Azim al-Sahran

Azim al-Sahran stepped through the arched doors of the caravanserai, the desert night air clinging to his cloak as he entered the warmth of the interior. His muscular frame honed through weeks of travel carried the poise of a man born to command. His dark hair, unruly and kissed by the desert sun, fell in loose waves past his shoulders. His dark, sharp eyes scanned the room, their intensity only softened by the weariness of his long journey.

The low hum of conversation, the clink of goblets, and the faint strum of a lute greeted him as he walked deeper into the caravanserai. His royal bisht, embroidered with intricate golden threads, caught the light of the lanterns, the rich fabric flowing gracefully over his broad shoulders. Around his finger, the signet ring of House al-Sahran gleamed—its gemstone catching the flicker of light as he moved. The intricate emblem of a desert lion carved into the stone was unmistakable, and it did not go unnoticed.

A few heads turned as he entered, the murmur of recognition rippling through the room. The whispers spread like wildfire—the prince, Azim al-Sahran—though none dared approach him just yet. His presence was undeniable, the aura of royalty that clung to him even in this place of travelers and merchants. Some of the caravanserai's visitors, familiar with the nobility of Almarikh, caught sight of his attire and paused in their conversations, their eyes lingering on the signet ring or the unique cut of his cloak. The prince was known for his regal bearing, even when dressed for travel, and no one who had spent time in the kingdom could mistake him.

He admired the lively atmosphere of the caravanserai—travelers enjoying the last reprieve of their long journeys, dancers swaying gracefully in the background, and merchants offering their wares with colorful shouts.At one table, a group of merchants caught sight of his signet ring. A whisperpassed between them, followed by a low bow from one of the merchants, acknowledging the prince without addressing him directly.

Azim’s lips twitched at the sight, but he remained unaffected. He had learned long ago that recognition came with his title—whether he desired it or not. His eyes, however, were drawn to the distant dancers, the rhythmic swish of their veils catching his attention for a brief moment.

“Have the rooms prepared for the night,” he said to his captain, his voice quiet but firm, the regality of his words laced with a hint of weariness. “Let us enjoy a night’s rest, and then Mahrun will be ours once more.”

His guards, ever-loyal, gave a subtle bow before moving to secure their positions, while Azim took a seat at a vacant table near the fire. His regal presence never wavered, even here, amidst the strangers who had no idea how closely they had brushed with the prince of Almarikh. Still, as he glanced around, he felt the pull of this place—where he could be something more than just a ruler, if only for one night.