Hafsah Faizal

His mother used to say that a person without hope was a body without a soul.

She no longer had a tongue, and it was because of him that she did not

She tugged on her chain, loosening its cutting hold on her neck, and sat up.

The crown prince stood before her. Scimitar in hand.

She looked to his blade and then slowly latched her gaze on his with a lift of her chin.

He breathed a soft laugh. “I knew it was you.”

She didn’t like when this Nasir arrived. The one who let his mask slip, who could venture to laugh, to look at her with something other than that stoic coolness. It made her uneasy. Uncertain.

It lit her aflame.