1001 Nights with the Lycan King

The sun beat down mercilessly, casting a blinding glare across the endless expanse of desert sand. Each grain shimmered like flecks of gold under its scorching touch. I stood, talwar in hand, feeling the weight of the blade against my palm, the metal singing with anticipation. Across from me, he lunged, a formidable figure amidst the swirling sand. My opponents eyes burned with a fierce intensity, matched only by the relentless sun overhead. The wind whipped at our clothes, carrying with it the faint scent of sweat and sand. I dodged agilely, jumping back with a smirk. The hilt of my talwar cool against my sweaty palm. As we circled each other, the air crackled with tension, the only sound the soft hiss of shifting sand beneath our feet. With a sudden rush, he lunged forward again, his curved blade slicing through the air with deadly precision. This time, I met his attack head-on, the clash of our blades echoing across the desert's landscape. Our gaze locked as our blades fought for dominance. This time, I would not relent. My left hand clamped over my forearm as I struggled to exert pressure. Struggled to push my opponent back. There was too much at stake to lose today. The heat bore down upon us, sapping our strength with every passing moment. Beads of sweat dripped from my brow, stinging my eyes as I fought to keep my strength from waning. The sand beneath my feet shifted and gave way, the ground seemingly ready to swallow me whole as I stumbled backwards. I hissed in frustration, my body bending backwards in a graceful arch as my attacker's blade swiped, nearly missing my neck by a hair’s breadth. I let my back hit the scorching sand beneath me, grateful for my tunic and starched white pantaloons which served as a barrier against the abrasive sand. My talwar flashed in the sunlight as I brought it up to parry his blow. And so it went on, blow after blow. With every strike, I could feel my opponent tiring. Such is the connection when two people fight. It is a connection forged in the heat of battle. We were two warriors, locked in a dance as old as time itself, each move a testament to our skill and determination. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert sands. My breathing was becoming labored, my mouth parched from thirst. With a swift, calculated strike, he suddenly disarmed me, sending my talwar spiraling through the air to land with a dull thud several feet away in the sand. I looked at my adversary, anger sparking in my gaze. I could not lose. In the blink of an eye, I reached for my dagger which had been previously sheathed and secured at my waist. "Surrender Amara, it is nearly sunset." His voice was hoarse, bellying his fatigue. The hint of eagerness coating his words was not lost on me. "Never," I spat, rushing at him as I brandished my tiny weapon. This was not just any dagger. Its silver jagged edges were specifically designed to prevent a cool clean cut. It left a scar so distinct, that one could not deny being wounded by the weapon carried by every blade-caller throughout the kingdom. He dodged my attack, his foot crashing into the back of my knee as I attempted to prevent myself from sliding across the grainy sand. I fell forward with an 'oomph'. Before I could turn to attack again, he reached for the veil covering my head and entire face, save for my dark midnight eyes, from the harsh elements of our surroundings. I jumped to my feet, my dark tresses falling over one shoulder as I glowered at him. "You cheat!" I spat. A warrior could not fight without their veil, for the tempestuous winds of the desert made it nigh impossible to move forward when sand particles clogged one's throat and scratched at the tender skin on one's face. “Amara…my love,” he murmured, ignoring my anger. His hand reached to curve around my hip, gently pulling me into his embrace. “Do not be angry just because you lost, like always.” He let out an ‘oof’ when I elbowed him angrily and moved out of his grasp. My almond-shaped eyes narrowed in ire before I turned to obtain my talwar with a defiant toss of my head. My waist-length hair moving riotously around me. I bent to grab my talwar and then turned to stare at him, hands on my hips. I hated losing. Especially to him. “In the name of the divine, you look like an angel of the desert marching into battle,” he breathed, eyes on my form. “A true warrior princess.” “Flattery will get you nowhere, Ashad,” I retorted, giving another toss of my head before reaching for the camel skin filled with water. We often had our sword fights in the desert. As a woman training to be a blade-caller, an elite female soldier unit for the kingdom of Elamaria, this was practice for me. For Ashad, it was a chance to spend time with me. Ashad was my oldest friend, my dearest confidant, and, as of recent times, my fiance'. Recently, father had agreed to give him my hand in marriage. I had only just turned 21. Yet my mother had had my bridal gown ready since the first day I turned 16. It was customary to give one’s daughter to the first suitor who asked for her hand. Especially when you were ruled by a bloodthirsty King who demanded one bride a year from his people. A bride who ended up mutilated, brutally murdered, and decapitated by the time the sun rose on her wedding night. Ten queens had died so far, and our tyrant King showed no signs of stopping soon. The water was all but drained from my camel skin by now. I eyed Ashad, who looked like an overly self-obsessed peacock as he strutted about, gathering our belongings to secure against the camel. The deal had been that if he won today’s fight, I would give him a kiss. I sorely missed the times he'd ask for stories in place of kisses. When we had been young and feelings of affection had not gotten in the way. But only with him did I ever stand a chance of losing. Within my training cadre, I was the top warrior. No one could best me. “Come here…Amara-jan,” Ashad pulled me into him, his term of endearment (Jan) attached at the tail end of my name, catching me off guard. It was the first time he’d called me his soul. I swallowed convulsively. Ashad may be my future husband, but I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that aside from an intimate level of companionship, I felt nothing for him. There was no burning physical attraction that I often spoke of in my stories. That I often dreamed of for myself. I closed my eyes as his mouth slanted over mine, his hand curved into the nape of my neck. My hands bunched the front of his white loose tunic as I fought the urge to push him away. He would be my husband soon. I had to get used to this. I must. Rejecting him was out of the question. Father had already delayed my marriage long enough. We would not test our luck. For word on the dirt-path streets of our capital, Ilm, was that the King was looking for a new bride. I jerked back quickly as the trumpets of Ilm blared to life. The deafening roar reverberated through vast expanse of the desert, so loud and terrifying that I felt as though my ears might bleed. It was the harbinger of doom for every female residing within the kingdom. My body moved of its own accord, turning to stare at the city. The watch towers were ablaze with torches burning bright. My heart lodged in my throat. The announcement had been made. I watched from atop the sand dune with Ashad by my side as soldiers rode out into the setting sun to scour the land and bring back prospective brides within 24 hours. Tomorrow evening, each single female over the age of 18 would be rounded up and presented to the Grand Vizier. Of them, he would choose a bride for the King. She would be dragged away into the deepest recesses of the castle, her body would be stripped of hair and rubbed with a mixture of besan (chickpea flour) and turmeric for exfoliation. She would be adorned in the most beautiful of bridal attire, the most expensive weightiest gold, the most exotic perfumes. After an entire night spent in prayer to the divine spirits above, she would be married to our murderous king. The new queen would not see the dawn. I had heard stories of the women found completely mutilated come morning. One particularly gruesome story came to mind as the horizon of the desert flickered with the ominous fire of the setting sun. They say she had a gaping wound in her stomach with her intestines spread about the marital bed. Her blood had painted the walls crimson. Henceforth, many referred to her killer as the Crimson King. That was too kind a title. He was a bloodthirsty monster. This King. This murderer of innocent women. His sadism knew no bounds. My mother, before she died, told me that the man had been betrayed by his first love. Ever since then, he’d wanted to make all the women of his kingdom pay. A few years ago, there had been word of an uprising by the tribal chieftains and Bedouin tribes. But the Crimson King was powerful. He’d crushed his adversaries, making sure to kill their offspring as well lest any come back for revenge. “Asya,” I murmured, fear lodging itself firmly into the pit of my stomach. The Crimson King rarely chose a young bride. We were pushing our luck. My sister and I were well over 18, yet unmarried. Asya, my sister older by only one year, should have been married by now. Her betrothed, Salim, was a silk merchant, and he had not returned from his travels. They were madly in love with one another. Though my father had pushed for Asya to marry the bevy of men who’d come in Salim’s absence with offers to marry the beautiful daughter of the city’s recluse, Asya had vehemently remained steadfast. She would marry Salim, or marry no one. “Better to die the Crimson King’s bride than to chain myself to those lechers!” Asya had proclaimed with a defiant toss of her head. She and I were so alike. Yet so different. She loved her betrothed. I did not love mine. “All will be fine, Amara-jan,” Ashad spoke softly, his hand reassuring on my shoulder. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was wrong. Something was going to happen. And I was completely powerless to stop it. Like a star hurtling towards the earth, its brilliance fading the closer it got until finally it was nothing but a fleeting ember swallowed by the vast expanse of the sky, leaving only whispers of a celestial journey. As we made our journey back into the capital, I too felt like a shooting star hurtling closer and closer to my own demise. To my own death.