world.
Layla stopped shaking. She stared at him. "Go? Go where?"
"North," Khalid said, his mind racing, plotting the map he had memorized from his books. "To Aleppo. The trade routes are busy; we can lose ourselves in the caravans. I have cousins in the northern hills—shepherds who do not know the Pasha's name. We will change our names. We will be nobody. And we will be free."
"You would leave your tribe?" Layla asked, her voice a whisper. "You are the heir. Your father... Hamza..."
"Hamza has the desert," Khalid said, a sadness touching his voice, but no regret. "He has the sand and the sword. He is the son my father wanted. I... I am just the ink."
He raised his hand and cupped her face. Her skin was soft, shockingly soft against his calloused palm. He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
"I am a traveler without a map, remember?" he said tenderly. "But I have found my North."
Layla let out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and leaned into his hand. "And I will follow you. Even if we walk off the edge of the earth."
The distance between them vanished. It wasn't a conscious decision; it was gravity. Khalid lowered his head, and Layla rose on her toes.
When their lips met, it was like the kisses in the stories. It was gentle. It tasted of salt tears and the dust of the road. It turned clumsy and fierce, a collision of two people who had been starving for a lifetime. It was a promise sealed not in ink, but in breath.
For a moment, the weeping stone, the angry Pasha, the endless desert—it all ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of her mouth and the frantic beating of their hearts pressed against each other.
They broke apart, breathless, foreheads resting together.
"Two nights," Khalid whispered, his eyes closed. "The moon will be dark. Pack only what you can carry. Meet me here at midnight. I will have horses."
"Two nights," Layla repeated, like a vow.
"Go now," he urged, kissing her forehead. "Before the dawn betrays us."
She pulled away, reluctant, her fingers trailing down his arm. She pulled her hood back up, transforming from his beloved back into a servant shadow.
"Khalid?" she called from the archway.
"Yes?"
"The almond trees," she said, her voice stronger now. "Let them bloom. We will be far away before the first petal falls."
She turned and ran back toward the sleeping city.
Khalid stood alone in the ruin. He touched his lips, tasting the salt. Above him, through the cracks in the dome, he saw the stars. They looked different tonight. They no longer looked like cold, distant guides. They looked like witnesses.
He turned to the weeping wall. "Cry for them," he told the stone. "Cry for the Pasha. Cry for my father. But do not cry for us."
He stepped out into the night, ready to burn his world down to keep her warm.